Whose pipe and arrow oft the plough unburies, Here in pine houses built of new fallen trees, Supplanters of the tribe, the farmers dwell. Traveller, to thee, perchance, a tedious road, Or, it may be, a picture; to these men, The landscape is an armory of powers, Which, one by one, they know to draw and use. They harness beast, bird, insect, to their work; They prove the virtues of each bed of rock, And, like the chemist 'mid his loaded jars, Draw from each stratum its adapted use To drug their crops or weapon their arts withal. They turn the frost upon their chemic heap, They set the wind to winnow pulse and grain, They thank the spring-flood for its fertile slime, And, on cheap summit-levels of the snow, Slide with the sledge to inaccessible woods O'er meadows bottomless. So, year by year, They fight the elements with elements,
(That one would say, meadow and forest walked, Transmuted in these men to rule their like,) And by the order in the field disclose The order regnant in the yeoman's brain.
What these strong masters wrote at large in miles, I followed in small copy in my acre;
For there's no rood has not a star above it;
The cordial quality of pear or plum
Ascends as gladly in a single tree
As in broad orchards resonant with bees;
And every atom poises for itself,
And for the whole. The gentle deities Showed me the lore of colors and of sounds, The innumerable tenements of beauty, The miracle of generative force, Far-reaching concords of astronomy
Felt in the plants, and in the punctual birds; Better, the linked purpose of the whole, And, chiefest prize, found I true liberty
In the glad home plain-dealing nature gave. The polite found me impolite; the great Would mortify me, but in vain; for still I am a willow of the wilderness,
Loving the wind that bent me. All my hurts My garden spade can heal. A woodland walk, A quest of river-grapes, a mocking thrush, A wild-rose, or rock-loving columbine,
Salve my worst wounds.
For thus the wood-gods murmured in my ear: "Dost love our manners? Canst thou silent lie? Canst thou, thy pride forgot, like nature pass Into the winter night's extinguished mood? Canst thou shine now, then darkle, And being latent feel thyself no less?
As, when the all-worshipped moon attracts the eye The river, hill, stems, foliage, are obscure, Yet envies none, none are unenviable."
I hung my verses in the wind, Time and tide their faults may find.
All were winnowed through and through, Five lines lasted sound and true;
Five were smelted in a pot
Than the South more fierce and hot; These the siroc could not melt, Fire their fiercer flaming felt, And the meaning was more white Than July's meridian light. Sunshine cannot bleach the snow, Nor time unmake what poets know. Have you eyes to find the five Which five hundred did survive?
LONG I followed happy guides, I could never reach their sides; Their step is forth, and, ere the day Breaks up their leaguer, and away. Keen my sense, my heart was young, Right good-will my sinews strung, But no speed of mine avails To hunt upon their shining trails. On and away, their hasting feet Make the morning proud and sweet; Flowers they strew,-I catch the scent; Or tone of silver instrument
Leaves on the wind melodious trace; Yet I could never see their face. On eastern hills I see their smokes, Mixed with mist by distant lochs. I met many travellers
Who the road had surely kept;
They saw not my fine revellers,—
These had crossed them while they slept, Some had heard their fair report,
In the country or the court.
Fleetest couriers alive
Never yet could once arrive,
As they went or they returned, At the house where these sojourned. Sometimes their strong speed they slacken, Though they are not overtaken;
In sleep their jubilant troop is near,- I tuneful voices overhear;
It may be in wood or waste,- At unawares 'tis come and past. Their near camp my spirit knows By signs gracious as rainbows.
I thenceforward, and long after, Listen for their harp-like laughter, And carry in my heart, for days, Peace that hallows rudest ways.
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