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There in her place she did rejoice,
Self-gathered in her prophet-mind,
But fragments of her mighty voice
Came rolling on the wind.

Then stept she down through town and field
To mingle with the human race,
And part by part to men revealed
The fulness of her face-

Grave mother of majestic works,

From her isle-altar gazing down,
Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,
And, King-like, wears the crown:

Her open eyes desire the truth.

The wisdom of a thousand years
Is in them. May perpetual youth

Keep dry their light from tears;

That her fair form may stand and shine,
Make bright our days and light our dreams,
Turning to scorn with lips divine

The falsehood of extremes !


LOVE thou thy land, with love far brought
From out the storied Past, and used
Within the Present, but transfused
Through future time by power of thought.

True love turned round on fixéd poles,
Love that endures not sordid ends,
For English natures, freemen, friends,
Thy brothers and immortal souls.

But pamper not a hasty time,
Nor feed with crude imaginings
The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings,
That every sophister can lime.

Deliver not the tasks of might

To weakness, neither hide the ray From those, not blind, who wait for day, Though sitting girt with doubtful light.

Make knowledge circle with the winds:
But let her herald, Reverence, fly
Before her to whatever sky
Bear seed of men and growth of minds.

Watch what main-currents draw the years:
Cut Prejudice against the grain:
But gentle words are always gain:
Regard the weakness of thy peers:

Nor toil for title, place, or touch

Of pension, neither count on praise:
It grows to guerdon after-days:
Nor deal in watchwords overmuch;

Not clinging to some ancient saw:

Not mastered by some modern term; Not swift nor slow to change, but firm: And in its season bring the law;

That from Discussion's lip may fall
With Life, that, working strongly, binds—
Set in all lights by many minds,
To close the interests of all.

For Nature also, cold and warm,
And moist and dry, devising long,
Through many agents making strong,
Matures the individual form.

Meet is it changes should control
Our being, lest we rust in ease.
We all are changed by still degrees,
All but the basis of the soul.

So let the change which comes be free
To ingroove itself with that, which flies,
And work, a joint of state, that plies
Its office, moved with sympathy.

A saying hard to shape in act;

For all the past of Time reveals
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals,
Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact.

Even now we hear with inward strife
A motion toiling in the gloom-
The Spirit of the years to come
Yearning to mix himself with Life.

A slow-developed strength awaits

Completion in a painful school; Phantoms of other forms of rule, New Majesties of mighty States

The warders of the growing hour,

But vague in vapor, hard to mark; And round them sea and air are dark With great contrivances of Power.

Of many changes, aptly joined,

Is bodied forth the second whole.

Regard gradation, lest the soul Of Discord race the rising wind:

A wind to puff your idol-fires,

And heap their ashes on the head; To shame the boast so often made, That we are wiser than our sires.

O yet, if Nature's evil star
Drive men in manhood, as in youth,
To follow flying steps of Truth
Across the brazen bridge of war—

If New and Old, disastrous feud,

Must ever shock, like armed foes,
And this be true, till Time shall close,
That Principles are rained in blood;

Not yet the wise of heart would cease
To hold his hope through shame and guilt.
But with his hand against the hilt,
Would pace
the troubled land, like Peace;

Not less, though dogs of Faction bay,

Would serve his kind in deed and word, Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, That knowledge takes the sword away—

Would love the gleams of good that broke From either side, nor veil his eyes:

And if some dreadful need should rise, Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke:

To-morrow yet would reap to-day,

As we bear blossom of the dead;
Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed
Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay.



I KNEW an old wife lean and poor,
Her rags scarce held together;
There strode a stranger to the door,
And it was windy weather.


He held a goose upon

his arm,

He uttered rhyme and reason, "Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, It is a stormy season."


She caught the white goose by the leg,
A goose-'twas no great matter.
The goose let fall a golden egg
With cackle and with clatter.


She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf,
And ran to tell her neighbors;
And blessed herself, and cursed herself,
And rested from her labors.


And feeding high, and living soft,
Grew plump and able-bodied;
Until the grave churchwarden doffed,
The parson smirked and nodded.


So sitting, served by man and maid,
She felt her heart grow prouder:
But ah! the more the white goose laid,
It clacked and cackled louder.


It cluttered here, it chuckled there;
It stirred the old wife's mettle:
She shifted in her elbow-chair,
And hurled the pan and kettle.


"A quinsy choke thy cursed note!" Then waxed her anger stronger.

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