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275 As of a luck not quite legitimate,

Since fortune snatched from wit the lion's part?
Was it a college pique of town and gown,

As one within whose memory it burned
That not academicians, but some lout,
280 Found ten years since the Californian gold?
And now, again, a hungry company

Of traders, led by corporate sons of trade,
Perversely borrowing from the shop the tools
Of science, not from the philosophers,

285 Had won the brightest laurel of all time.

'T was always thus, and will be; hand and head Are ever rivals: but, though this be swift,

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290 It was from Jove the other stole his fire,
And, without Jove, the good had never been.
It is not Iroquois or cannibals,

But ever the free race with front sublime,
And these instructed by their wisest too,

295 Who do the feat, and lift humanity.

Let not him mourn who best entitled was,
Nay, mourn not one: let him exult,

Yea, plant the tree that bears best apples, plant,
And water it with wine, nor watch askance
300 Whether thy sons or strangers eat the fruit :
Enough that mankind eat, and are refreshed

We flee away from cities, but we bring

The best of cities with us, these learned classifiers,
Men knowing what they seek, armed eyes of ex-


305 We praise the guide, we praise the forest life; But will we sacrifice our dear-bought lore

Of books and arts and trained experiment,


Or count the Sioux a match for Agassiz?

Oh no, not we! Witness the shout that shook
310 Wild Tupper Lake; witness the mute all-hail
The joyful traveller gives, when on the verge
Of craggy Indian wilderness he hears
From a log-cabin stream Beethoven's notes
On the piano, played with master's hand.
315 "Well done!" he cries: "the bear is kept at bay
The lynx, the rattlesnake, the flood, the fire;
All the fierce enemies, ague, hunger, cold,
This thin spruce roof, this clayed log-wall,
This wild plantation will suffice to chase.
320 Now speed the gay celerities of art,
What in the desert was impossible
Within four walls is possible again,
Culture and libraries, mysteries of skill.
Traditioned fame of masters, eager strife
325 Of keen competing youths, joined or alone
To outdo each other and extort applause.
Mind wakes a new-born giant from her sleep.
Twirl the old wheels! Time takes fresh start again
On for a thousand years of genius more.”


The holidays were fruitful, but must end;
One August evening had a cooler breath;
Into each mind intruding duties crept;
Under the cinders burned the fires of home;
Nay, letters found us in our paradise;

335 So in the gladness of the new event

We struck our camp, and left the happy hills.
The fortunate star that rose on us sank not;
The prodigal sunshine rested on the land,
The rivers gambolled onward to the sea,
340 And Nature the inscrutable and mute,
Permitted on her infinite repose

Almost a smile to steal to cheer her sons,
As if one riddle of the Sphinx were guessed.



You shall not be overbold

When you

deal with arctic cold,

As late I found my lukewarm blood

Chilled wading in the snow-choked wood.

5 How should I fight? my foeman fine Has million arms to one of mine:

East, west, for aid I looked in vain,

East, west, north, south, are his domain.
Miles off, three dangerous miles, is home;
10 Must borrow his winds who there would come.
Up and away for life! be fleet! -

The frost-king ties my fumbling feet,
Sings in my ears, my hands are stones,
Curdles the blood to the marble bones,

343. The Sphinx in classical mythology was a monster having a human head, a lion's body, and sometimes fabled as winged. It used to propose a question to the Thebans and murder all who could not guess it. The riddle was,

"What goes on four feet, on two feet, and three,
But the more feet it goes on the weaker it be?"

Edipus gave the answer that it was man, going on four feet as a child, and when old using a staff which made the third foot. But the Sphinx's riddle in the old poetry and in the serious modern acceptation is nothing .ess than the whole problem of human life.

15 Tugs at the heart-strings, numbs the sense,
And hems in life with narrowing fence.
Well, in this broad bed lie and sleep,
The punctual stars will vigil keep,
Embalmed by purifying cold,

20 The winds shall sing their dead-march old, The snow is no ignoble shroud,

The moon thy mourner, and the cloud.


Softly, but this way fate was pointing, 'T was coming fast to such anointing, 25 When piped a tiny voice hard by, Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, Chic-chicadeedee! saucy note

Out of sound heart and merry throat,
As if it said, "Good day, good sir!
30 Fine afternoon, old passenger!
Happy to meet you in these places,
Where January brings few faces."

This poet, though he live apart,
Moved by his hospitable heart,
35 Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort,
To do the honors of his court,

As fits a feathered lord of land;

Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand, Hopped on the bough, then, darting low, 40 Prints his small impress on the snow, Shows feats of his gymnastic play, Head downward, clinging to the spray.

Here was this atom in full breath,
Hurling defiance at vast death;

45 This scrap of valor just for play

Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray,

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