Served whether on the smoke-shut battle-field,

In work obscure done honestly, or vote For truth unpopular, or faith maintained To ruinous convictions, or good deeds Wrought for good's sake, mindless of heaven or hell?

Shall he not learn that all prosperity, Whose bases stretch not deeper than the

sense,

Is but a trick of this world's atmosphere, A desert-born mirage of spire and dome, Or find too late, the Past's long lesson missed,

That dust the prophets shake from off their feet

Grows heavy to drag down both tower and wall?

I know not; but, sustained by sure belief

That man still rises level with the height
Of noblest opportunities, or makes
Such, if the time supply not, I can wait.
I gaze round on the windows, pride of
France,

Each the bright gift of some mechanic guild

Who loved their city and thought gold well spent

To make her beautiful with piety; I pause, transfigured by some stripe of bloom,

And my mind throngs with shining auguries,

Circle on circle, bright as seraphim, With golden trumpets, silent, that await The signal to blow news of good to men.

Then the revulsion came that always

comes

After these dizzy elations of the mind: And with a passionate pang of doubt I cried,

"O mountain-born, sweet with snowfiltered air

From uncontaminate wells of ether drawn And never-broken secrecies of sky, Freedom, with anguish won, misprized till lost,

They keep thee not who from thy sacred

eyes

Catch the consuming lust of sensual good

And the brute's license of unfettered

will.

Far from the popular shout and venal breath

I walked forth saddened; for all thought is sad,

And leaves a bitterish savor in the
brain,
Tonic, it may be, not delectable,
And turned, reluctant, for a parting look
At those old weather-pitted images
Of bygone struggle, now so sternly calm.
About their shoulders sparrows had
built nests,

And fluttered, chirping, from gray perch to perch,

Now on a mitre poising, now a crown, Irreverently happy. While I thought How confident they were, what, careless hearts

Flew on those lightsome wings and shared the sun,

A larger shadow crossed; and looking up.

I saw where, nesting in the hoary towers, The sparrow-hawk slid forth on noiseless air,

With sidelong head that watched the joy below,

Grim Norman baron o'er this clan of Kelts.

Enduring Nature, force conservative, Indifferent to our noisy whims! Men prate

Of all heads to an equal grade cashiered On level with the dullest, and expect (Sick of no worse distemper than themselves)

A wondrous cure-all in equality; They reason that To-morrow must be wise

Because To-day was not, nor Yesterday, As if good days were shapen of themselves,

Not of the very lifeblood of men's souls; Meanwhile, long-suffering, imperturbable,

Thou quietly complet'st thy syllogism, And from the premise sparrow here below Draw'st sure conclusion of the hawk above,

Pleased with the soft-billed songster, pleased no less

With the fierce beak of natures aquiline.

Has been that future whereto prophets yearned

For the fulfilment of Earth's cheated hope,

Shall be that past which nerveless poets

moan

As the lost opportunity of song.

O Power, more near my life than life itself

(Or what seems life to us in sense immured),

Even as the roots, shut in the darksome earth,

Share in the tree-top's joyance, and conceive

Of sunshine and wide air and winged things

By sympathy of nature, so do I

healed,

Yet in and of me! Rather Thou the root

Invisibly sustaining, hid in light,
Not darkness, or in darkness made by

us.

If sometimes I must hear good men debate

Of other witness of Thyself than Thou,
As if there needed any help of ours
To nurse Thy flickering life, that else
must cease,

Blown out, as 't were a candle, by men's breath,

My soul shall not be taken in their snare, To change her inward surety for their doubt

Muffled from sight in formal robes of proof:

While she can only feel herself through Thee,

I fear not Thy withdrawal; more I fear, Seeing, to know Thee not, hoodwinked with dreams

Of signs and wonders, while, unnoticed, Thou,

Walking Thy garden still, commun'st with men,

Missed in the commonplace of miracle.

ODE

READ AT THE ONE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF THE FIGHT AT CONCORD

BRIDGE.

19TH APRIL, 1875.

I.

WHO Cometh over the hills,
Her garments with morning sweet,
The dance of a thousand rills
Making music before her feet?
Her presence freshens the air;
Sunshine steals light from her face;
The leaden footstep of Care
Leaps to the tune of her pace,
Fairness of all that is fair,
Grace at the heart of all grace,
Sweetener of hut and of hall,
Bringer of life out of naught,
Freedom, O, fairest of all

The daughters of Time and Thought!

II.

She cometh, cometh to-day:
Hark! hear ye not her tread,
Sending a thrill through your clay,
Under the sod there, ye dead,
Her nurslings and champions?
Do ye not hear, as she comes,
The bay of the deep-mouthed guns,

Tell me, young men, have ye seen,
Creature of diviner mien

For true hearts to long and cry for,
Manly hearts to live and die for?
What hath she that others want?
Brows that all endearments haunt,
Eyes that make it sweet to dare,
Smiles that glad untimely death,
Looks that fortify despair,

Tones more brave than trumpet's breath;
Tell me, maidens, have ye known
Household charm more sweetly rare,
Grace of woman ampler blown,
Modesty more debonair,

Younger heart with wit full grown?
O for an hour of my prime,
The pulse of my hotter years,
That I might praise her in rhyme
Would tingle your eyelids to tears,
Our sweetness, our strength, and our star,