As he leaned, there, an oak where sea winds blow, Our brother with the hoe. No blot, no monster, no unsightly thing, The soil's long-lineaged king; His changeless realm, he knows it and commands; Erect enough he stands, Tall as his toil. Nor does he bow unblest: Labor he has, and rest. Need was, need is, and need will ever be For him and such as he; Cast for the gap, with gnarlèd arm and limb, The Mother molded him,— Long wrought, and molded him with mother's care, Before she set him there. And aye she gives him, mindful of her own, Yea, since above his work he may not rise, She makes the field his skies. See! she that bore him, and metes out the lot, He serves her. Vex him not To scorn the rock whence he was hewn, the pit Lest he no more in native virtue stand, The earth-sword in his hand, But follow sorry phantoms to and fro, And let a kingdom go. John Vance Cheney [1848– Auld Lang Syne 2897 AULD LANG SYNE LD auld acquaintance be forgot, For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne. wa hae rin about the braes, hd pu'd the gowans fine; we've wandered monie a weary fit 'auld lang syne. twa hae paidl't i' the burn, ae mornin' sun till dine; seas between us braid hae roared n'auld lang syne. here's a hand, my trusty fiere, nd gie's a hand o' thine; we'll tak a right guid willie-waught or auld lang syne. surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, nd surely I'll be mine, we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet or auld lang syne! Robert Burns [1759-1796] THE MUSIC-MAKERS ISRAFEL And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures.-KORAN IN Heaven a spirit doth dwell As the angel Israfel, And the giddy stars (so legends tell), Tottering above In her highest noon, The enamoured moon Blushes with love, While, to listen, the red levin (With the rapid Pleiads, even, Pauses in Heaven. And they say (the starry choir And the other listening things) b That Israfeli's fire Is owing to that lyre. By which he sits and sings, But the skies that angel trod, Where deep thoughts are a duty, Imbued with all the beauty Which we worship in a star. Proem herefore thou art not wrong, Israfeli, who despisest unimpassioned song; thee the laurels belong, Best bard, because the wisest: errily live, and long! he ecstasies above With thy burning measures suit: es, Heaven is thine; but this If I could dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky. 2899 Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849] PROEM O INTRODUCE THE FIRST GENERAL COLLECTION OF HIS POEMS) E the old melodious lays ftly melt the ages through, songs of Spenser's golden days, dian Sidney's silvery phrase, g our noon of time with freshest morning dew. Yet, vainly in my quiet hours To breathe their marvellous notes I try; I feel them, as the leaves and flowers And drink with glad, still lips the blessing of the sky. The rigor of a frozen clime, The harshness of an untaught ear, The jarring words of one whose rhyme Beat often Labor's hurried time, Or Duty's rugged march through storm and strife, are here. Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace, No rounded art the lack supplies; Unskilled the subtle lines to trace, Or softer shades of Nature's face, I view her common forms with unanointed eyes. Nor mine the seer-like power to show The secrets of the heart and mind; To drop the plummet-line below Our common world of joy and woe, A more intense despair or brighter hope to find. Yet here at least an earnest sense Of human right and weal is shown; A hate of tyranny intense, And hearty in its vehemence, As if my brother's pain and sorrow were my own. O Freedom! if to me belong Nor mighty Milton's gift divine, Nor Marvell's wit and graceful song, Still with a love as deep and strong As theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on thy shrine! John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892] EMBRYO I FEEL a poem in my heart to-night, As if the darkness to the outer light |