Traditioned fame of masters, eager strife
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:

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,
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.

BRAHMA.

IF the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me is near;

Shadow and sunlight are the same;

The vanished gods to me appear;

And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!

Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

FATE.

DEEP in the man sits fast his fate
To mould his fortunes mean or great:
Unknown to Cromwell as to me
Was Cromwell's measure or degree;
Unknown to him as to his horse,

If he than his groom be better or worse.
He works, plots, fights, in rude affairs,
With squires, lords, kings, his craft compares,
Till late he learned, through doubt and fear,
Broad England harbored not his peer:
Obeying Time, the last to own

The Genius from its cloudy throne.
For the prevision is allied

Unto the thing so signified;
Or say, the foresight that awaits

Is the same Genius that creates.

FREEDOM.

ONCE I wished I might rehearse
Freedom's pæan in my verse,

That the slave who caught the strain
Should throb until he snapped his chain.
But the Spirit said, 'Not so;
Speak it not, or speak it low;
Name not lightly to be said,
Gift too precious to be prayed,
Passion not to be expressed
But by heaving of the breast:

Yet, - wouldst thou the mountain find
Where this deity is shrined,

Who gives to seas and sunset skies
Their unspent beauty of surprise,
And, when it lists him, waken can
Brute or savage into man;

Or, if in thy heart he shine,

Blends the starry fates with thine,

Draws angels nigh to dwell with thee,
And makes thy thoughts archangels be;
Freedom's secret wilt thou know?

Counsel not with flesh and blood;
Loiter not for cloak or food;

Right thou feelest, rush to do.'

ODE.

SUNG IN THE TOWN HALL, CONCORD, JULY 4, 1857.

O TENDERLY the haughty day

Fills his blue urn with fire;

One morn is in the mighty heaven,
And one in our desire.

The cannon booms from town to town, Our pulses beat not less,

The joy-bells chime their tidings down, Which children's voices bless.

For He that flung the broad blue fold
O'er-mantling land and sea,

One third part of the sky unrolled
For the banner of the free.

The men are ripe of Saxon kind
To build an equal state,

To take the statute from the mind
And make of duty fate.

Present and Past in under-song, Go put your creed into your deed, Nor speak with double tongue.

For sea and land don't understand,
Nor skies without a frown

See rights for which the one hand fights
By the other cloven down.

Be just at home; then write your scroll

Of honor o'er the sea,

And bid the broad Atlantic roll,
A ferry of the free.

And henceforth there shall be no chain,

Save underneath the sea

The wires shall murmur through the main Sweet songs of liberty.

The conscious stars accord above,

The waters wild below,

And under, through the cable wove,
Her fiery errands go.

For He that worketh high and wise,
Nor pauses in his plan,

Will take the sun out of the skies

Ere freedom out of man.

BOSTON HYMN.

READ IN MUSIC HALL, JANUARY 1, 1863.

THE word of the Lord by night
To the watching Pilgrims came,
As they sat by the seaside,
And filled their hearts with flame.

God said, I am tired of kings,

I suffer them no more;

Up to my ear the morning brings
The outrage of the poor.