And chiefest thou, whom Genius loved,
Daughter of sounding seas,

Whom Nature pampered in these groves
And lavished all to please,

-

What wealth of mornings in her year,
What planets in her sky!

She chose her best thy heart to cheer,
Thy beauty to supply.

Now younger pilgrims find the stream,
The willows and the vine,
But aye to me the happiest seem
To draw the dregs of wine.

PAN.

O WHAT are heroes, prophets, men,

But pipes through which the breath of Pan doth blow A momentary music. Being's tide

Swells hitherward, and myriads of forms

Live, robed with beauty, painted by the sun;
Their dust, pervaded by the nerves of God,
Throbs with an overmastering energy
Knowing and doing. Ebbs the tide, they lie
White hollow shells upon the desert shore.
But not the less the eternal wave rolls on
To animate new millions, and exhale
Races and planets, its enchanted foam.

DARK flower of Cheshire garden,
Red evening duly dyes

Thy sombre head with rosy hues
To fix far-gazing eyes.

Well the Planter knew how strongly
Works thy form on human thought;
I muse what secret purpose had he
To draw all fancies to this spot.

THE SOUTH WIND.

SUDDEN gusts came full of meaning,
All too much to him they said,
Oh, south winds have long memories,
Of that be none afraid.

I cannot tell rude listeners

Half the tell-tale south wind said, "T would bring the blushes of yon maples To a man and to a maid.

FAME.

Ан Fate, cannot a man

Be wise without a beard?

East, West, from Beer to Dan,
Say, was it never heard

That wisdom might in youth be gotten,
Or wit be ripe before 't was rotten?

He pays too high a price

For knowledge and for fame
Who sells his sinews to be wise,

His teeth and bones to buy a name,
And crawls through life a paralytic
To earn the praise of bard and critic.

Were it not better done,

To dine and sleep through forty years; Be loved by few; be feared by none; Laugh life away; have wine for tears; And take the mortal leap undaunted, Content that all we asked was granted?

But Fate will not permit

The seed of gods to die,

Nor suffer sense to win from wit
Its guerdon in the sky,

Nor let us hide, whate'er our pleasure,
The world's light underneath a measure.

Go then, sad youth, and shine,

Go, sacrifice to Fame;

1824.

Put youth, joy, health, upon the shrine,
And life to fan the flame;

Being for Seeming bravely barter,
And die to Fame a happy martyr.

WEBSTER.

FROM THE PHI BETA KAPPA POEM, 1834.

ILL fits the abstemious Muse a crown to weave
For living brows; il fits them to receive:
And yet, if virtue abrogate the law,

One portrait, fact or fancy-we may draw;

A form which Nature cast in the heroic mould
Of them who rescued liberty of old;

He, when the rising storm of party roared,
Brought his great forehead to the council board,
There, while hot heads perplexed with fears the state,
Calm as the morn the manly patriot sate;
Seemed, when at last his clarion accents broke,
As if the conscience of the country spoke.

Not on its base Monadnoc surer stood,
Than he to common sense and common good:
No mimic; from his breast his counsel drew,
Believed the eloquent was aye the true;

He bridged the gulf from th' alway good and wise
To that within the vision of small eyes.

Self-centred; when he launched the genuine word
It shook or captivated all who heard,

Ran from his mouth to mountains and the sea,
And burned in noble hearts proverb and prophecy.

WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF GOETHE.

SIX thankful weeks, and let it be

A meter of prosperity,

In my coat I bore this book,

And seldom therein could I look,
For I had too much to think,
Heaven and earth to eat and drink.
Is he hapless who can spare

In his plenty things so rare?

THE ENCHANTER.

IN the deep heart of man a poet dwells
Who all the day of life his summer story tells:
Scatters on every eye dust of his spells,

Scent, form and color: to the flowers and shells
Wins the believing child with wondrous tales;
Touches a cheek with colors of romance,

And crowds a history into a glance;

Gives beauty to the lake and fountain,

Spies over-sea the fires of the mountain;

When thrushes ope their throat, 't is he that sings,
And he that paints the oriole's fiery wings.
The little Shakspeare in the maiden's heart
Makes Romeo of a plough-boy on his cart;
Opens the eye to Virtue's starlike meed
And gives persuasion to a gentle deed.