And chiefest thou, whom Genius loved, Whom Nature pampered in these groves What wealth of mornings in her year, She chose her best thy heart to cheer, Now younger pilgrims find the stream, 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; Knowing and doing. Ebbs the tide, they lie MONADNOC FROM AFAR. DARK flower of Cheshire garden, Thy sombre head with rosy hues Well the Planter knew how strongly THE SOUTH WIND. SUDDEN gusts came full of meaning, 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, That wisdom might in youth be gotten, He pays too high a price For knowledge and for fame His teeth and bones to buy a name, 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, WEBSTER. FROM THE PHI BETA KAPPA POEM, 1834. ILL fits the abstemious Muse a crown to weave 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, Not on its base Monadnoc surer stood, He bridged the gulf from th' alway good and wise Self-centred; when he launched the genuine word Ran from his mouth to mountains and the sea, 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, In his plenty things so rare? THE ENCHANTER. In the deep heart of man a poet dwells Scent, form and color: to the flowers and shells 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, |