THE DAY'S RATION. WHEN I was born, From all the seas of strength Fate filled a chalice, From my great arteries; nor less, nor more. Indebted or insulted, loved or hurt, All he distils into sidereal wine, And brims my little cup; heedless, alas! Of all he sheds how little it will hold, If a new muse draw me with splendid ray, And I uplift myself into her heaven, Drag a ridiculous age. To-day, when friends approach, and every hour Brings book or starbright scroll of genius, The tiny cup will hold not a bead more, And all the costly liquor runs to waste, Why need I volumes, if one word suffice? After the master's sketch, fills and o'erfills My apprehension? Why should I roam, Of thoughts and things at home, but still adjourn The nearest matters to another moon? Why see new men Who have not understood the old ? BLIGHT. GIVE me truths, For I am weary of the surfaces, And die of inanition. If I knew Only the herbs and simples of the wood, Rue, cinquefoil, gill, vervain, and pimpernel, Blue-vetch, and trillium, hawkweed, sassafras, Milkweeds, and murky brakes, quaint pipes and sundew, Untold, unknown, and I could surely spell Driving the foe and stablishing the friend,— And planted world, and full executor Of their imperfect functions. But these young scholars who invade our hills, Bold as the engineer who fells the wood, And travelling often in the cut he makes, Love not the flower they pluck, and know it not, And all their botany is Latin names. The old men studied magic in the flower, And human fortunes in astronomy, And an omnipotence in chemistry, Preferring things to names, for these were men, And wheresoever their clear eyebeams fell, They caught the footsteps of the SAME. Our eyes Are armed, but we are strangers to the stars, And haughtily return us stare for stare. And coldly ask their pottage, not their love, Only what to our griping toil is due; But the sweet affluence of love and song, The rich results of the divine consents Of man and earth, of world beloved and lover, The nectar and ambrosia are withheld; And in the midst of spoils and slaves, we thieves And pirates of the universe, shut out Daily to a more thin and outward rind, Turn pale and starve. Therefore to our sick eyes, The stunted trees look sick, the summer short, And life, shorn of its venerable length, And dies in anger that it was a dupe, Of the toy's purchase with the length of life. |