Amid great Nature"s halls Girt in by mountain walls And washed with waterfalls It would please me to die, Where every wind that swept my tomb Goes loaded with a free perfume Dealt out with a G.o.d"s charity.
I should like to die in sweets, A hill"s leaves for winding-sheets, And the searching sun to see That I am laid with decency.
And the commissioned wind to sing His mighty psalm from fall to spring And annual tunes commemorate Of Nature"s child the common fate.
WILLIAMSTOWN, VERMONT, 1 June, 1831.
A LETTER
Dear brother, would you know the life, Please G.o.d, that I would lead?
On the first wheels that quit this weary town Over yon western bridges I would ride And with a cheerful benison forsake Each street and spire and roof, incontinent.
Then would I seek where G.o.d might guide my steps, Deep in a woodland tract, a sunny farm, Amid the mountain counties, Hants, Franklin, Berks, Where down the rock ravine a river roars, Even from a brook, and where old woods Not tamed and cleared c.u.mber the ground With their centennial wrecks.
Find me a slope where I can feel the sun And mark the rising of the early stars.
There will I bring my books,--my household G.o.ds, The reliquaries of my dead saint, and dwell In the sweet odor of her memory.
Then in the uncouth solitude unlock My stock of art, plant dials in the gra.s.s, Hang in the air a bright thermometer And aim a telescope at the inviolate sun.
CHARDON ST., BOSTON, 1831.
Day by day returns The everlasting sun, Replenishing material urns With G.o.d"s unspared donation; But the day of day, The orb within the mind, Creating fair and good alway, Shines not as once it shined.
Vast the realm of Being is, In the waste one nook is his; Whatsoever hap befalls In his vision"s narrow walls He is here to testify.
1831.
HYMN
There is in all the sons of men A love that in the spirit dwells, That panteth after things unseen, And tidings of the future tells.
And G.o.d hath built his altar here To keep this fire of faith alive, And sent his priests in holy fear To speak the truth--for truth to strive.
And hither come the pensive train Of rich and poor, of young and old, Of ardent youth untouched by pain, Of thoughtful maids and manhood bold.
They seek a friend to speak the word Already trembling on their tongue, To touch with prophet"s hand the chord Which G.o.d in human hearts hath strung.
To speak the plain reproof of sin That sounded in the soul before, And bid you let the angels in That knock at meek contrition"s door.
A friend to lift the curtain up That hides from man the mortal goal, And with glad thoughts of faith and hope Surprise the exulting soul.
Sole source of light and hope a.s.sured, O touch thy servant"s lips with power, So shall he speak to us the word Thyself dost give forever more.
June, 1831.
SELF-RELIANCE
Henceforth, please G.o.d, forever I forego The yoke of men"s opinions. I will be Light-hearted as a bird, and live with G.o.d.
I find him in the bottom of my heart, I hear continually his voice therein.
The little needle always knows the North, The little bird remembereth his note, And this wise Seer within me never errs.
I never taught it what it teaches me; I only follow, when I act aright.
October 9, 1832.
And when I am entombed in my place, Be it remembered of a single man, He never, though he dearly loved his race, For fear of human eyes swerved from his plan.
Oh what is Heaven but the fellowship Of minds that each can stand against the world By its own meek and incorruptible will?
The days pa.s.s over me And I am still the same; The aroma of my life is gone With the flower with which it came.
1833.
WRITTEN IN NAPLES
We are what we are made; each following day Is the Creator of our human mould Not less than was the first; the all-wise G.o.d Gilds a few points in every several life, And as each flower upon the fresh hillside, And every colored petal of each flower, Is sketched and dyed, each with a new design, Its spot of purple, and its streak of brown, So each man"s life shall have its proper lights, And a few joys, a few peculiar charms, For him round in the melancholy hours And reconcile him to the common days.
Not many men see beauty in the fogs Of close low pine-woods in a river town; Yet unto me not morn"s magnificence, Nor the red rainbow of a summer eve, Nor Rome, nor joyful Paris, nor the halls Of rich men blazing hospitable light, Nor wit, nor eloquence,--no, nor even the song Of any woman that is now alive,-- Hath such a soul, such divine influence, Such resurrection of the happy past, As is to me when I behold the morn Ope in such law moist roadside, and beneath Peep the blue violets out of the black loam, Pathetic silent poets that sing to me Thine elegy, sweet singer, sainted wife.
March, 1833.
WRITTEN AT ROME
Alone in Rome. Why, Rome is lonely too;-- Besides, you need not be alone; the soul Shall have society of its own rank.
Be great, be true, and all the Scipios, The Catos, the wise patriots of Rome, Shall flock to you and tarry by your side, And comfort you with their high company.
Virtue alone is sweet society, It keeps the key to all heroic hearts, And opens you a welcome in them all.
You must be like them if you desire them, Scorn trifles and embrace a better aim Than wine or sleep or praise; Hunt knowledge as the lover wooes a maid, And ever in the strife of your own thoughts Obey the n.o.bler impulse; that is Rome: That shall command a senate to your side; For there is no might in the universe That can contend with love. It reigns forever.
Wait then, sad friend, wait in majestic peace The hour of heaven. Generously trust Thy fortune"s web to the beneficent hand That until now has put his world in fee To thee. He watches for thee still. His love Broods over thee, and as G.o.d lives in heaven, However long thou walkest solitary, The hour of heaven shall come, the man appear.
1833.