From a fissure in a rocky steep

Of the great tomb of man ! The golden sun, He withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Fairy pencillings, a quaint design,

Are shining on the sad abocles of death, Veinings, leafage, fibres clear and fine, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread And the fern's life lay in every line !

The globe are but a handful to the tribes
So, I think, God hides some souls away, That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Sweetly to surprise us, the last day.

Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings, — yet the dead are there !

And millions in those solitudes, since first

The flight of years began, have laid them down

In their last sleer, – the dead reign there alone ! To him who, in the love of Nature, holds So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou withdraw Communion with her visible forms, she speaks In silence from the living, and no friend A various language : for his gayer hours Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe She has a voice of gladness, and a smile Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh And cloquence of beauty; and she glides When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Into his darker musings with a mild

Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase And gentle sympathy, that steals away

His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Their mirth and their employments, and shall Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images

And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, Of ages glide away, the sons of men And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, In the full strength of years, matron and maid, Go forth under the open sky, and list

And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man To Nature's teachings, while from all around Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side Earth and her waters, and the depths of air- By those who in their turn shall follow them. Comes a still voice, — Yet a few days, and thee

So live, that when thy summons comes to join The all-beholding sun shall see no more

The innumerable caravan that moves
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, His chamber in the silent halls of death,

To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thou Thyimage. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ;

Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and

soothed And, lost each human trace, surrendering up

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements;

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch To be a brother to the insensible rock,

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place

A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME. Shalt thou retire alone, - nor couldst thou wish

Who 'll press for gold this crowded street, Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down

A hundred years to come ? With patriarchs of the infant world, — with kings,

Who'll tread yon church with willing feet, The powerful of the earth, — the wise, the good,

A hundred years to come ? Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,

Pale, trembling age and fiery youth, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills,

And childhood with his brow of truth, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun ; the vales

The rich and poor, on land, on sea, Stretching in pensive quietness between ;

Where will the mighty millions be,
The venerable woods ; rivers that move

A hundred years to come ?
In majesty, and the complaining brooks,
That make the meadows green ; and, poured We all within our graves shall sleep,
round all,

A hundred years to come;
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,

No living soul for us will weer, Are but the soleinn decorations all

A hundred years to come.


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Say, did these fingers delve the mine?
Or with the envied rubies shine?
To hew the rock or wear a gem
Can little now avail to them.
But if the page of Truth they sought,
Or comfort to the mourner brought,
These hands a richer meed shall claim
Than all that wait on Wealth and Fame.


Apparelled in celestial light,

[The MSS. of this poem, which appeared during the first quarter of the present century, was said to have been found in the Museum of the Royal College of Surgeons, in London, near a perfect hu

man skeleton, and to have been sent by the curator to the Morn-
ing Chronicle for publication. It excited so much attention that
every effort was made to discover the author, and a responsible
party went so far as to offer a reward of fifty guineas for informa

The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore:
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,

tion that would discover its origin. The author preserved his in- The things which I have seen I now can see no

cognito, and, we believe, has never been discovered.]


Yet gentle concord never broke,

This silent tongue shall plead for thee
When Time unveils Eternity!

Avails it whether bare or shod
These feet the paths of duty trod ?
If from the bowers of Ease they fled,
To seek Affliction's humble shed;
If Grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned,
And home to Virtue's cot returned,
These feet with angel wings shall vie,
And tread the palace of the sky!





THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem

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And with the heart of May

Forget the glories he hath known,
Doth every beast keep holiday ;

And that imperial palace whence he game.
Thou child of joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou Behold the child among his new-born blisses, -
happy shepherd boy!

A six years' darling of a pygmy size !
See, where mid work of his own hand he lies,

Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
Ye blesséd creatures ! I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see

With light upon him from his father's eyes ! The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ;

See at his feet some little plan or chart, My heart is at your festival,

Some fragment from his dream of human life, My head hath its coronal,

Shaped by himself with newly learned art,

A wedding or a festival,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel, I feel it all.
O evil day! if I were sullen

A mourning or a funeral,
While earth herself is adorning,

And this hath now his heart,

And unto this he frames his song.
This sweet May morning,

Then will he fit his tongue
And the children are culling
On every side,

To dialogues of business, love, or strife ;

But it will not be long
In a thousand valleys far and wide,

Ere this be thrown aside,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,

And with new joy and pride
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm,

The little actor cons another part,
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! -
But there's a tree, of many one,

Filling from time to time his “humorous stage"

With all the persons, down to palsied age,
A single field which I have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone ;

That life brings with her in her equipage ;

As if his whole vocation
The pansy at my feet

Were endless imitation.
Doth the same tale repeat.
Whither is fled the visionary gleam ?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie

Thy soul's immensity !

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting ;

Thy heritage ! thou eye among the blind, The soul that rises with us, our life's star,

That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,

Haunted forever by the eternal mind !--
And cometh from afar.

Mighty prophet! Seer blest,
Not in entire forgetfulness,

On whom those truths do rest
And not in utter nakedness,

Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
But trailing clouds of glory, do we come

In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ! From God, who is our home.

Thou over whom thy immortality Heaven lies about us in our infancy !

Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,
Shades of the prison-house begin to close

A presence which is not to be put by!
Upon the growing boy ;

Thou little child, yet glorious in the might But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,- of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, He sees it in his joy.

Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The youth who daily farther from the east

The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Must travel, still is nature's priest, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ?
And by the vision splendid

Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
Is on his way attended :

And custom lie upon thee with a weight At length the man perceives it die away, Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! And fade into the light of common day.

O joy! that in our embers Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own.

Is something that doth live, Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind;

That nature yet remembers
And even with something of a mother's mind,

What was so fugitive !
And no unworthy aim,

The thought of our past years in me doth breed
The homely nurse doth all she can Perpetual benediction : not, indeed,
To make her foster-child, her inmate man, For that which is most worthy to be blest,




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Delight and liberty, the simple creed

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight

Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,

With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his To live beneath your more habitual sway.


Not for these I raise

I love the brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born day
Is lovely yet;

The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober coloring from an eye

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The song of thanks and praise;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,

Fallings from us, vanishings,
Blank misgivings of a creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts, before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised,
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing,

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence: truths that wake, To perish never, Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor man nor boy,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy!

Hence in a season of calm weather,
Though inland far we be,

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither, -

Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.


Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound!

We in thought will join your throng,

Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!

What though the radiance which was once so


Be now forever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower, -
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy

Which, having been, must ever be ;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.


And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves.

That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.




SCENE.CATO sitting in a thoughtful posture, with Plato's book on the Immortality of the Soul in his hand, and a drawn sword on the table by him.

IT must be so. - Plato, thou reasonest well! Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
'T is the divinity that stirs within us;

'T is Heaven itself, that points out a hereafter, And intimates eternity to man.

Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!

this must end them.

The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us
(And that there is, all Nature cries aloud
Through all her works), he must delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in must be happy.
But when? or where? This world was made for
I'm weary
of conjectures,
[Laying his hand on his sword.
Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me.
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amid the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds!


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Its proper power to hurt each creature feels : So nigh is grandeur to our dust,

Bulls aim their horns, and asses kick their heels. So near is God to man, When Duty whispers low, Thou must,

Here Wisdom calls, “Seek virtue first, be bold; The youth replies, I can.

As gold to silver, virtue is to gold.”

Let lands and houses have what lords they will, THE SEA.

Let us be fixed and our own masters still.

BEHOLD the Sea, The opaline, the plentiful and strong,

'T is the first virtue vices to abhor, Yet beautiful as is the rose in June,

And the first wisdom to be fool no more.
Fresh as the trickling rainbow of July:
Sea full of food, the nourisher of kinds,

Long as to him who works for debt, the day. Purger of earth, and medicine of men ;

Not to go back is somewhat to advance,
Creating a sweet climate by my breath,
Washing out harms and griefs from memory,

And men must walk, at least, before they dance. And, in my mathematic ebb and flow,

True, conscious honor is to feel no sin ; Giving a hint of that which changes not. He's armed without that's innocent within. Rich are the sea-gods: — who gives gifts but they ? They grope the sea for pearls, but more than pearls : For virtue's self may too much zeal be had, They pluck Force thence, and give it to the wise. The worst of madmen is a saint run mad. For every wave is wealth to Dædalus, Wealth to the cunning artist who can work

If wealth alone can make and keep us blest, This matchless strength. Where shall he find, Still, still be getting ; never, never rest. O waves!

That God of nature who within us still A load your Atlas shoulders cannot lift?

Inclines our actions, not constrains our will.
I with my hammer pounding evermore
The rocky coast, smite Andes into dust,

It is not poetry, but prose run mad.
Strewing my bed, and, in another age,
Rebuild a continent of better men.

Pretty in amber to observe the forms
Then I unbar the doors : my paths lead out Of hair, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms :
The exodus of nations : 1 disperse

The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, Men to all shores that front the hoary main. But wonder how the mischief they got there !

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