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QUATRAINS AND FRAGMENTS.
FROM R. W. EMERSON.
THE gale that wrecked you on the sand,
To clothe the fiery thought
In simple words succeeds, For still the craft of genius is To mask a king in weeds.
WHOEVER fights, whoever falls,
And he who battles on her side,
Victor over death and pain,
So nigh is grandeur to our dust,
BEHOLD the Sea, The opaline, the plentiful and strong, Yet beautiful as is the rose in June, Fresh as the trickling rainbow of July: Sea full of food, the nourisher of kinds, Purger of earth, and medicine of men ; Creating a sweet climate by my breath, Washing out harms and griefs from memory, And, in my mathematic ebb and flow, Giving a hint of that which changes not. Rich are the sea-gods: - who gives gifts but they? They grope the sea for pearls, but more than pearls: They pluck Force thence, and give it to the wise. For every wave is wealth to Dædalus, Wealth to the cunning artist who can work This matchless strength. Where shall he find,
O waves !
A load your Atlas shoulders cannot lift?
I with my hammer pounding evermore The rocky coast, smite Andes into dust, Strewing my bed, and, in another age, Rebuild a continent of better men. Then I unbar the doors: my paths lead out The exodus of nations: I disperse
Men to all shores that front the hoary main.
FROM THE FRENCH.
SOME of your hurts you have cured,
And the sharpest you still have survived, But what torments of grief you endured From evils which never arrived!
HERI, CRAS, HODIE.
SHINES the last age, the next with hope is seen, To-day slinks poorly off unmarked between ; Future or Past no richer secret folds,
O friendless Present! than thy bosom holds.
LINES AND COUPLETS.
WHAT, and how great the virtue and the art, To live on little with a cheerful heart.
Between excess and famine lies a mean,
Its proper power to hurt each creature feels: Bulls aim their horns, and asses kick their heels.
Here Wisdom calls, "Seek virtue first, be bold; As gold to silver, virtue is to gold."
Let lands and houses have what lords they will, Let us be fixed and our own masters still.
'Tis the first virtue vices to abhor,
Long as to him who works for debt, the day.
Not to go back is somewhat to advance,
True, conscious honor is to feel no sin; He's armed without that's innocent within.
For virtue's self may too much zeal be had, The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.
If wealth alone can make and keep us blest, Still, still be getting; never, never rest.
That God of nature who within us still Inclines our actions, not constrains our will.
It is not poetry, but prose run mad.
Pretty in amber to observe the forms
An angel face : _ its runny wealth of hair
Of the sweet mouth a smile seemed wandering ever;
POEMS OF FANCY.
FROM THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. TELL me where is Fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply.
It is engendered in the eyes, With gazing fed; and Fancy dies In the cradle where it lies.
Let us all ring Fancy's knell; I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell. Ding, dong, bell.
THE REALM OF FANCY.
EVER let the Fancy roam! Pleasure never is at home:
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
Open wide the mind's cage-door,
To banish Even from her sky.
Sit thee there, and send abroad
And thou shalt quaff it ;· thou shalt hear
Sweet birds antheming the morn;
Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
O sweet Fancy let her loose; Everything is spoilt by use: Where's the cheek that doth not fade, Too much gazed at? Where's the maid