Written by
Henry David Thoreau |
Whate'er we leave to God, God does,
And blesses us;
The work we choose should be our own,
God leaves alone.
If with light head erect I sing,
Though all the Muses lend their force,
From my poor love of anything,
The verse is weak and shallow as its source.
But if with bended neck I grope
Listening behind me for my wit,
With faith superior to hope,
More anxious to keep back than forward it;
Making my soul accomplice there
Unto the flame my heart hath lit,
Then will the verse forever wear--
Time cannot bend the line which God hath writ.
Always the general show of things
Floats in review before my mind,
And such true love and reverence brings,
That sometimes I forget that I am blind.
But now there comes unsought, unseen,
Some clear divine electuary,
And I, who had but sensual been,
Grow sensible, and as God is, am wary.
I hearing get, who had but ears,
And sight, who had but eyes before,
I moments live, who lived but years,
And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore.
I hear beyond the range of sound,
I see beyond the range of sight,
New earths and skies and seas around,
And in my day the sun doth pale his light.
A clear and ancient harmony
Pierces my soul through all its din,
As through its utmost melody--
Farther behind than they, farther within.
More swift its bolt than lightning is,
Its voice than thunder is more loud,
It doth expand my privacies
To all, and leave me single in the crowd.
It speaks with such authority,
With so serene and lofty tone,
That idle Time runs gadding by,
And leaves me with Eternity alone.
Now chiefly is my natal hour,
And only now my prime of life;
Of manhood's strength it is the flower,
'Tis peace's end and war's beginning strife.
It comes in summer's broadest noon,
By a grey wall or some chance place,
Unseasoning Time, insulting June,
And vexing day with its presuming face.
Such fragrance round my couch it makes,
More rich than are Arabian drugs,
That my soul scents its life and wakes
The body up beneath its perfumed rugs.
Such is the Muse, the heavenly maid,
The star that guides our mortal course,
Which shows where life's true kernel's laid,
Its wheat's fine flour, and its undying force.
She with one breath attunes the spheres,
And also my poor human heart,
With one impulse propels the years
Around, and gives my throbbing pulse its start.
I will not doubt for evermore,
Nor falter from a steadfast faith,
For thought the system be turned o'er,
God takes not back the word which once He saith.
I will not doubt the love untold
Which not my worth nor want has bought,
Which wooed me young, and woos me old,
And to this evening hath me brought.
My memory I'll educate
To know the one historic truth,
Remembering to the latest date
The only true and sole immortal youth.
Be but thy inspiration given,
No matter through what danger sought,
I'll fathom hell or climb to heaven,
And yet esteem that cheap which love has bought.
___________________
Fame cannot tempt the bard
Who's famous with his God,
Nor laurel him reward
Who has his Maker's nod.
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Written by
Ella Wheeler Wilcox |
My soul is like a poor caged bird to-night,
Beating its wings against the prison bars,
Longing to reach the outer world of light,
And, all untrammelled, soar among the stars.
Wild, mighty thoughts struggle within my soul
For utterance. Great waves of passion roll
Through all my being. As the lightnings play
Through thunder clouds, so beams of blinding light
Flash for a moment on my darkened brain -
Quick, sudden, glaring beams, that fade wawy
And leave me in a darker, deeper night.
Oh, poet sould! that struggle all in vain
To live in peace and harmony with earth,
It cannot be! They must endure the pain
Of conscience and unacknoeledged worth,
Moving and dwelling with the common herd,
Whose highest thought has never strayed as far,
Or never strayed beyond the horizon's bar;
Whose narrow hearts and souls are never stirred
With keenest pleasures, or with sharpest pain;
Who rise and eat and sleep, and rise again,
Nor question why or wherefore. Men whose minds
Are never shaken by wild passion winds;
Women whose broadest, deepeat realm of thought
The bridal veil will cover.
Who see not
God's mighty work lying undone to-day, -
Work that a woman's hands can do as well,
Oh, soul of mine; better to live alway
In this tumultuous inward pain and strife,
Doing the work that in thy reach doth fall,
Weeping because thou canst not do it all;
Oh, better, my soul, in this unrest to dwell,
Than grovel as they grovel on through life.
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Written by
Ben Jonson |
III. — TO SIR ROBERT WROTH. Art ta'en with neither's vice nor sport : That at great times, art no ambitious guest Of sheriff 's dinner, or mayor's feast. Nor com'st to view the better cloth of state, The richer hangings, or crown-plate ; Nor throng'st (when masquing is) to have a sight There wasted, some not paid for yet ! But canst at home, in thy securer rest, Live, with unbought provision blest ; Free from proud porches, or their gilded roofs, 'Mongst lowing herds, and solid hoofs : Along the curled woods, and painted meads, Through which a serpent river leads To some cool courteous shade, which he calls his, A-bed canst hear the loud stag speak, In spring, oft roused for thy master's sport, Who for it makes thy house his court ; Or with thy friends, the heart of all the year Divid'st, upon the lesser deer : In Autumn, at the partridge mak'st a flight, And giv'st thy gladder guests the sight ; And in the winter, hunt'st the flying hare, To the full greatness of the cry : Or hawking at the river, or the bush, Or shooting at the greedy thrush, Thou dost with some delight the day out-wear, Although the coldest of the year ! The whilst the several seasons thou hast seen Of flowery fields, of cop'ces green, The mowed meadows, with the fleeced sheep, And furrows laden with their weight ; The apple-harvest, that doth longer last ; The hogs return'd home fat from mast ; The trees cut out in log, and those boughs made A fire now, that lent a shade ! Thus Pan and Sylvan having had their rites, Comus puts in for new delights ; And fills thy open hall with mirth and cheer, Nor are the Muses strangers found. The rout of rural folk come thronging in, (Their rudeness then is thought no sin) Thy noblest spouse affords them welcome grace ; And the great heroes of her race Sit mixt with loss of state, or reverence. Freedom doth with degree dispense. The jolly wassal walks the often round, Nor how to get the lawyer fees. Such and no other was that age of old, Which boasts t' have had the head of gold. And such, since thou canst make thine own content, Strive, Wroth, to live long innocent. Let others watch in guilty arms, and stand The fury of a rash command, Go enter breaches, meet the cannon's rage, And brag that they were therefore born. Let this man sweat, and wrangle at the bar, For every price, in every jar, And change possessions, oftner with his breath, Than either money, war, or death : Let him, than hardest sires, more disinherit, And each where boast it as his merit, To blow up orphans, widows, and their states ; Purchased by rapine, worse than stealth, And brooding o'er it sit, with broadest eyes, Not doing good, scarce when.he dies. Let thousands more go flatter vice, and win, By being organs to great sin ; Get place and honor, and be glad to keep The secrets that shall break their sleep And so they ride in purple, eat in plate, Shalt neither that, nor this envy : Thy peace is made ; and when man's state is well, 'Tis better, if he there can dwell. God wisheth none should wrack on a strange shelf : To him man's dearer, than t' himself. And howsoever we may think things sweet, He always gives what he knows meet ; Which who can use is happy : Such be thou. A body sound, with sounder mind ; To do thy country service, thy self right ; That neither want do thee affright, Nor death ; but when thy latest sand is spent, Thou may'st think life a thing but lent.
Whether by choice, or fate, or both ! And though so near the city, and the court, Art ta'en with neither's vice nor sport : That at great times, art no ambitious guest Of sheriff 's dinner, or mayor's feast. Nor com'st to view the better cloth of state, The richer hangings, or crown-plate ; Nor throng'st (when masquing is) to have a sight
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