10 Best Famous Transports Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Transports poems. This is a select list of the best famous Transports poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Transports poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of transports poems.

• All Famous Transports Poems

 Friend!--the Great Ruler, easily content,
Needs not the laws it has laborious been
The task of small professors to invent;
A single wheel impels the whole machine
Matter and spirit;--yea, that simple law,
Pervading nature, which our Newton saw.

This taught the spheres, slaves to one golden rein,
Their radiant labyrinths to weave around
Creation's mighty hearts: this made the chain,
Which into interwoven systems bound
All spirits streaming to the spiritual sun
As brooks that ever into ocean run!

Did not the same strong mainspring urge and guide
Our hearts to meet in love's eternal bond?
Linked to thine arm, O Raphael, by thy side
Might I aspire to reach to souls beyond
Our earth, and bid the bright ambition go
To that perfection which the angels know!

Happy, O happy--I have found thee--I
Have out of millions found thee, and embraced;
Thou, out of millions, mine!--Let earth and sky
Return to darkness, and the antique waste--
To chaos shocked, let warring atoms be,
Still shall each heart unto the other flee!

Do I not find within thy radiant eyes
Fairer reflections of all joys most fair?
In thee I marvel at myself--the dyes
Of lovely earth seem lovelier painted there,
And in the bright looks of the friend is given
A heavenlier mirror even of the heaven!

Sadness casts off its load, and gayly goes
From the intolerant storm to rest awhile,
In love's true heart, sure haven of repose;
Does not pain's veriest transports learn to smile
From that bright eloquence affection gave
To friendly looks?--there, finds not pain a grave?

In all creation did I stand alone,
Still to the rocks my dreams a soul should find,
Mine arms should wreathe themselves around the stone,
My griefs should feel a listener in the wind;
My joy--its echo in the caves should be!
Fool, if ye will--Fool, for sweet sympathy!

We are dead groups of matter when we hate;
But when we love we are as gods!--Unto
The gentle fetters yearning, through each state
And shade of being multiform, and through
All countless spirits (save of all the sire)--
Moves, breathes, and blends, the one divine desire.

Lo! arm in arm, through every upward grade,
From the rude mongrel to the starry Greek,
Who the fine link between the mortal made,
And heaven's last seraph--everywhere we seek
Union and bond--till in one sea sublime
Of love be merged all measure and all time!

Friendless ruled God His solitary sky;
He felt the want, and therefore souls were made,
The blessed mirrors of his bliss!--His eye
No equal in His loftiest works surveyed;
And from the source whence souls are quickened, He
Called His companion forth--ETERNITY!

 O, let me seize thy pen sublime
That paints, in melting dulcet rhyme, 
The glowing pow'r, the magic art, 
Th' extatic raptures of the Heart; 
Soft Beauty's timid smile serene,
The dimples of Love's sportive mien; 
The sweet descriptive tale to trace; 
To picture Nature's winning grace;
To steal the tear from Pity's eye; 
To catch the sympathetic sigh; 
O teach me, with swift light'nings force
To watch wild passion's varying course; 
To mark th' enthusiast's vivid fire,
Or calmly touch thy golden lyre,
While gentle Reason mildly sings
Responsive to the trembling strings. 

SWEET Nymph, enchanting Poetry! 
I dedicate my mind to Thee. 
Oh! from thy bright Parnassian bow'rs
Descend, to bless my sombre hours;
Bend to the earth thy eagle wing,
And on its glowing plumage bring
Blithe FANCY, from whose burning eye
The young ideas sparkling fly; 
O, come, and let us fondly stray,
Where rosy Health shall lead the way,
And soft FAVONIUS lightly spread
A perfum'd carpet as we tread;
Ah! let us from the world remove,
The calm forgetfulness to prove,
Which at the still of evening's close,
Lulls the tir'd peasant to repose; 
Repose, whose balmy joys o'er-pay
The sultry labours of the day. 

And when the blue-ey'd dawn appears,
Just peeping thro' her veil of tears; 
Or blushing opes her silver gate, 
And on its threshold, stands elate,
And flings her rosy mantle far
O'er every loit'ring dewy star; 
And calls the wanton breezes forth,
And sprinkles diamonds o'er the earth; 
While in the green-wood's shade profound,
The insect race, with buzzing sound
Flit o'er the rill,­a glitt'ring train,
Or swarm along the sultry plain. 
Then in sweet converse let us rove,
Where in the thyme-embroider'd grove, 
The musky air its fragrance pours
Upon the silv'ry scatter'd show'rs; 
To hail soft Zephyr, as she goes
To fan the dew-drop from the rose;
To shelter from the scorching beam,
And muse beside the rippling stream. 

Or when, at twilight's placid hour, 
We stroll to some sequester'd bow'r; 
And watch the haughty Sun retire
Beneath his canopy of fire; 
While slow the dusky clouds enfold
Day's crimson curtains fring'd with gold;
And o'er the meadows faintly fly
Pale shadows of the purpling sky: 
While softly o'er the pearl-deck'd plain,
Cold Dian leads the sylvan train; 
In mazy dance and sportive glee,
SWEET MUSE, I'll fondly turn to thee;
And thou shalt deck my couch with flow'rs, 
And wing with joy my silent hours. 

When Sleep, with downy hand, shall spread
A wreath of poppies round my head; 
Then, FANCY, on her wing sublime,
Shall waft me to the sacred clime
Where my enlighten'd sense shall view,
Thro' ether realms of azure hue, 
That flame, where SHAKESPEARE us'd to fill, 
With matchless fire, his "golden quill." 
While, from its point bright Genius caught
The wit supreme, the glowing thought, 
The magic tone, that sweetly hung
About the music of his tongue. 
Then will I skim the floating air,
On a light couch of gossamer,
While with my wonder-aching eye,
I contemplate the spangled sky, 
And hear the vaulted roof repeat
The song of Inspiration sweet; 
While round the winged cherub train,
Shall iterate the aëry strain:
Swift, thro' my quiv'ring nerves shall float
The tremours of each thrilling note; 
And every eager sense confess
Extatic transport's wild excess:
'Till, waking from the glorious dream,
I hail the morn's refulgent beam. 

DEAR Maid! of ever-varying mien, 
Exulting, pensive, gay, serene, 
Now, in transcendent pathos drest, 
Now, gentle as the turtle's breast; 
Where'er thy feath'ry steps shall lead,
To side-long hill, or flow'ry mead; 
To sorrow's coldest, darkest cell,
Or where, by Cynthia's glimm'ring ray, 
The dapper fairies frisk and play
About some cowslip's golden bell;
And, in their wanton frolic mirth,
Pluck the young daisies from the earth,
To canopy their tiny heads, 
And decorate their verdant beds; 
While to the grass-hopper's shrill tune,
They quaff libations to the moon, 
From acorn goblets, amply fill'd
With dew, from op'ning flow'rs distill'd. 
Or when the lurid tempest pours, 
From its dark urn, impetuous show'rs, 
Or from its brow's terrific frown,
Hurls the pale murd'rous lightnings down;
To thy enchanting breast I'll spring, 
And shield me with thy golden wing. 

Or when amidst ethereal fire,
Thou strik'st thy DELLA CRUSCAN lyre, 
While round, to catch the heavenly song,
Myriads of wond'ring seraphs throng:
Whether thy harp's empassioned strain
Pours forth an OVID's tender pain;
Or in PINDARIC flights sublime,
Re-echoes thro' the starry clime;
Thee I'll adore; transcendent guest,
And woe thee to my burning breast. 

But, if thy magic pow'rs impart
One soft sensation to the heart,
If thy warm precepts can dispense
One thrilling transport o'er my sense; 
Oh! keep thy gifts, and let me fly,
In APATHY's cold arms to die.

 TERRIFIC FIEND! thou Monster fell, 
Condemn'd in haunts profane to dwell, 
Why quit thy solitary Home, 
O'er wide Creation's paths to roam? 
Pale Tyrant of the timid Heart, 
Whose visionary spells can bind 
The strongest passions of the mind, 
Freezing Life's current with thy baneful Art. 

Nature recoils when thou art near, 
For round thy form all plagues are seen; 
Thine is the frantic tone, the sullen mien, 
The glance of petrifying fear, 
The haggard Brow, the low'ring Eye, 
The hollow Cheek, the smother'd Sigh, 
When thy usurping fangs assail, 
The sacred Bonds of Friendship fail. 
Meek-bosom'd Pity sues in vain; 
Imperious Sorrow spurns relief, 
Feeds on the luxury of Grief, 
Drinks the hot Tear, and hugs the galling Chain. 

AH! plunge no more thy ruthless dart, 
In the dark centre of the guilty Heart; 
The POW'R SUPREME, with pitying eye, 
Looks on the erring Child of Misery; 
MERCY arrests the wing of Time; 
To expiate the wretch's crime; 
Insulted HEAV'N consign'd thy brand 
To the first Murd'rer's crimson hand. 
Swift o'er the earth the Monster flew, 
And round th' ensanguin'd Poisons threw, 
By CONSCIENCE goaded­driven by FEAR, 
Till the meek Cherub HOPE subdued his fell career. 

Thy Reign is past, when erst the brave 
Imbib'd contagion o'er the midnight lamp, 
Close pent in loathsome cells, where poisons damp 
Hung round the confines of a Living Grave; * 
Where no glimm'ring ray illum'd 
The flinty walls, where pond'rous chains 
Bound the wan Victim to the humid earth, 
Where VALOUR, GENIUS, TASTE, and WORTH, 
In pestilential caves entomb'd, 
Sought thy cold arms, and smiling mock'd their pains. 

THERE,­each procrastinated hour 
The woe-worn suff'rer gasping lay, 
While by his side in proud array 
Stalk'd the HUGE FIEND, DESPOTIC POW'R. 
There REASON clos'd her radiant eye, 
And fainting HOPE retir'd to die, 
Truth shrunk appall'd, 
In spells of icy Apathy enthrall'd; 
Till FREEDOM spurn'd the ignominious chain, 
And roused from Superstition's night, 
Exulting Nature claim'd her right, 
And call'd dire Vengeance from her dark domain. 

Now take thy solitary flight 
Amid the turbid gales of night, 
Where Spectres starting from the tomb, 
Glide along th' impervious gloom; 
Or, stretch'd upon the sea-beat shore, 
Let the wild winds, as they roar, 
Rock Thee on thy Bed of Stone; 
Or, in gelid caverns pent, 
Listen to the sullen moan 
Of subterranean winds;­or glut thy sight 
Where stupendous mountains rent 
Hurl their vast fragments from their dizzy height. 

At Thy approach the rifted Pine 
Shall o'er the shatter'd Rock incline, 
Whose trembling brow, with wild weeds drest, 
Frowns on the tawny EAGLE's nest; 
THERE enjoy the 'witching hour, 
And freeze in Frenzy's dire conceit, 
Or seek the Screech-owl's lone retreat, 
On the bleak rampart of some nodding Tow'r. 
In some forest long and drear, 
Tempt the fierce BANDITTI's rage, 
War with famish'd Tygers wage, 
And mock the taunts of Fear. 

When across the yawning deep, 
The Demons of the Tempest sweep, 
Or deaf'ning Thunders bursting cast 
Their red bolts on the shivering mast, 
While fix'd below the sea-boy stands, 
As threat'ning Death his soul dismays, 
He lifts his supplicating hands, 
And shrieks, and groans, and weeps, and prays, 
Till lost amid the floating fire 
The agonizing crew expire; 
THEN let thy transports rend the air, 
For mad'ning Anguish feeds DESPAIR. 

When o'er the couch of pale Disease 
The MOTHER bends, with tearful eye, 
And trembles, lest her quiv'ring sigh, 
Should wake the darling of her breast, 
Now, by the taper's feeble rays, 
She steals a last, fond, eager gaze. 
Ah, hapless Parent! gaze no more, 
Thy CHERUB soars among the Blest, 
Life's crimson Fount begins to freeze, 
His transitory scene is o'er. 

She starts­she raves­her burning brain, 
Consumes, unconscious of its fires, 
Dead to the Heart's convulsive Pain, 
Bewilder'd Memory retires. 
See! See! she grasps her flowing hair, 
From her fix'd eye the big drops roll, 
Her proud Affliction mocks controul, 
And riots in DESPAIR, 
Such are thy haunts, malignant Pow'r, 
There all thy murd'rous Poisons pour; 
But come not near my calm retreat, 
Where Peace and holy FRIENDSHIP meet; 
Where SCIENCE sheds a gentle ray, 
And guiltless Mirth beguiles the day, 
Where Bliss congenial to the MUSE 
Shall round my Heart her sweets diffuse, 
Where, from each restless Passion free, 
I give my noiseless hours, BLESS'D POETRY, TO THEE.

 A Dew sufficed itself --
And satisfied a Leaf
And felt "how vast a destiny" --
"How trivial is Life!"

The Sun went out to work --
The Day went out to play
And not again that Dew be seen
By Physiognomy

Whether by Day Abducted
Or emptied by the Sun
Into the Sea in passing
Eternally unknown

Attested to this Day
That awful Tragedy
By Transport's instability
And Doom's celerity.

 GIVE me your hand, old Revolutionary; 
The hill-top is nigh—but a few steps, (make room, gentlemen;) 
Up the path you have follow’d me well, spite of your hundred and extra years; 
You can walk, old man, though your eyes are almost done; 
Your faculties serve you, and presently I must have them serve me.

Rest, while I tell what the crowd around us means; 
On the plain below, recruits are drilling and exercising; 
There is the camp—one regiment departs to-morrow; 
Do you hear the officers giving the orders? 
Do you hear the clank of the muskets?

Why, what comes over you now, old man? 
Why do you tremble, and clutch my hand so convulsively? 
The troops are but drilling—they are yet surrounded with smiles; 
Around them, at hand, the well-drest friends, and the women; 
While splendid and warm the afternoon sun shines down;
Green the midsummer verdure, and fresh blows the dallying breeze, 
O’er proud and peaceful cities, and arm of the sea between. 
But drill and parade are over—they march back to quarters; 
Only hear that approval of hands! hear what a clapping! 

As wending, the crowds now part and disperse—but we, old man,
Not for nothing have I brought you hither—we must remain; 
You to speak in your turn, and I to listen and tell. 

THE CENTENARIAN.
When I clutch’d your hand, it was not with terror; 
But suddenly, pouring about me here, on every side, 
And below there where the boys were drilling, and up the slopes they ran,
And where tents are pitch’d, and wherever you see, south and south-east and
 south-west, 
Over hills, across lowlands, and in the skirts of woods, 
And along the shores, in mire (now fill’d over), came again, and suddenly raged, 
As eighty-five years agone, no mere parade receiv’d with applause of friends, 
But a battle, which I took part in myself—aye, long ago as it is, I took part in it,
Walking then this hill-top, this same ground. 

Aye, this is the ground; 
My blind eyes, even as I speak, behold it re-peopled from graves; 
The years recede, pavements and stately houses disappear; 
Rude forts appear again, the old hoop’d guns are mounted;
I see the lines of rais’d earth stretching from river to bay; 
I mark the vista of waters, I mark the uplands and slopes: 
Here we lay encamp’d—it was this time in summer also. 

As I talk, I remember all—I remember the Declaration; 
It was read here—the whole army paraded—it was read to us here;
By his staff surrounded, the General stood in the middle—he held up his
 unsheath’d
 sword, 
It glitter’d in the sun in full sight of the army. 

’Twas a bold act then; 
The English war-ships had just arrived—the king had sent them from over the sea; 
We could watch down the lower bay where they lay at anchor,
And the transports, swarming with soldiers. 

A few days more, and they landed—and then the battle. 

Twenty thousand were brought against us, 
A veteran force, furnish’d with good artillery. 

I tell not now the whole of the battle;
But one brigade, early in the forenoon, order’d forward to engage the red-coats; 
Of that brigade I tell, and how steadily it march’d, 
And how long and how well it stood, confronting death. 

Who do you think that was, marching steadily, sternly confronting death? 
It was the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong,
Rais’d in Virginia and Maryland, and many of them known personally to the General. 

Jauntily forward they went with quick step toward Gowanus’ waters; 
Till of a sudden, unlook’d for, by defiles through the woods, gain’d at night, 
The British advancing, wedging in from the east, fiercely playing their guns, 
That brigade of the youngest was cut off, and at the enemy’s mercy.

The General watch’d them from this hill; 
They made repeated desperate attempts to burst their environment; 
Then drew close together, very compact, their flag flying in the middle; 
But O from the hills how the cannon were thinning and thinning them! 

It sickens me yet, that slaughter!
I saw the moisture gather in drops on the face of the General; 
I saw how he wrung his hands in anguish. 

Meanwhile the British maneuver’d to draw us out for a pitch’d battle; 
But we dared not trust the chances of a pitch’d battle. 

We fought the fight in detachments;
Sallying forth, we fought at several points—but in each the luck was against us; 
Our foe advancing, steadily getting the best of it, push’d us back to the works on
 this
 hill; 
Till we turn’d, menacing, here, and then he left us. 

That was the going out of the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong; 
Few return’d—nearly all remain in Brooklyn.

That, and here, my General’s first battle; 
No women looking on, nor sunshine to bask in—it did not conclude with applause; 
Nobody clapp’d hands here then. 

But in darkness, in mist, on the ground, under a chill rain, 
Wearied that night we lay, foil’d and sullen;
While scornfully laugh’d many an arrogant lord, off against us encamp’d, 
Quite within hearing, feasting, klinking wine-glasses together over their victory. 

So, dull and damp, and another day; 
But the night of that, mist lifting, rain ceasing, 
Silent as a ghost, while they thought they were sure of him, my General retreated.

I saw him at the river-side, 
Down by the ferry, lit by torches, hastening the embarcation; 
My General waited till the soldiers and wounded were all pass’d over; 
And then, (it was just ere sunrise,) these eyes rested on him for the last time. 

Every one else seem’d fill’d with gloom;
Many no doubt thought of capitulation. 

But when my General pass’d me, 
As he stood in his boat, and look’d toward the coming sun, 
I saw something different from capitulation. 

TERMINUS.
Enough—the Centenarian’s story ends;
The two, the past and present, have interchanged; 
I myself, as connecter, as chansonnier of a great future, am now speaking. 

And is this the ground Washington trod? 
And these waters I listlessly daily cross, are these the waters he cross’d, 
As resolute in defeat, as other generals in their proudest triumphs?

It is well—a lesson like that, always comes good; 
I must copy the story, and send it eastward and westward; 
I must preserve that look, as it beam’d on you, rivers of Brooklyn. 

See! as the annual round returns, the phantoms return; 
It is the 27th of August, and the British have landed;
The battle begins, and goes against us—behold! through the smoke, Washington’s
 face; 
The brigade of Virginia and Maryland have march’d forth to intercept the enemy; 
They are cut off—murderous artillery from the hills plays upon them; 
Rank after rank falls, while over them silently droops the flag, 
Baptized that day in many a young man’s bloody wounds,
In death, defeat, and sisters’, mothers’ tears. 

Ah, hills and slopes of Brooklyn! I perceive you are more valuable than your owners
 supposed; 
Ah, river! henceforth you will be illumin’d to me at sunrise with something besides
 the
 sun. 

Encampments new! in the midst of you stands an encampment very old; 
Stands forever the camp of the dead brigade.

 In that fair capital where Pleasure, crowned 
Amidst her myriad courtiers, riots and rules, 
I too have been a suitor. Radiant eyes 
Were my life's warmth and sunshine, outspread arms 
My gilded deep horizons. I rejoiced 
In yielding to all amorous influence 
And multiple impulsion of the flesh, 
To feel within my being surge and sway 
The force that all the stars acknowledge too. 
Amid the nebulous humanity 
Where I an atom crawled and cleaved and sundered, 
I saw a million motions, but one law; 
And from the city's splendor to my eyes 
The vapors passed and there was nought but Love, 
A ferment turbulent, intensely fair, 
Where Beauty beckoned and where Strength pursued. 

II 


There was a time when I thought much of Fame, 
And laid the golden edifice to be 
That in the clear light of eternity 
Should fitly house the glory of my name. 


But swifter than my fingers pushed their plan, 
Over the fair foundation scarce begun, 
While I with lovers dallied in the sun, 
The ivy clambered and the rose-vine ran. 


And now, too late to see my vision, rise, 
In place of golden pinnacles and towers, 
Only some sunny mounds of leaves and flowers, 
Only beloved of birds and butterflies. 


My friends were duped, my favorers deceived; 
But sometimes, musing sorrowfully there, 
That flowered wreck has seemed to me so fair 
I scarce regret the temple unachieved. 

III 


For there were nights . . . my love to him whose brow 
Has glistened with the spoils of nights like those, 
Home turning as a conqueror turns home, 
What time green dawn down every street uprears 
Arches of triumph! He has drained as well 
Joy's perfumed bowl and cried as I have cried: 
Be Fame their mistress whom Love passes by. 
This only matters: from some flowery bed, 
Laden with sweetness like a homing bee, 
If one have known what bliss it is to come, 
Bearing on hands and breast and laughing lips 
The fragrance of his youth's dear rose. To him 
The hills have bared their treasure, the far clouds 
Unveiled the vision that o'er summer seas 
Drew on his thirsting arms. This last thing known, 
He can court danger, laugh at perilous odds, 
And, pillowed on a memory so sweet, 
Unto oblivious eternity 
Without regret yield his victorious soul, 
The blessed pilgrim of a vow fulfilled. 

IV 


What is Success? Out of the endless ore 
Of deep desire to coin the utmost gold 
Of passionate memory; to have lived so well 
That the fifth moon, when it swims up once more 
Through orchard boughs where mating orioles build 
And apple flowers unfold, 
Find not of that dear need that all things tell 
The heart unburdened nor the arms unfilled. 


O Love, whereof my boyhood was the dream, 
My youth the beautiful novitiate, 
Life was so slight a thing and thou so great, 
How could I make thee less than all-supreme! 
In thy sweet transports not alone I thought 
Mingled the twain that panted breast to breast. 
The sun and stars throbbed with them; they were caught 
Into the pulse of Nature and possessed 
By the same light that consecrates it so. 
Love! -- 'tis the payment of the debt we owe 
The beauty of the world, and whensoe'er 
In silks and perfume and unloosened hair 
The loveliness of lovers, face to face, 
Lies folded in the adorable embrace, 
Doubt not as of a perfect sacrifice 
That soul partakes whose inspiration fills 
The springtime and the depth of summer skies, 
The rainbow and the clouds behind the hills, 
That excellence in earth and air and sea 
That makes things as they are the real divinity.

 The whole world on a raft! A King is here,
The record of his grandeur but a smear.
Is it his deacon-beard, or old bald pate
That makes the band upon his whims to wait?
Loot and mud-honey have his soul defiled.
Quack, pig, and priest, he drives camp-meetings wild
Until they shower their pennies like spring rain
That he may preach upon the Spanish main.
What landlord, lawyer, voodoo-man has yet
A better native right to make men sweat?

The whole world on a raft! A Duke is here
At sight of whose lank jaw the muses leer.
Journeyman-printer, lamb with ferret eyes,
In life's skullduggery he takes the prize —
Yet stands at twilight wrapped in Hamlet dreams.
Into his eyes the Mississippi gleams.
The sandbar sings in moonlit veils of foam.
A candle shines from one lone cabin home.
The waves reflect it like a drunken star.

A banjo and a hymn are heard afar.
No solace on the lazy shore excels
The Duke's blue castle with its steamer-bells.
The floor is running water, and the roof
The stars' brocade with cloudy warp and woof.

And on past sorghum fields the current swings.
To Christian Jim the Mississippi sings.
This prankish wave-swept barque has won its place,
A ship of jesting for the human race.
But do you laugh when Jim bows down forlorn
His babe, his deaf Elizabeth to mourn?
And do you laugh, when Jim, from Huck apart
Gropes through the rain and night with breaking heart?

But now that imp is here and we can smile,
Jim's child and guardian this long-drawn while.
With knife and heavy gun, a hunter keen,
He stops for squirrel-meat in islands green.
The eternal gamin, sleeping half the day,
Then stripped and sleek, a river-fish at play.
And then well-dressed, ashore, he sees life spilt.
The river-bank is one bright crazy-quilt
Of patch-work dream, of wrath more red than lust,
Where long-haired feudist Hotspurs bite the dust...

This Huckleberry Finn is but the race,
America, still lovely in disgrace,
New childhood of the world, that blunders on
And wonders at the darkness and the dawn,
The poor damned human race, still unimpressed
With its damnation, all its gamin breast
Chorteling at dukes and kings with ****** Jim,
Then plotting for their fall, with jestings grim.

Behold a Republic
Where a river speaks to men
And cries to those that love its ways,
Answering again
When in the heart's extravagance
The rascals bend to say
"O singing Mississippi
Shine, sing for us today."

But who is this in sweeping Oxford gown
Who steers the raft, or ambles up and down,
Or throws his gown aside, and there in white
Stands gleaming like a pillar of the night?
The lion of high courts, with hoary mane,
Fierce jester that this boyish court will gain —
Mark Twain!
The bad world's idol:
Old Mark Twain!

He takes his turn as watchman with the rest,
With secret transports to the stars addressed,
With nightlong broodings upon cosmic law,
With daylong laughter at this world so raw.

All praise to Emerson and Whitman, yet
The best they have to say, their sons forget.
But who can dodge this genius of the stream,
The Mississippi Valley's laughing dream?
He is the artery that finds the sea
In this the land of slaves, and boys still free.
He is the river, and they one and all
Sail on his breast, and to each other call.

Come let us disgrace ourselves,
Knock the stuffed gods from their shelves,
And cinders at the schoolhouse fling.
Come let us disgrace ourselves,
And live on a raft with gray Mark Twain
And Huck and Jim
And the Duke and the King.

 The Robin is a Gabriel
In humble circumstances --
His Dress denotes him socially,
Of Transport's Working Classes --
He has the punctuality
Of the New England Farmer --
The same oblique integrity,
A Vista vastly warmer --

A small but sturdy Residence
A self denying Household,
The Guests of Perspicacity
Are all that cross his Threshold --
As covert as a Fugitive,
Cajoling Consternation
By Ditties to the Enemy
And Sylvan Punctuation --

 MY good blade carves the casques of men, 
My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 
Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 
The hard brands shiver on the steel, 
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, 
The horse and rider reel: 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 
And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 
That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 
On whom their favours fall ! 
For them I battle till the end, 
To save from shame and thrall: 
But all my heart is drawn above, 
My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine: 
I never felt the kiss of love, 
Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam, 
Me mightier transports move and thrill; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 
A virgin heart in work and will. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 
A light before me swims, 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 
I hear a noise of hymns: 
Then by some secret shrine I ride; 
I hear a voice but none are there; 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 
The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 
The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 
And solemn chaunts resound between. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 
I find a magic bark; 
I leap on board: no helmsman steers: 
I float till all is dark. 
A gentle sound, an awful light ! 
Three arngels bear the holy Grail: 
With folded feet, in stoles of white, 
On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! 
My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides, 
And star-like mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 
Thro' dreaming towns I go, 
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, 
The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads, 
And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 
And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height; 
No branchy thicket shelter yields; 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 
Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 

A maiden knight--to me is given 
Such hope, I know not fear; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 
That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease, 
Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 
Whose odours haunt my dreams; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand, 
This mortal armour that I wear, 
This weight and size, this heart and eyes, 
Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky, 
And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 
Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod, 
Wings flutter, voices hover clear: 
'O just and faithful knight of God! 
Ride on ! the prize is near.' 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; 
By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, 
Until I find the holy Grail.

 HAIL! GODDESS of persuasive art! 
The magic of whose tuneful tongue 
Lulls to soft harmony the wand'ring heart 
With fascinating song; 
O, let me hear thy heav'n-taught strain, 
As thro' my quiv'ring pulses steal 
The mingling throbs of joy and pain, 
Which only sensate minds can feel; 
Ah ! let me taste the bliss supreme, 
Which thy warm touch unerring flings 
O'er the rapt sense's finest strings, 
When GENIUS, darting frown the sky, 
Glances across my wond'ring eye, 
Her animating beam. 

SWEET ELOQUENCE! thy mild controul, 
Awakes to REASON's dawn, the IDIOT soul; 
When mists absorb the MENTAL sight, 
'Tis thine, to dart CREATIVE LIGHT; 
'Tis thine, to chase the filmy clouds away, 
And o'er the mind's deep bloom, spread a refulgent ray. 
Nor is thy wond'rous art confin'd, 
Within the bounds of MENTAL space, 
For thou canst boast exterior grace, 
Bright emblem of the fertile mind; 
Yes; I have seen thee, with persuasion meek, 
Bathe in the lucid tear, on Beauty's cheek, 
Have mark'd thee in the downcast eye, 
When suff'ring Virtue claim'd the pitying sigh. 

Oft, by thy thrilling voice subdued, 
The meagre fiend INGRATITUDE 
Her treach'rous fang conceals; 
Pale ENVY hides her forked sting; 
And CALUMNY, beneath the wing 
Of dark oblivion steals. 

Before thy pure and lambent fire 
Shall frozen Apathy expire; 
Thy influence warm and unconfin'd, 
Shall rapt'rous transports give, 
And in the base and torpid mind, 
Shall bid the fine Affections live; 
When JEALOUSY's malignant dart, 
Strikes at the fondly throbbing heart; 
When fancied woes, on every side assail, 
Thy honey'd accents shall prevail; 
When burning Passion withers up the brain, 
And the fix'd lids, the glowing drops sustain, 
Touch'd by thy voice, the melting eye 
Shall pour the balm of yielding SYMPATHY. 

'Tis thine, with lenient Song to move 
The dumb despair of hopeless LOVE; 
Or when the animated soul 
On Fancy's wing shall soar, 
And scorning Reason's soft controul, 
Untrodden paths explore; 
'Till by distracting conflicts tost, 
The intellectual source is lost: 
E'en then, the witching music of thy tongue 
Stealing thro' Mis'ry's DARKEST GLOOM, 
Weaves the fine threads of FANCY's loom, 
'Till every slacken'd nerve new strung, 
Bids renovated NATURE shine, 
Amidst the fost'ring beams of ELOQUENCE DIVINE.