A Carol Closing Sixty-Nine

A carol closing sixty-nine-a resume-a repet.i.tion, My lines in joy and hope continuing on the same, Of ye, O G.o.d, Life, Nature, Freedom, Poetry; Of you, my Land-your rivers, prairies, States-you, mottled Flag I love, Your aggregate retain'd entire-Of north, south, east and west, your items all; Of me myself-the jocund heart yet beating in my breast, The body wreck'd, old, poor and paralyzed-the strange inertia falling pall-like round me, The burning fires down in my sluggish blood not yet extinct, The undiminish'd faith-the groups of loving friends.

The Bravest Soldiers

Brave, brave were the soldiers (high named to-day) who lived through the fight; But the bravest press'd to the front and fell, unnamed, unknown.

A Font of Type

This latent mine-these unlaunch'd voices-pa.s.sionate powers, Wrath, argument, or praise, or comic leer, or prayer devout, (Not nonpareil, brevier, bourgeois, long primer merely,) These ocean waves arousable to fury and to death, Or sooth'd to ease and sheeny sun and sleep, Within the pallid slivers slumbering.

As I Sit Writing Here

As I sit writing here, sick and grown old, Not my least burden is that dulness of the years, querilities, Ungracious glooms, aches, lethargy, constipation, whimpering ennui, May filter in my dally songs.

My Canary Bird

Did we count great, O soul, to penetrate the themes of mighty books, Absorbing deep and full from thoughts, plays, speculations?

But now from thee to me, caged bird, to feel thy joyous warble, Filling the air, the lonesome room, the long forenoon, Is it not just as great, O soul?

Queries to My Seventieth Year

Approaching, nearing, curious, Thou dim, uncertain spectre-bringest thou life or death?

Strength, weakness, blindness, more paralysis and heavier?

Or placid skies and sun? Wilt stir the waters yet?

Or haply cut me short for good? Or leave me here as now, Dull, parrot-like and old, with crack'd voice harping, screeching?

The Wallabout Martyrs

Greater than memory of Achilles or Ulysses, More, more by far to thee than tomb of Alexander, Those cart loads of old charnel ashes, scales and splints of mouldy bones, Once living men-once resolute courage, aspiration, strength, The stepping stones to thee to-day and here, America.

The First Dandelion

Simple and fresh and fair from winter's close emerging, As if no artifice of fashion, business, politics, had ever been, Forth from its sunny nook of shelter'd gra.s.s-innocent, golden, calm as the dawn, The spring's first dandelion shows its trustful face.

America

Centre of equal daughters, equal sons, All, all alike endear'd, grown, ungrown, young or old, Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich, Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law and Love, A grand, sane, towering, seated Mother, Chair'd in the adamant of Time.

Memories

How sweet the silent backward tracings!

The wanderings as in dreams-the meditation of old times resumed -their loves, joys, persons, voyages.

To-Day and Thee

The appointed winners in a long-stretch'd game; The course of Time and nations-Egypt, India, Greece and Rome; The past entire, with all its heroes, histories, arts, experiments, Its store of songs, inventions, voyages, teachers, books, Garner'd for now and thee-To think of it!

The heirdom all converged in thee!

After the Dazzle of Day

After the dazzle of day is gone, Only the dark, dark night shows to my eyes the stars; After the clangor of organ majestic, or chorus, or perfect band, Silent, athwart my soul, moves the symphony true.

Abraham Lincoln, Born Feb. 12, 1809

To-day, from each and all, a breath of prayer-a pulse of thought, To memory of Him-to birth of Him.

Out of May's Shows Selected