Is there never a retroscope mirror In the realms and corners of s.p.a.ce That can give us a glimpse of the battle And the soldiers face to face?

Sit here on the basalt courses Where twisted hills betray The seat of the world-old Forces Who wrestled here on a day.

When the purple flame shoots up, And Love ascends his throne, I cannot hear your songs, O birds, For the witchery of my own.

And every human heart Still keeps that golden day And rings the bells of jubilee On its own First of May.

THE MIRACLE

I have trod this path a hundred times With idle footsteps, crooning rhymes.

I know each nest and web-worm's tent, The fox-hole which the woodchucks rent, Maple and oak, the old Divan Self-planted twice, like the banian.

I know not why I came again Unless to learn it ten times ten.

To read the sense the woods impart You must bring the throbbing heart.

Love is aye the counterforce,-- Terror and Hope and wild Remorse, Newest knowledge, fiery thought, Or Duty to grand purpose wrought.

Wandering yester morn the brake, I reached this heath beside the lake, And oh, the wonder of the power, The deeper secret of the hour!

Nature, the supplement of man, His hidden sense interpret can;-- What friend to friend cannot convey Shall the dumb bird instructed say.

Pa.s.sing yonder oak, I heard Sharp accents of my woodland bird; I watched the singer with delight,-- But mark what changed my joy to fright,-- When that bird sang, I gave the theme; That wood-bird sang my last night's dream, A brown wren was the Daniel That pierced my trance its drift to tell, Knew my quarrel, how and why, Published it to lake and sky, Told every word and syllable In his flippant chirping babble, All my wrath and all my shames, Nay, G.o.d is witness, gave the names.

THE WATERFALL

A patch of meadow upland Reached by a mile of road, Soothed by the voice of waters, With birds and flowers bestowed.

Hither I come for strength Which well it can supply, For Love draws might from terrene force And potencies of sky.

The tremulous battery Earth Responds to the touch of man; It thrills to the antipodes, From Boston to j.a.pan.

The planets' child the planet knows And to his joy replies; To the lark's trill unfolds the rose, Clouds flush their gayest dyes.

When Ali prayed and loved Where Syrian waters roll, Upward the ninth heaven thrilled and moved; At the tread of the jubilant soul.

WALDEN

In my garden three ways meet, Thrice the spot is blest; Hermit-thrush comes there to build, Carrier-doves to nest.

There broad-armed oaks, the copses' maze, The cold sea-wind detain; Here sultry Summer overstays When Autumn chills the plain.

Self-sown my stately garden grows; The winds and wind-blown seed, Cold April rain and colder snows My hedges plant and feed.

From mountains far and valleys near The harvests sown to-day Thrive in all weathers without fear,-- Wild planters, plant away!

In cities high the careful crowds Of woe-worn mortals darkling go, But in these sunny solitudes My quiet roses blow.

Methought the sky looked scornful down On all was base in man, And airy tongues did taunt the town, 'Achieve our peace who can!'

What need I holier dew Than Walden's haunted wave, Distilled from heaven's alembic blue, Steeped in each forest cave?

[If Thought unlock her mysteries, If Friendship on me smile, I walk in marble galleries, I talk with kings the while.]

How drearily in College hall The Doctor stretched the hours, But in each pause we heard the call Of robins out of doors.

The air is wise, the wind thinks well, And all through which it blows, If plants or brain, if egg or sh.e.l.l, Or bird or biped knows;

And oft at home 'mid tasks I heed, I heed how wears the day; We must not halt while fiercely speed The spans of life away.

What boots it here of Thebes or Rome Or lands of Eastern day?

In forests I am still at home And there I cannot stray.

THE ENCHANTER

In the deep heart of man a poet dwells Who all the day of life his summer story tells; Scatters on every eye dust of his spells, Scent, form and color; to the flowers and sh.e.l.ls Wins the believing child with wondrous tales; Touches a cheek with colors of romance, And crowds a history into a glance; Gives beauty to the lake and fountain, Spies oversea the fires of the mountain; When thrushes ope their throat, 't is he that sings, And he that paints the oriole's fiery wings.

The little Shakspeare in the maiden's heart Makes Romeo of a plough-boy on his cart; Opens the eye to Virtue's starlike meed And gives persuasion to a gentle deed.

WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF GOETHE

Six thankful weeks,--and let it be A meter of prosperity,-- In my coat I bore this book, And seldom therein could I look, For I had too much to think, Heaven and earth to eat and drink.

Is he hapless who can spare In his plenty things so rare?

RICHES

Have ye seen the caterpillar Foully warking in his nest?

'T is the poor man getting siller, Without cleanness, without rest.

Have ye seen the b.u.t.terfly In braw claithing drest?

'T is the poor man gotten rich, In rings and painted vest.

The poor man crawls in web of rags And sore bested with woes.

But when he flees on riches' wings, He laugheth at his foes.

PHILOSOPHER

Philosophers are lined with eyes within, And, being so, the sage unmakes the man.

In love, he cannot therefore cease his trade; Scarce the first blush has overspread his cheek, He feels it, introverts his learned eye To catch the unconscious heart in the very act.