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As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,

Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest on my airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.



That orbëd maiden, with white fire laden,

Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,

By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,

Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,

The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,

Till the calm river, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,

Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march,

With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,

Is the million-colored bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,

While the moist earth was laughing below.


I am the daughter of the earth and water,

And the nursling of the sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;

I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain, when, with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,

Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.



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HERE, unreasonable complainer! dost thou stand,

and what is around thee? The world spreads before thee its sublime mysteries, where the thoughts of sages lose themselves in wonder; the ocean lifts up its eternal anthems to thine ear; the golden sun lights thy path; the wide heavens stretch themselves above thee, and worlds rise upon worlds, and systems beyond systems, to infinity; and dost thou stand in the center of all this, to complain of thy lot and place ? Pupil of that infinite teaching ! minister at Nature's great altar! child of Heaven's favor! ennobled being! redeemed creature! must thou pine in sullen and envious melancholy, amidst the plenitude of the whole creation ?

2. “But thy neighbor is above thee,” thou sayest. What then ? What is that to thee? What though the shout of millions rose around him? What is that to the millionvoiced nature that God has given thee? That shout dies away into the vacant air; it is not his : but thy naturethy favored, sacred, and glorious nature-is thine. It is the reality, to which praise is but a fleeting breath. Thou canst meditate the things which applause but celebrates.

3. In that thou art a man, thou art infinitely exalted

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above what any man can be in that he is praised. I would rather be the humblest man in the world, than barely be thought greater than the greatest. The beggar is greater as a man, than is the man merely as a king. Not one of the crowds that listened to the eloquence of Demosthenes and Cicero,-not one who has bent with admiration over the pages of Homer and Shakspeare,-not one who followed in the train of Cæsar or of Napoleon,-would part with th humblest power of thought, for all the fame that is echoin over the world and through the ages.




EAR yonder copse where once the garden smiled,


There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year.


Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, or wished to change, his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.


His house was known to all the vagrant train;
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire and talked the night away,
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won

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