Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought, Never from lips of cunning, fell Wrought in a sad sincerity; Be just at home; then write your scroll Himself from God he could not free; Of honor o'er the sea, And bid the broad Atlantic roll A ferry of the free. And, henceforth, there shall be no chain, Save underneath the sea He builded better than he knew; The conscious stone to beauty grew. Knowest thou what wove yon woodbird's nest Of leaves, and feathers from her breast? The wires shall murmur through the Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, main Sweet songs of Liberty. The conscious stars accord above, And under, through the cable wove, Painting with morn each annual cell! And morning opes with haste her lids, These temples grew as grows the grass; Art might obey, but not surpass. And the same power that reared the shrine Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. Ever the fiery Pentecost Girds with one flame the countless host, Trances the heart through chanting choirs, And through the priest the mind inspires. The word unto the prophet spoken THE RHODORA. IN May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook. The purple petals, fallen in the pool, Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Dear, tell them, that if eyes were Then beauty is its own excuse for made for seeing, being: Why thou wert there, oh, rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew: But in my simple ignorance, suppose The selfsame power that brought me there, brought you. THE HUMBLE-BEE. Insect lover of the sun, When the south-wind, in May days, FREDERIC WILLIAM FABER. THE RIGHT MUST WIN. OH, it is hard to work for God, He hides himself so wondrously, HARSH JUDGMENTS. O GOD! whose thoughts are brightest light, Whose love runs always clear, To whose kind wisdom, sinning souls, Amid their sins, are dear, Sweeten my bitter-thoughted heart Till self shall be the only spot Hard-heartedness dwells not with souls Round whom thine arms are drawn; And dark thoughts fade away in grace, Like cloud-spots in the dawn. Now, better taught by thee, O Lord! He whom no praise can reach is aye When we ourselves least kindly are, Only the poison find. How Thou canst think so well of us, But sunshine to my heart. Yet habits linger in the soul; More grace, O Lord! more grace; More sweetness from thy loving heart, More sunshine from thy face! |