Poems by Ralph Waldo Emerson Part 17

And yet I marked, even in the manly joy Of our great-hearted Doctor in his boat (Perchance I erred), a shade of discontent; Or was it for mankind a generous shame, As of a luck not quite legitimate, Since fortune s.n.a.t.c.hed from wit the lion's part?

Was it a college pique of town and gown, As one within whose memory it burned That not academicians, but some lout, Found ten years since the Californian gold?

And now, again, a hungry company Of traders, led by corporate sons of trade, Perversely borrowing from the shop the tools Of science, not from the philosophers, Had won the brightest laurel of all time.

'Twas always thus, and will be; hand and head Are ever rivals: but, though this be swift, The other slow,--this the Prometheus, And that the Jove,--yet, howsoever hid, It was from Jove the other stole his fire, And, without Jove, the good had never been.

It is not Iroquois or cannibals, But ever the free race with front sublime, And these instructed by their wisest too, Who do the feat, and lift humanity.

Let not him mourn who best ent.i.tled was, Nay, mourn not one: let him exult, Yea, plant the tree that bears best apples, plant, And water it with wine, nor watch askance Whether thy sons or strangers eat the fruit: Enough that mankind eat and are refreshed.

We flee away from cities, but we bring The best of cities with us, these learned cla.s.sifiers, Men knowing what they seek, armed eyes of experts.

We praise the guide, we praise the forest life: But will we sacrifice our dear-bought lore Of books and arts and trained experiment, Or count the Sioux a match for Aga.s.siz?

O no, not we! Witness the shout that shook Wild Tupper Lake; witness the mute all-hail The joyful traveller gives, when on the verge Of craggy Indian wilderness he hears From a log cabin stream Beethoven's notes On the piano, played with master's hand.

'Well done!' he cries; 'the bear is kept at bay, The lynx, the rattlesnake, the flood, the fire; All the fierce enemies, ague, hunger, cold, This thin spruce roof, this clayed log-wall, This wild plantation will suffice to chase.

Now speed the gay celerities of art, What in the desert was impossible Within four walls is possible again,-- Culture and libraries, mysteries of skill, Traditioned fame of masters, eager strife Of keen competing youths, joined or alone To outdo each other and extort applause.

Mind wakes a new-born giant from her sleep.

Twirl the old wheels! Time takes fresh start again, On for a thousand years of genius more.'

The holidays were fruitful, but must end; One August evening had a cooler breath; Into each mind intruding duties crept; Under the cinders burned the fires of home; Nay, letters found us in our paradise: So in the gladness of the new event We struck our camp and left the happy hills.

The fortunate star that rose on us sank not; The prodigal sunshine rested on the land, The rivers gambolled onward to the sea, And Nature, the inscrutable and mute, Permitted on her infinite repose Almost a smile to steal to cheer her sons, As if one riddle of the Sphinx were guessed.

BRAHMA

If the red slayer think he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain, They know not well the subtle ways I keep, and pa.s.s, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me is near; Shadow and sunlight are the same; The vanished G.o.ds to me appear; And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out; When me they fly, I am the wings; I am the doubter and the doubt, And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong G.o.ds pine for my abode, And pine in vain the sacred Seven; But thou, meek lover of the good!

Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

NEMESIS

Already blushes on thy cheek The bosom thought which thou must speak; The bird, how far it haply roam By cloud or isle, is flying home; The maiden fears, and fearing runs Into the charmed snare she shuns; And every man, in love or pride, Of his fate is never wide.

Will a woman's fan the ocean smooth?

Or prayers the stony Parcae soothe, Or coax the thunder from its mark?

Or tapers light the chaos dark?

In spite of Virtue and the Muse, Nemesis will have her dues, And all our struggles and our toils Tighter wind the giant coils.

FATE

Deep in the man sits fast his fate To mould his fortunes, mean or great: Unknown to Cromwell as to me Was Cromwell's measure or degree; Unknown to him as to his horse, If he than his groom be better or worse.

He works, plots, fights, in rude affairs, With squires, lords, kings, his craft compares, Till late he learned, through doubt and fear, Broad England harbored not his peer: Obeying time, the last to own The Genius from its cloudy throne.

For the prevision is allied Unto the thing so signified; Or say, the foresight that awaits Is the same Genius that creates.

FREEDOM

Once I wished I might rehea.r.s.e Freedom's paean in my verse, That the slave who caught the strain Should throb until he snapped his chain, But the Spirit said, 'Not so; Speak it not, or speak it low; Name not lightly to be said, Gift too precious to be prayed, Pa.s.sion not to be expressed But by heaving of the breast: Yet,--wouldst thou the mountain find Where this deity is shrined, Who gives to seas and sunset skies Their unspent beauty of surprise, And, when it lists him, waken can Brute or savage into man; Or, if in thy heart he shine, Blends the starry fates with thine, Draws angels nigh to dwell with thee, And makes thy thoughts archangels be; Freedom's secret wilt thou know?-- Counsel not with flesh and blood; Loiter not for cloak or food; Right thou feelest, rush to do.'

ODE

SUNG IN THE TOWN HALL, CONCORD, JULY 4, 1857

O tenderly the haughty day Fills his blue urn with fire; One morn is in the mighty heaven, And one in our desire.

The cannon booms from town to town, Our pulses beat not less, The joy-bells chime their tidings down, Which children's voices bless.

For He that flung the broad blue fold O'er-mantling land and sea, One third part of the sky unrolled For the banner of the free.

The men are ripe of Saxon kind To build an equal state,-- To take the statute from the mind And make of duty fate.

United States! the ages plead,-- Present and Past in under-song,-- Go put your creed into your deed, Nor speak with double tongue.

For sea and land don't understand, Nor skies without a frown See rights for which the one hand fights By the other cloven down.

Be just at home; then write your scroll 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 The wires shall murmur through the main Sweet songs of liberty.

The conscious stars accord above, The waters wild below, And under, through the cable wove, Her fiery errands go.

For He that worketh high and wise.

Nor pauses in his plan, Will take the sun out of the skies Ere freedom out of man.

BOSTON HYMN

READ IN MUSIC HALL, JANUARY 1, 1863

The word of the Lord by night To the watching Pilgrims came, As they sat by the seaside, And filled their hearts with flame.

G.o.d said, I am tired of kings, I suffer them no more; Up to my ear the morning brings The outrage of the poor.

Think ye I made this ball A field of havoc and war, Where tyrants great and tyrants small Might harry the weak and poor?

My angel,--his name is Freedom,-- Choose him to be your king; He shall cut pathways east and west And fend you with his wing.

Lo! I uncover the land Which I hid of old time in the West, As the sculptor uncovers the statue When he has wrought his best;

I show Columbia, of the rocks Which dip their foot in the seas And soar to the air-borne flocks Of clouds and the boreal fleece.