Poems by Ralph Waldo Emerson Part 8

THE PARK

The prosperous and beautiful To me seem not to wear The yoke of conscience masterful, Which galls me everywhere.

I cannot shake off the G.o.d; On my neck he makes his seat; I look at my face in the gla.s.s,-- My eyes his eyeb.a.l.l.s meet.

Enchanters! Enchantresses!

Your gold makes you seem wise; The morning mist within your grounds More proudly rolls, more softly lies.

Yet spake yon purple mountain, Yet said yon ancient wood, That Night or Day, that Love or Crime, Leads all souls to the Good.

FORERUNNERS

Long I followed happy guides, I could never reach their sides; Their step is forth, and, ere the day Breaks up their leaguer, and away.

Keen my sense, my heart was young, Right good-will my sinews strung, But no speed of mine avails To hunt upon their shining trails.

On and away, their hasting feet Make the morning proud and sweet; Flowers they strew,--I catch the scent; Or tone of silver instrument Leaves on the wind melodious trace; Yet I could never see their face.

On eastern hills I see their smokes, Mixed with mist by distant lochs.

I met many travellers Who the road had surely kept; They saw not my fine revellers,-- These had crossed them while they slept.

Some had heard their fair report, In the country or the court.

Fleetest couriers alive Never yet could once arrive, As they went or they returned, At the house where these sojourned.

Sometimes their strong speed they slacken, Though they are not overtaken; In sleep their jubilant troop is near,-- I tuneful voices overhear; It may be in wood or waste,-- At unawares 't is come and past.

Their near camp my spirit knows By signs gracious as rainbows.

I thenceforward and long after Listen for their harp-like laughter, And carry in my heart, for days, Peace that hallows rudest ways.

SURSUM CORDA

Seek not the spirit, if it hide Inexorable to thy zeal: Trembler, do not whine and chide: Art thou not also real?

Stoop not then to poor excuse; Turn on the accuser roundly; say, 'Here am I, here will I abide Forever to myself soothfast; Go thou, sweet Heaven, or at thy pleasure stay!'

Already Heaven with thee its lot has cast, For only it can absolutely deal.

ODE TO BEAUTY

Who gave thee, O Beauty, The keys of this breast,-- Too credulous lover Of blest and unblest?

Say, when in lapsed ages Thee knew I of old?

Or what was the service For which I was sold?

When first my eyes saw thee, I found me thy thrall, By magical drawings, Sweet tyrant of all!

I drank at thy fountain False waters of thirst; Thou intimate stranger, Thou latest and first!

Thy dangerous glances Make women of men; New-born, we are melting Into nature again.

Lavish, lavish promiser, Nigh persuading G.o.ds to err!

Guest of million painted forms, Which in turn thy glory warms!

The frailest leaf, the mossy bark, The acorn's cup, the raindrop's arc, The swinging spider's silver line, The ruby of the drop of wine, The shining pebble of the pond, Thou inscribest with a bond, In thy momentary play, Would bankrupt nature to repay.

Ah, what avails it To hide or to shun Whom the Infinite One Hath granted his throne?

The heaven high over Is the deep's lover; The sun and sea, Informed by thee, Before me run And draw me on, Yet fly me still, As Fate refuses To me the heart Fate for me chooses.

Is it that my opulent soul Was mingled from the generous whole; Sea-valleys and the deep of skies Furnished several supplies; And the sands whereof I'm made Draw me to them, self-betrayed?

I turn the proud portfolio Which holds the grand designs Of Salvator, of Guercino, And Piranesi's lines.

I hear the lofty paeans Of the masters of the sh.e.l.l, Who heard the starry music And recount the numbers well; Olympian bards who sung Divine Ideas below, Which always find us young And always keep us so.

Oft, in streets or humblest places, I detect far-wandered graces, Which, from Eden wide astray, In lowly homes have lost their way.

Thee gliding through the sea of form, Like the lightning through the storm, Somewhat not to be possessed, Somewhat not to be caressed, No feet so fleet could ever find, No perfect form could ever bind.

Thou eternal fugitive, Hovering over all that live, Quick and skilful to inspire Sweet, extravagant desire, Starry s.p.a.ce and lily-bell Filling with thy roseate smell, Wilt not give the lips to taste Of the nectar which thou hast.

All that's good and great with thee Works in close conspiracy; Thou hast bribed the dark and lonely To report thy features only, And the cold and purple morning Itself with thoughts of thee adorning; The leafy dell, the city mart, Equal trophies of thine art; E'en the flowing azure air Thou hast touched for my despair; And, if I languish into dreams, Again I meet the ardent beams.

Queen of things! I dare not die In Being's deeps past ear and eye; Lest there I find the same deceiver And be the sport of Fate forever.

Dread Power, but dear! if G.o.d thou be, Unmake me quite, or give thyself to me!

GIVE ALL TO LOVE

Give all to love; Obey thy heart; Friends, kindred, days, Estate, good-fame, Plans, credit and the Muse,-- Nothing refuse.

'T is a brave master; Let it have scope: Follow it utterly, Hope beyond hope: High and more high It dives into noon, With wing unspent, Untold intent; But it is a G.o.d, Knows its own path And the outlets of the sky.

It was never for the mean; It requireth courage stout.

Souls above doubt, Valor unbending, It will reward,-- They shall return More than they were, And ever ascending.

Leave all for love; Yet, hear me, yet, One word more thy heart behoved, One pulse more of firm endeavor,-- Keep thee to-day, To-morrow, forever, Free as an Arab Of thy beloved.

Cling with life to the maid; But when the surprise, First vague shadow of surmise Flits across her bosom young, Of a joy apart from thee, Free be she, fancy-free; Nor thou detain her vesture's hem, Nor the palest rose she flung From her summer diadem.

Though thou loved her as thyself, As a self of purer clay, Though her parting dims the day, Stealing grace from all alive; Heartily know, When half-G.o.ds go.

The G.o.ds arrive.

TO ELLEN AT THE SOUTH

The green gra.s.s is bowing, The morning wind is in it; 'T is a tune worth thy knowing, Though it change every minute.

'T is a tune of the Spring; Every year plays it over To the robin on the wing, And to the pausing lover.

O'er ten thousand, thousand acres, Goes light the nimble zephyr; The Flowers--tiny sect of Shakers-- Worship him ever.

Hark to the winning sound!

They summon thee, dearest,-- Saying, 'We have dressed for thee the ground, Nor yet thou appearest.

'O hasten;' 't is our time, Ere yet the red Summer Scorch our delicate prime, Loved of bee,--the tawny hummer.

'O pride of thy race!

Sad, in sooth, it were to ours, If our brief tribe miss thy face, We poor New England flowers.