No More Learning

An orchard, good tillage, good grounds, seem a fixture like a
gold mine, or a river, to a citizen; but to a large farmer, not
much more fixed than the state of the crop. Nature looks pro-
vokingly stable and secular, but it has a cause like all the rest;
and when once I comprehend that, will these fields stretch so
immovably wide, these leaves hang so individually considerable ?
Permanence is a word of degrees. Everything is medial. Moons
are no more bounds to spiritual power than bat-balls.
The key to every man is his thought. Sturdy and defying
though he look, he has a helm which he obeys, which is the idea
after which all his facts are classified. He can only be reformed
by showing him a new idea which commands his own. The life
of man is a self-evolving circle, which from a ring imperceptibly
small, rushes on all sides outwards to new and larger circles, and


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RALPH WALDO EMERSON
5447
that without end. The extent to which this generation of circles,
wheel without wheel, will go, depends on the force or truth of the
individual soul. For it is the inert effort of each thought, har-
ing formed itself into a circular wave of circumstance,-as for
instance an empire, rules of an art, a local usage, a religious
rite,- to heap itself on that ridge and to solidify and hem in the
life. But if the soul is quick and strong it bursts over that bound-
ary on all sides and expands another orbit on the great deep,
which also runs up into a high wave, with attempt again to stop
and to bind. But the heart refuses to be imprisoned; in its first
and narrowest pulses it already tends outward with a vast force
and to immense and innumerable expansions.
Every ultimate fact is only the first of a new series, - every
general law only a particular fact of some more general law pres-
ently to disclose itself. There is no outside, no inclosing wall,
no circumference to us. The man finishes his story,- how good!
how final! how it puts a new face on all things! He fills the
sky. Lo! on the other side rises also a man and draws a circle
around the circle we had just pronounced the outline of the
sphere. Then already is our first speaker not man, but only a
first speaker. His only redress is forthwith to draw a circle out-
side of his antagonist. And so men do by themselves.
The re-
sult of to-day, which haunts the mind and cannot be escaped, will
presently be abridged into a word, and the principle that seemed
to explain nature will itself be included as one example of a
bolder generalization. In the thought of to-morrow there is a
power to upheave all thy creed, all the creeds, all the literatures
of the nations, and marshal thee to a heaven which no epic dream
has yet depicted. Every man is not so much a workman in the
world as he is a suggestion of that he should be. Men walk as
prophecies of the next age.
Step by step we scale this mysterious ladder; the steps are
actions, the new prospect is power. Every several result is threat-
ened and judged by that which follows. Every one seems to be
contradicted by the new; it is only limited by the new.
The new
statement is always hated by the old, and to those dwelling in
the old, comes like an abyss of skepticism. But the eye soon gets
wonted to it, for the eye and it are effects of one cause; then
its innocency and benefit appear, and presently, all its energy spent,
it pales and dwindles before the revelation of the new hour.


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RALPH WALDO EMERSON
SELF-RELIANCE
Ty
are
RUST thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept
the place the Divine providence has found for you, the
society of your contemporaries, the connection of events.
Great men have always done so, and confided themselves child-
like to the genius of their age, betraying their perception that
the absolutely trustworthy was seated at their heart, working
through their hands, predominating in all their being. And we
now men, and must accept in the highest mind the same
transcendent destiny; and not minors and invalids in a protected
corner, not cowards fleeing before a revolution, but guides, re-
deemers, and benefactors, obeying the Almighty effort and advanc-
ing on Chaos and the Dark.
What pretty oracles nature yields us on this text in the face
and behavior of children, babes, and even brutes! That divided
and rebel mind, that distrust of a sentiment because our arith-
metic has computed the strength and means opposed to our pur-
pose, these have not. Their mind being whole, their eye is as
yet unconquered, and when we look in their faces we are discon-
certed. Infancy conforms to nobody; all conform to it: so that
one babe commonly makes four or five out of the adults who
prattle and play to it. So God has armed youth and puberty
and manhood no less with its own piquancy and charm, and
made it enviable and gracious and its claims not to be put by, if
it will stand by itself. Do not think the youth has no force,
because he cannot speak to you and me. Hark! in the next
room the voice is sufficiently clear and emphatic! It seems he
knows how to speak to his contemporaries. Bashful or bold
then, he will know how to make us seniors very unnecessary.
The nonchalance of boys who are sure of a dinner, and would
disdain as much as a lord to do or say aught to conciliate one,
is the healthy attitude of human nature. A boy is in the parlor
what the pit is in the play-house: independent, irresponsible,
looking out from his corner on such people and facts as pass
by, he tries and sentences them on their merits, in the swift.
summary way of boys, as good, bad, interesting, silly, eloquent,
troublesome. He cumbers himself never about consequences,
about interests; he gives an independent, genuine verdict. You
must court him; he does not court you. But the man is, as it


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5449
were, clapped into jail by his consciousness. As soon as he has
once acted
or spoken with éclat he is a committed person,
watched by the sympathy or the hatred of hundreds, whose affec-
tions must now enter into his account. There is no Lethe for
this. Ah, that he could pass again into his neutrality! Who can
thus avoid all pledges, and having observed, observe again from
the same unaffected, unbiased, unbribable, unaffrighted innocence,
must always be formidable. He would utter opinions on all
passing affairs, which being seen to be not private but necessary,
would sink like darts into the ear of men and put them in fear.
These are the voices which we hear in solitude, but they
grow faint and inaudible as we enter into the world. Society
everywhere is in conspiracy against the manhood of every one of
its members. Society is a joint-stock company, in which the
members agree, for the better securing of his bread to each
shareholder, to surrender the liberty and culture of the eater.
The virtue in most request is conformity. Self-reliance is its
aversion. It loves not realities and creators, but names and cus-
toms.
Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist. He who
would gather immortal palms must not be hindered by the name
of goodness, but must explore if it be goodness. Nothing is at
last sacred but the integrity of your own mind.
Absolve you
to yourself, and you shall have the suffrage of the world.
member an answer which when quite young I was prompted to
make to a valued adviser, who was wont to importune me with
the dear old doctrines of the Church. On my saying, “What
have I to do with the sacredness of traditions, if I live wholly
from within ? ” my friend suggested, “But these impulses may be
from below, not from above. " I replied, “They do not seem to
me to be such; but if I am the Devil's child, I will live then
from the Devil. ” No law can be sacred to me but that of my
nature. Good and bad are but names very readily transferable
to that or this: the only right is what is after my constitution;
the only wrong what is against it. A man is to carry himself in
the presence of all opposition as if everything were titular and
ephemeral but he. I am ashamed to think how easily we capitu-
late to badges and names, to large societies and dead institutions.
Every decent and well-spoken individual affects and sways me
more than is right. I ought to go upright and vital, and speak
the rude truth in all ways. If malice and vanity wear the coat of
I re-


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RALPH WALDO EMERSON
philanthropy, shall that pass? If an angry bigot assumes this
bountiful cause of Abolition, and comes to me with his last news
from Barbadoes, why should I not say to him:—“Go love thy in-
fant; love thy wood-chopper; be good-natured and modest; have
that grace; and never varnish your hard, uncharitable ambition
with this incredible tenderness for black folk a thousand miles off.
Thy love afar is spite at home. ” Rough and graceless would be
such greeting, but truth is handsomer than the affectation of love.
Your goodness must have some edge to it, else it is none. The
doctrine of hatred must be preached, as the counteraction of the
doctrine of love, when that pules and whines. I shun father and
mother and wife and brother when my genius calls me. I would
write on the lintels of the door-post, Whim. I hope it is some-
what better than whim at last, but we cannot spend the day in
explanation. Expect me not to show cause why I seek or why I
exclude company.
Then again, do not tell me, as a good man
did to-day, of my obligation to put all poor men in good situa-
tions. Are they my poor? I tell thee, thou foolish philanthro-
pist, that I grudge the dollar, the dime, the cent I give to such
men as do not belong to me and to whom I do not belong.
There is a class of persons to whom by all spiritual affinity I am
bought and sold; for them I will go to prison if need be: but
your miscellaneous popular charities; the education at college of
fools; the building of meeting-houses to the vain end to which
many now stand; alms to sots, and the thousandfold relief so-
cieties; — though I confess with shame I sometimes succumb and
give the dollar, it is a wicked dollar, which by-and-by I shall
have the manhood to withhold.
What I must do is all that concerns me, not what the people
think. This rule, equally arduous in actual and in intellectual
life, may serve for the whole distinction between greatness and
meanness. It is the harder because you will always find those
who think they know what is your duty better than you know it.
It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinion; it is.
easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he
who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the
independence of solitude.


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RALPH WALDO EMERSON
5151
HISTORY
C""
vil and natural history, the history of art and of literature,
must be explained from individual history, or must remain
words. There is nothing but is related to us, nothing that
does not interest us; kingdom, college, tree, horse, or iron shoe,
the roots of all things are in man. Santa Croce and the Dome
of St. Peter's are lame copies after a divine model. Strassburg
Cathedral is a material counterpart of the soul of Erwin of Stein-
bach. The true poem is the poet's mind; the true ship is the
ship-builder. In the man, could we lay him open, we should see
the reason for the last flourish and tendril of his work; as every
spine and tint in the sea-shell pre-exists in the secreting organs
of the fish. The whole of heraldry and of chivalry is in cour-
tesy. A man of fine manners shall pronounce your name with
all the ornament that titles of nobility could ever add.
The trivial experience of every day is always verifying some
old prediction to us, and converting into things the words and
signs which we had heard and seen without heed. A lady with
whom I was riding in the forest said to me that the woods
always seemed to her to wait, as if the genii who inhabited
them suspended their deeds until the wayfarer had passed on-
ward; a thought which poetry has celebrated in the dance of the
fairies, which breaks off on the approach of human feet. The
man who has seen the rising moon break out of the clouds at
midnight, has been present like an archangel at the creation of
light and of the world. I remember one summer day in the fields,
my companion pointed out to me a broad cloud, which might ex-
tend a quarter of a mile parallel to the horizon, quite accurately
in the form of a cherub as painted over churches, -
a round
block in the centre, which it was easy to animate with eyes and
mouth, supported on either side by wide-stretched symmetrical
wings. What appears once in the atmosphere may appear often,
and it was undoubtedly the archetype of that familiar ornament.
I have seen in the sky a chain of summer lightning which at
once showed to me that the Greeks drew from nature when they
painted the thunderbolt in the hand of Jove. I have seen
snowdrift along the sides of the stone wall, which obviously gave
the idea of the common architectural scroll to abut a tower.
By surrounding ourselves with the original circumstances we
invent anew the orders and the ornaments of architecture, as we
a


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RALPH WALDO EMERSON
on
see how each people merely decorated its primitive abodes. The
Doric temple preserves the semblance of the wooden cabin in
which the Dorian dwelt. The Chinese pagoda is plainly a Tar-
tar tent. The Indian and Egyptian temples still betray the
mounds and subterranean houses of their forefathers. «The cus-
tom of making houses and tombs in the living rock," says Heeren
in his Researches on the Ethiopians, "determined very nat-
urally the principal character of the Nubian Egyptian architecture
to the colossal form which it assumed. In these caverns already
prepared by nature, the eye was accustomed to dwell on huge
shapes and masses, so that when art came to the assistance of
nature it could not move a small scale without degrading
itself. What would statues of the usual size, or neat porches
and wings, have been, associated with those gigantic halls before
which only Colossi could sit as watchmen or lean on the pillars
of the interior ? »
The Gothic church plainly originated in a rude adaptation of
the forest trees, with all their boughs, to a festal or solemn
arcade; as the bands about the cleft pillars still indicate the green
withes that tied them. No one can walk in a road cut through
pine woods without being struck with the architectural appear-
ance of the grove, especially in winter, when the barrenness of
all other trees shows the low arch of the Saxons. In the woods
in a winter afternoon one will see as readily the origin of
the stained-glass window, with which the Gothic cathedrals are
adorned, in the colors of the western sky seen through the bare
and crossing branches of the forest. Nor can any lover of nature
enter the old piles of Oxford and the English cathedrals without
feeling that the forest overpowered the mind of the builder, and
that his chisel, his saw and plane still reproduced its ferns, its
spikes of flowers, its locust, elm, oak, pine, fir, and spruce.
The Gothic cathedral is a blossoming in stone, subdued by
the insatiable demand of harmony in man. The mountain of
granite blooms into an eternal flower, with the lightness and deli-
cate finish as well as the aerial proportions and perspective of
vegetable beauty.
In like manner all public facts are to be individualized, all
private facts are to be generalized. Then at once History be-
comes fluid and true, and Biography deep and sublime.


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RALPH WALDO EMERSON
5453
EACH AND ALL
L
ITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown
Of thee from the hill-top looking down;
The heifer that lows in the upland farm,
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;
The sexton tolling his bell at noon,
Deems not that great Napoleon
Stops his horse, and lists with delight,
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;
Nor knowest thou what argument
Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent.
All are needed by each one;
Nothing is fair or good alone.
I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,
Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
I brought him home, in his nest, at even;
He sings the song, but it cheers not now,
For I did not bring home the river and sky;
He sang to my ear, they sang to my eye.
The delicate shells lay on the shore:
The bubbles of the latest wave
Fresh pearls to their enamel gave,
And the bellowing of the savage sea
Greeted their safe escape to me.
I wiped away the weeds and foam,
I fetched my sea-born treasures home;
But the poor unsightly, noisome things
Had left their beauty on the shore
With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.
The lover watched his graceful maid,
As 'mid the virgin train she strayed,
Nor knew her beauty's best attire
Was woven still by the snow-white choir.
At last she came to his hermitage,
Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;
The gay enchantment was undone -
A gentle wife, but fairy none.
Then I said, “I covet truth:
Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat;
I leave it behind with the games of youth:)
As I spoke, beneath my feet
The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,


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RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Running over the club-moss burrs;
I inhaled the violet's breath;
Around me stood the oaks and firs;
Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;
Over me soared the eternal sky,
Full of light and of deity;
Again I saw, again I heard,
The rolling river, the morning bird :-
Beauty through my senses stole;
I yielded myself to the perfect whole.
THE RHODORA
ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?
I
N 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,
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:
Why thou wert there, () rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask, I never knew;
But in my simple ignorance suppose
The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.


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RALPH WALDO EMERSON
5455
THE HUMBLE-BEE
B
URLY, dozing humble-bee,
Where thou art is clime for me.
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
Far-off heats through seas to seek;
I will follow thee alone,
Thou animated torrid zone!
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,
Let me chase hy waving lines;
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
Singing over shrubs and vines.
Insect lover of the sun,
Joy of thy dominion!
Sailor of the atmosphere:
Swimmer through the waves of air;
Voyager of light and noon;
Epicurean of June;
Wait, I prithee, till I come
Within earshot of thy hum,-
All without is martyrdom.
When the south wind, in May days,
With a net of shining haze
Silvers the horizon wall,
And with softness touching all,
Tints the human countenance
With a color of romance,
And infusing subtle heats,
Turns the sod to violets,
Thou in sunny solitudes,
Rover of the underwoods,
The green silence dost displace,
With thy mellow, breezy bass.
Hot midsummer's petted crone,
Sweet to me, thy drowsy tone
Tells of countless sunny hours,
Long days, and solid banks of flowers:
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound,
In Indian wildernesses found;
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.


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RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Aught unsavory or unclean
Hath my insect never seen;
But violets and bilberry bells,
Maple-sap and daffodels,
Grass with green flag half-mast high,
Succory to match the sky,
Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern, and agrimony,
Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue
And brier-roses, dwelt among;
All beside was unknown waste,
All was picture as he passed.
Wiser far than human seer,
Yellow-breeched philosopher!
Seeing only what is fair,
Sipping only what is sweet,
Thou dost mock at fate and care,
Leave the chaff, and take the wheat.
When the fierce northwestern blast
Cools sea and land so far and fast,
Thou already slumberest deep;
Woe and want thou canst outsleep;
Want and woe, which torture us,
Thy sleep makes ridiculous.
THE PROBLEM
1
LIKE a church; I like a cowl;
I love a prophet of the soul;
And on my heart monastic aisles
Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles:
Yet not for all his faith can see
Would I that cowled churchman be.
Why should the vest on him allure,
Which I could not on me endure ?
Not from a vain or shallow thought
His awful Jove young Phidias brought;
Never from lips of cunning fell
The thrilling Delphic oracle;
Out from the heart of nature rolled
The burdens of the Bible old;
The litanies of nations came,
Like the volcano's tongue of flame,


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RALPH WALDO EMERSON
5457
Up from the burning core below,-
The canticles of love and woe:
The hand that rounded Peter's dome
And groined the aisles of Christian Rome
Wrought in a sad sincerity:
Himself from God he could not free;
He builded better than he knew;-
The conscious stone to beauty grew.
Know'st thou what wove yon wood-bird's nest
Of leaves, and feathers from her breast ?
Or how the fish outbuilt her shell,
Painting with morn each annual cell ?
Or how the sacred pine-tree adds
To her old leaves new myriads ?
Such and so grew these holy piles,
Whilst love and terror laid the tiles.
Earth proudly wears the Parthenon,
As the best gem upon her zone,
And Morning opes with haste her lids
To gaze upon the Pyramids;
O'er England's abbeys bends the sky,
As on its friends, with kindred eye;
For out of thought's interior sphere
These wonders rose to upper air;
And Nature gladly gave them place,
Adopted them into her race,
And granted them an equal date
With Andes and with Ararat.
These temples grew as grows the grass;
Art might obey, but not surpass.
The passive Master lent his hand
To the vast soul that o'er him planned;
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
Was writ on tables yet unbroken;
The word by seers or sibyls told,
In groves of oak, or fanes of gold,
IX—342


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RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Still floats upon the morning wind,
Still whispers to the willing mind.
One accent of the Holy Ghost
The heedless world hath never lost.
I know what say the Fathers wise, -
The Book itself before me lies,
Old Chrysostom, best Augustine,
And he who blent both in his line,
The younger Golden Lips or mines, –
Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines.
His words are music in my ear,
I see his cowlèd portrait dear;
And yet, for all his faith could see,
I would not the good bishop be.
DAYS
D
AUGHTERS of Time, the hypocritic Days,
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,
And marching single in an endless file,
Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.
To each they offer gifts after his will,
Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.
1, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp,
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
Turned and departed silent. I, too late,
Under the solemn fillet saw the scorn.


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RALPH WALDO EMERSON
5459
MUSKETAQUID
B.
ECAUSE I was content with these poor fields,
Low open meads, slender and sluggish streams,
And found a home in haunts which others scorned,
The partial wood-gods overpaid my love,
And granted me the freedom of their state,
And in their secret senate have prevailed
With the dear dangerous lords that rule our life,
Made moon and planets parties to their bond,
And through my rock-like, solitary wont
Shot million rays of thought and tenderness.
For me, in showers, in sweeping showers, the Spring
Visits the valley; — break away the clouds, –
I bathe in the morn's soft and silvered air,
And planted world, and full executor
Of their imperfect functions.
But these young scholars who invade our hills-
Bold as the engineer who fells the wood,
And traveling often in the cut he makes —
Love not the flower they pluck, and know it not,
And all their botany is Latin names.
The old men studied magic in the flowers,
And human fortunes in astronomy,
And an omnipotence in chemistry,
Preferring things to names; for these were men,
Were unitarians of the united world,
And wheresoever their clear eye-beams fell,
They caught the footsteps of the SAME. Our eyes
Are armed, but we are strangers to the stars,
And strangers to the mystic beast and bird,
And strangers to the plant and to the mine.
The injured elements say, “Not in us;)
And night and day, ocean and continent,
Fire, plant, and mineral say, "Not in us;”
And haughtily return us stare for stare.
For we invade them impiously for gain;
We devastate them unreligiously,
And coldly ask their pottage, not their love.
Therefore they shove us from them, yield to us
Only what to our griping toil is due;
But the sweet affluence of love and song,
The rich results of the divine consents


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RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Of man and earth, of world beloved and lover,
The nectar and ambrosia, are withheld;
And in the midst of spoils and slaves, we thieves
And pirates of the universe, shut out
Daily to a more thin and outward rind,
And loiter willing by yon loitering stream.
Sparrows far off, and nearer, April's bird,
Blue-coated, - flying before from tree to tree,
Courageous sing a delicate overture
To lead the tardy concert of the year.
Onward and nearer rides the sun of May;
And wide around, the marriage of the plants
Is sweetly solemnized. Then flows amain
The surge of summer's beauty; dell and crag,
Hollow and lake, hillside and pine arcade,
Are touched with genius. Yonder ragged cliff
Has thousand faces in a thousand hours.
Beneath low hills, in the broad interval
Through which at will our Indian rivulet
Winds mindful still of sannup and of squaw,
Whose pipe and arrow oft the plow unburies;
Here in pine houses built of new-fallen trees,
Supplanters of the tribe, the farmers dwell.
Traveler, to thee perchance a tedious road,
Or it may be, a picture; to these men,
The landscape is an armory of powers,
Which, one by one, they know to draw and use;
They harness beast, bird, insect, to their work;
They prove the virtues of each bed of rock,
And, like the chemist mid his loaded jars,
Draw from each stratum its adapted use
To drug their crops or weapon their arts withal.
They turn the frost upon their chemic heap,
They set the wind to winnow pulse and grain,
They thank the spring-flood for its fertile slime,
And, on cheap summit-levels of the snow,
Slide with the sledge to inaccessible woods
O'er meadows bottomless. So, year by year,
They fight the elements with elements
(That one would say, meadow and forest walked,
Transmuted in these men to rule their like),
And by the order in the field disclose
The order regnant in the yeoman's brain.


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RALPH WALDO EMERSON
5461
What these strong masters wrote at large in miles,
I followed in small copy in my acre;
For there's no rood has not a star above it;
The cordial quality of pear or plum
Ascends as gladly in a single tree
As in broad orchards resonant with bees;
And every atom poises for itself,
And for the whole. The gentle deities
Showed me the lore of colors and of sounds,
The innumerable tenements of beauty,
The miracle of generative force,
Far-reaching concords of astronomy
Felt in the plants and in the punctual birds;
Better, the linked purpose of the whole,
And — chiefest prize - found I true liberty
In the glad home plain-dealing Nature gave.
The polite found me impolite; the great
Would mortify me, but in vain; for still
I am a willow of the wilderness,
Loving the wind that bent me. All my hurts
My garden spade can heal. A woodland walk,
A quest of river grapes, a mocking thrush,
A wild rose, or rock-loving columbine,
Salve my worst wounds.
For thus the wood-gods murmured in my ear:
“Dost love our manners ? Canst thou silent lie ?
Canst thou, thy pride forgot, like nature pass
Into the winter night's extinguished mood ?
Canst thou shine now, then darkle,
And being latent, feel thyself no less ?
As, when the all-worshiped moon attracts the eye,
The river, hill, stems, foliage, are obscure,
Yet envies none, none are unenviable. ”


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5462
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
FROM THE THRENODY)
T".
HE South-wind brings
Life, sunshine and desire,
And on every mount and meadow
Breathes aromatic fire;
But over the dead he has no power,
The lost, the lost, he cannot restore;
And looking over the hills, I mourn
The darling who shall not return.
O child of paradise,
Boy who made dear his father's home,
In whose deep eyes
Men read the welfare of the times to come,
I am too much bereft.
The world dishonored thou hast left.
O truth's and Nature's costly lie!
O trusted broken prophecy!
O richest fortune sourly crossed!
Born for the future, to the future lost!
The deep Heart answered, “Weepest thou ?
Worthier cause for passion wild
If I had not taken the child.
And deemest thou as those who pore,
With agèd eyes, short way before,—
Think'st Beauty vanished from the coast
Of matter, and thy darling lost?
Taught he not thee — the man of eld,
Whose eyes within his eyes beheld
Heaven's numerous hierarchy span
The mystic gulf from God to man?
To be alone wilt thou begin,
When worlds of lovers hem thee in ?
To-morrow, when the masks shall fall
That dizen Nature's carnival,
The pure shall see by their own will,
Which overflowing Love shall fill,
'Tis not within the force of fate
The fate-conjoined to separate.
But thou, my votary, weepest thou ?
I gave thee sight - where is it now?
I taught thy heart beyond the reach
Of ritual, Bible, or of speech;


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RALPH WALDO EMERSON
5463
Wrote in thy mind's transparent table,
As far as the incommunicable;
Taught thee each private sign to raise
Lit by the supersolar blaze.
Past utterance, and past belief,
And past the blasphemy of grief,
The mysteries of Nature's heart;
And though no Muse can these impart,
Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast,
And all is clear from east to west.
“I came to thee as to a friend;
Dearest, to thee I did not send
Tutors, but a joyful eye,
Innocence that matched the sky,
Lovely locks, a form of wonder,
Laughter rich as woodland thunder,
That thou might'st entertain apart
The richest flowering of all art:
And, as the great all-loving Day
Through smallest chambers takes its way,
That thou might'st break thy daily bread
With prophet, savior, and head;
That thou might'st cherish for thine own
The richest of sweet Mary's Son,
Boy-Rabbi, Israel's paragon.
And thoughtest thou such guest
Would in thy hall take up his rest?
Would rushing life forget her laws,
Fate's glowing revolution pause ?
High omens ask diviner guess;
Not to be conned to tediousness.
And know my higher gifts unbind
The zone that girds the incarnate mind.
When the scanty shores are full
With thought's perilous, whirling pool;
When frail Nature can no more,
Then the Spirit strikes the hour:
My servant Death, with solving rite,
Pours finite into infinite.
Wilt thou freeze love's tidal flow,
Whose streams through Nature circling go?
Nail the wild star to its track
On the half climbed zodiac?


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5464
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Light is light which radiates,
Blood is blood which circulates,
Life is life which generates,
And many-seeming life is one,-
Wilt thou transfix and make it none ?
Its onward force too starkly pent
In figure, bone, and lineament?
Wilt thou, uncalled, interrogate,-
Talker! - the unreplying Fate ?
Nor see the genius of the whole
Ascendant in the private soul ?
Beckon it when to go and come,
Self-announced its hour of doom?
Fair the soul's recess and shrine,
Magic-built to last a season;
Masterpiece of love benign,
Fairer that expansive reason
Whose omen 'tis, and sign.
Wilt thou not ope thy heart to know
What rainbows teach, and sunsets show ?
Verdict which accumulates
From lengthening scroll of human fates,
Voice of earth to earth returned,
Prayers of saints that inly burned, -
Saying. What is excellent,
As God lives, is permanent ;
Hearts are dust, hearts' loves remain ;
Heart's love will meet thee again.
Revere the Maker; fetch thine eye
Up to his style, and manners of the sky.
Not of adamant and gold
Built he heaven stark and cold;
No, but a nest of bending reeds,
Flowering grass and scented weeds;
Or like a traveler's fleeing tent,
Or bow above the tempest bent;
Built of tears and sacred flames,
And virtue reaching to its aims;
Built of furtherance and pursuing,
Not of spent deeds, but of doing.
Silent rushes the swift Lord
Through ruined systems still restored,
Broad-sowing, bleak and void to bless,
Plants with worlds the wilderness;


## p. 5465 (#647) ###########################################

RALPH WALDO EMERSON
5465
Waters with tears of ancient sorrow
Apples of Eden ripe to-morrow.
House and tenant go to ground,
Lost in God, in Godhead found. ”
CONCORD HYMN
SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE BATTLE MONUMENT, APRIL 19, 1836
B
Y THE rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
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.


## p. 5466 (#648) ###########################################

5466
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Uh.
The men are ripe of Saxon kind
To build an equal state, -
To take the statue 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.
All the above citations from Emerson's works are reprinted by permission of
his family, and of Messrs. Houghton, Miffin & Co. , publishers, Boston,
Mass. , as stated on a previous page.


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