As he leaned, there, an oak where sea winds blow, Our brother with the hoe.

No blot, no monster, no unsightly thing,

The soil's long-lineaged king;

His changeless realm, he knows it and commands; Erect enough he stands,

Tall as his toil. Nor does he bow unblest:

Labor he has, and rest.

Need was, need is, and need will ever be

For him and such as he;

Cast for the gap, with gnarlèd arm and limb,

The Mother molded him,—

Long wrought, and molded him with mother's care, Before she set him there.

And aye she gives him, mindful of her own,
Peace of the plant, the stone;

Yea, since above his work he may not rise,

She makes the field his skies.

See! she that bore him, and metes out the lot,

He serves her. Vex him not

To scorn the rock whence he was hewn, the pit
And what was digged from it;

Lest he no more in native virtue stand,

The earth-sword in his hand,

But follow sorry phantoms to and fro,

And let a kingdom go.

John Vance Cheney [1848–

Auld Lang Syne

2897

AULD LANG SYNE

LD auld acquaintance be forgot,
d never brought to min'?
ld auld acquaintance be forgot,
d days o' lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet

For auld lang syne.

wa hae rin about the braes, hd pu'd the gowans fine;

we've wandered monie a weary fit

'auld lang syne.

twa hae paidl't i' the burn,

ae mornin' sun till dine;

seas between us braid hae roared

n'auld lang syne.

here's a hand, my trusty fiere,

nd gie's a hand o' thine;

we'll tak a right guid willie-waught

or auld lang syne.

surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,

nd surely I'll be mine,

we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet

or auld lang syne!

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

THE MUSIC-MAKERS

ISRAFEL

And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the

sweetest voice of all God's creatures.-KORAN

IN Heaven a spirit doth dwell
Whose heart-strings are a lute;
None sing so wildly well

As the angel Israfel,

And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.

Tottering above

In her highest noon,

The enamoured moon

Blushes with love,

While, to listen, the red levin

(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven)

Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choir

And the other listening things) b

That Israfeli's fire

Is owing to that lyre.

By which he sits and sings,
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod,

Where deep thoughts are a duty,
Where Love's a grown-up God,
Where the Houri glances are

Imbued with all the beauty

Which we worship in a star.

Proem

herefore thou art not wrong, Israfeli, who despisest

unimpassioned song;

thee the laurels belong,

Best bard, because the wisest: errily live, and long!

he ecstasies above

With thy burning measures suit:
hy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervor of thy lute:
Well may the stars be mute!

es, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely-flowers,
nd the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell

Where Israfel

Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well

A mortal melody,

While a bolder note than this might swell

From my lyre within the sky.

2899

Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849]

PROEM

O INTRODUCE THE FIRST GENERAL COLLECTION

OF HIS POEMS)

E the old melodious lays

ftly melt the ages through,

songs of Spenser's golden days,

dian Sidney's silvery phrase,

g our noon of time with freshest morning dew.

Yet, vainly in my quiet hours

To breathe their marvellous notes I try;

I feel them, as the leaves and flowers
In silence feel the dewy showers,

And drink with glad, still lips the blessing of the sky.

The rigor of a frozen clime,

The harshness of an untaught ear,

The jarring words of one whose rhyme

Beat often Labor's hurried time,

Or Duty's rugged march through storm and strife, are here.

Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace, No rounded art the lack supplies; Unskilled the subtle lines to trace,

Or softer shades of Nature's face,

I view her common forms with unanointed eyes.

Nor mine the seer-like power to show

The secrets of the heart and mind;

To drop the plummet-line below

Our common world of joy and woe,

A more intense despair or brighter hope to find.

Yet here at least an earnest sense

Of human right and weal is shown;

A hate of tyranny intense,

And hearty in its vehemence,

As if my brother's pain and sorrow were my own.

O Freedom! if to me belong

Nor mighty Milton's gift divine,

Nor Marvell's wit and graceful song,

Still with a love as deep and strong

As theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on thy shrine!

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]

EMBRYO

I FEEL a poem in my heart to-night,
A still thing growing,-

As if the darkness to the outer light
A song were owing: