rTmlHTTTIHTTil ^ i0^ w ,^^ A^' '^ * '. N ^ -^c^. /. ''■>r .^^ <^^ ,\* k. '<■ .V, xO<=^. \> ion >■ O- ^ ' // C- %<^ \ O. r^"*' :/ ' « ♦ b. -0*^ ^^ j'^ ~\ ^%- LOWELL DAY- BY- DAY EDITEDBY LUCY- L- CABLE NEW YORK TYCROWELL&.CO PUBLISHERS .C3 Copyright, igio By Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. GIA268356 \^ i 9 JANUARY JANUARY FIRST ^ I 'therefore think not the Past is wise alone, For Yesterday knows nothing of the Best, And thou shalt love it only as the nest Whence glory-winged things to Heaven have flown. Sonnets. JANUARY SECOND From one stage of our being to the next We pass unconscious o'er a slender bridge, The momentary work of unseen hands, Which crumbles down behind us; looking back. We see the other shore, the gulf between. And, marvelling how we won to where we stand, Content ourselves to call the builder Chance. A Glance behind the Curtain. JANUARY THIRD The heart grows richer that its lot is poor — God blesses want with larger sympathies. A Legend of Brittany. [ I ] /J' JANUARY FOURTH Evil its errand hath, as well as Good. Prometheus. JANUARY FIFTH God scatters love on every side, Freely among his children all, And alw^ays hearts are lying open wide. Wherein some grains may fall. An Incident in a Railroad Car. JANUARY SIXTH Reason should stand at the helm, though the wayward breezes of feeling must puff the sails. Nature has hinted at this, by setting the eyes higher than the heart. Con'uersations on Some of the Old Poets. JANUARY SEVENTH Higher purity is greater strength. Prometheus. JANUARY EIGHTH God doth not work as man works, but makes all The crooked paths of ill to goodness tend. A Legend of Brittany. JANUARY NINTH Only the soul hath power o'er itself. Rhcecus. [2] JANUARY TENTH Rivers with low banks have always the com- pensation of giving a sense of entire fulness. A Moosehead Journal. JANUARY ELEVENTH Who is it will not dare himself to trust ? Who is it hath not strength to stand alone ? Who is it thwarts and bilks the inward MUST ? He and his works, like sand, from earth are blown. To W. L. Garrison. JANUARY TWELFTH Solitude, that holds apart The past and future, giving the soul room To search into itself. Prometheus. JANUARY THIRTEENTH I held that a man should have travelled thoroughly round himself and the great terra incognita just outside and inside his own thresh- old, before he undertook voyages of discovery to other worlds. Cambridge Thirty Years Ago. JANUARY FOURTEENTH But after all. Nature, though she may be more beautiful, is nowhere so entertaining as in man. In the Mediterranean. [3] JANUARY FIFTEENTH Wrong ever builds on quicksands, but the Right To the firm centre lays its moveless base. Prometheui. JANUARY SIXTEENTH That Providence, Which shapes from out our elements awry The grace and order that we wonder at. The mystic harmony of right and wrong, Both working out His wisdom and our good. V Erfvoi. JANUARY SEVENTEENTH Franklin's Birthday. No man is born into the world, whose work Is not born with him ; there is always work. And tools to work withal, for those who will. A Glance behind the Curtain. JANUARY EIGHTEENTH All nations have their message from on high. Each the messiah of some central thought. For the fulfilment and delight of Man : One has to teach that labor is divine; Another Freedom; and another Mind; And all, that God is open-eyed and just. The happy centre and calm heart of all. V Envoi. [4] JANUARY NINETEENTH It always comes easier to us to comprehend why we receive than why we pay. A Moosehead Journal. JANUARY TWENTIETH Hospitahty, Hke so many other things, is recip- rocal, and the guest must bring his half, or it is naught. The prosperity of a dinner lies in the heart of him that eats it. Italy. JANUARY TWENTY-FIRST The future works out great men's destinies; The present is enough for common souls. A Glance behind the Curtain. JANUARY TWENTY-SECOND The next development of Genius is as unpre- dictable as the glory of the next sunset. . . . Everything is impossible until it is done. Conversations on Some of the Old Poets. JANUARY TWENTY-THIRD There still is need of martyrs and apostles. There still are texts for never-dying song: From age to age man's still aspiring spirit [5] Finds wider scope and sees with clearer eyes, And thou in larger measure dost inherit What made thy great forerunners free and wise. Ode. JANUARY TWENTY-FOURTH Looking within myself, I note how thin A plank of station, chance, or prosperous fate, Doth fence me from the clutching waves of sin: ■ In my own heart I find the worst man's mate. Si Descendero in Infernum, Ades. JANUARY TWENTY-FIFTH Burns' s Birthday. To write some earnest verse or line, Which, seeking not the praise of art, Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine In the untutored heart. He, who doth this, in verse or prose, May be forgotten in his day. But surely shall be crowned at last with those Who live and speak for aye. An Incident in a Railroad Car. JANUARY TWENTY-SIXTH For my part, I am satisfied that I am on the right path so long as I can see anything to make [6] me happier, anything to make me love man, and therefore God, the more. Con'uersations on Some of the Old Poets. JANUARY TWENTY-SEVENTH All thoughts that mould the age begin Deep down within the primitive soul, And from the many slowly upward win To one who grasps the whole. An Incident in a Railroad Car. JANUARY TWENTY-EIGHTH The intellect may be sceptical, but the heart will believe any beautiful miracle in behalf of what it loves or reveres; and the heart, after all, will have the last word in such matters. Conversations on Some of the Old Poets. JANUARY TWENTY-NINTH McKinleys Birthday. Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes — they were souls that stood alone. While the men they agonized for hurled the con- tumelious stone. Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam incline To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine. By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design. The Present Crisis. [7] JANUARY THIRTIETH Evil springs up, and flowers, and bears no seed, And feeds the green earth with its swift decay, Leaving it richer for the growth of truth ; But Good, once put in action or in thought, Like a strong oak, doth from its boughs shed down The ripe germs of a forest. Prometheus. JANUARY THIRTY-FIRST The wise man maintains a hospitable mind. He scruples not to entertain thoughts, no matter how strange and foreign they may be, and to ask news of them of realms which he has never explored. Con-versations on Some of the Old Poets. [8] FEBRUARY FEBRUARY FIRST A N imitation of style is one thing; the use of the same material is quite another. The marble of Pentelicus may be carved into other shapes as noble as the Phoebus or the Jupiter. CoTfuersations on Some of the Old Poets. FEBRUARY SECOND The great spirit does not fling down the gaunt- let to Death, but welcomes him as a brother- angel, who, knowing the way better, is to be his guide to his new working-place, and who, per- chance, also led him hither from some dimmer sphere. The Old Dramatists. FEBRUARY THIRD * One step beyond life's work-day things. One more beat of the soul's broad wings, One deeper sorrow sometimes brings The spirit into that great Vast Where neither future is nor past; [9] None knoweth how he entered there, But, waking, finds his spirit where He thought an angel could not soar. And, what he called false dreams before. The very air about his door. A Mystical Ballad. FEBRUARY FOURTH Her thoughts are never memories. But ever changeful, ever new. Fresh and beautiful as dew That in a dell at noontide lies. lanthe. FEBRUARY FIFTH Love, for others' sake that springs. Gives half their charm to lovely things. Impartiality. FEBRUARY SIXTH As in the womb of mother Earth The seeds of plants and forests lie Age upon age and never die — So in the souls of all men wait, Undyingly, the seeds of Fate; Chance breaks the clod and forth they spring, Filling blind men with wondering. Bellerophon. [ 10] FEBRUARY SEVENTH Dicken/s Birthday. To the poet nothing is mean, but everything on earth is a fitting altar to the supreme beauty. Cotf-versations on Some of the Old Poets. FEBRUARY EIGHTH Ruskin s Birthday . His love of beauty was too sincere not to have made him truly pious. It was not a holy-day dress, folded up and lavendered for one day in the week; but his singing-robe, which he wore in the by-lanes and hovels of every-day life. CoJi'versations on Some of the Old Poets. FEBRUARY NINTH Whatever has given the spirit a fresh delight has established for itself a fair title in fee simple to the room it has taken up on our planet. The Old Dramatists. FEBRUARY TENTH Why should men ever be afraid to die, but that they regard the spirit as secondary to that which is but its mere appendage and conveniency, its symbol, its word, its means of visibility ? Conquer sations on Some of the Old Poets. FEBRUARY ELEVENTH ' But that the soul is noble, we Could never dream what nobleness had been; [ II ] Be what ye dream ! and earth shall see A greater greatness than she e'er hath seen. Sphinx. FEBRUARY TWELFTH Lincoln's Birthday. A name earth wears forever next her heart; One of the few that have a right to rank With the true Makers. A Glance behind the Curtain. FEBRUARY THIRTEENTH Not yet hath all been said, Or done, or longed for, that is truly great. Sonnets FEBRUARY FOURTEENTH St. Valentine's Day. The language of the heart never grows obso- lete or antiquated, but falls as musically from the tongue now as when it was first uttered. Conversations on Some of the Old Poets. FEBRUARY FIFTEENTH We all must suffer, if we aught would know; Life is a teacher stern, and wisdom's crown Is oft a crown of thorns. Sonnets. [ 12] FEBRUARY SIXTEENTH Truth only needs to be for once spoke out, And there 's such music in her, such strange rhythm, As makes men's memories her joyous slaves. A Glance behind the Curtain. FEBRUARY SEVENTEENTH O Lord, ef folks wuz made so 's 't they could see The begnet-pint there is to an idee ! Ten times the danger in 'em th' is in steel; They run your soul thru an' you never feel, But crawl about an' seem to think you 're livin'. Poor shells o' men, nut wuth the Lord's forgivin'. Till you come bunt ag'in a real live feet. An' go to pieces v^hen you 'd ough' to ect ! The Bigloiv Papers. FEBRUARY EIGHTEENTH We should love all things better, if v^e kneve What claims the meanest have upon our hearts. ' Sonnets. FEBRUARY NINETEENTH Each hath his lonely peak, and on each heart Envy, or scorn, or hatred, tears lifelong With vulture beak; yet the high soul is left; [ 13] And faith, which is but hope grown wise; and love And patience, which at last shall overcome. Prometheus. FEBRUARY TWENTIETH And he who scorns the least of Nature's works Is thenceforth exiled and shut out from all. Khcecus. FEBRUARY TWENTY-FIRST O might we only speak but what we feel, Might the tongue pay but what the heart doth owe, Not Heaven's great thunder, when, deep peal on peal. It shakes the earth, could rouse our spirits so, Or to the soul such majesty reveal. As two short words half-spoken faint and low ! Sonnets. FEBRUARY TWENTY-SECOND Washington $ Birthday. Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide. In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side. the Present Crisis. [ H] FEBRUARY TWENTY-THIRD The truth is, we think hghtly of Nature's penny shows, and estimate what we see by the cost of the ticket. Empedocles gave his life for a pit-entrance to ^tna, and no doubt found his account in it. A Moosehead Journal. FEBRUARY TWENTY-FOURTH The driving-wheels of all-powerful nature are in the back of the head, and, as man is the highest type of organization, so a nation is better or worse as it advances toward the highest type of man, or recedes from it. Italy. FEBRUARY TWENTY-FIFTH New times demand new measures and new men. A Glance behind the Curtain. FEBRUARY TWENTY-SIXTH Why should we ever weary of this life .? Our souls should widen ever, not contract, Grow stronger, and not harder, in the strife, Filling each moment with a noble act. Sonnets. [ 15] FEBRUARY TWENTY-SEVENTH Longfelloxv s Birthday. You must n't fling mud-balls at Longfellow so, Does it make a man worse that his character 's such As to make his friends love him (as you think) too much ? A Fable for Critics. FEBRUARY TWENTY-EIGHTH A graciousness in giving that doth make The small'st gift greatest, and a sense most meek Of worthiness, that doth not fear to take From others, but which always fears to speak Its thanks in utterance, for the giver's sake. Irene. FEBRUARY TWENTY-NINTH Leap Tear. All things are circular; the Past Was given us to make the Future great; And the void Future shall at last Be the strong rudder of an after fate. Sphinx. [ i6] MARCH MARCH FIRST I HESE rugged, wintry days I scarce could bear, Did I not know that, in the early spring. When wild March winds upon their errands sing. Thou wouldst return, bursting on this still air. Like those same winds, when, startled from their lair, They hunt up violets, and free swift brooks From icy cares. Sonnets. MARCH SECOND Get but the truth once uttered, and 't is like A star new-born, that drops into its place, And which, once circling in its placid round. Not all the tumult of the earth can shake. A Glance behind the Curtain. MARCH THIRD Earth's noblest thing, a woman perfected. Irene, [ 17] MARCH FOURTH We cannot give too much for the genial stoi- cism which, when Hfe flouts us and says, Put that in your pipe and smoke it! can pufF away with as sincere a rehsh as if it were tobacco of Mount Lebanon in a narghileh of Damascus. Cambridge Thirty Tears Ago, MARCH FIFTH "My young frien', you 've larned neow thet wut a man kin see any day for nawthin', childern half price, he never doos see. Nawthin' pay, nawthin' vally." A Moosehead Journal. MARCH SIXTH Mrs. Brouuning" s Birthday. That gift of patient tenderness, The instinctive wisdom of a woman's heart. L" Ennjoi. MARCH SEVENTH The meaning of all things in us — Yea, in the lives we give our souls — doth lie; Make, then, their meaning glorious By such a life as need not fear to die ! Sphinx. [ i8] MARCH EIGHTH She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone, or despise; For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace, Is low-esteemed in her eyes. My Lo've. MARCH NINTH There are moods in which pleasurable emo- tion is all that the mind is capable of, and the power of bestowing this merely is not to be con- demned. Beauty is always use. "> ne Old Dramatists. MARCH TENTH There is no sex in noble thoughts, and deeds agreeing with them; and such recruits do equally good service in the army of truth, whether they are brought in by women or men. The Old Dramatists. MARCH ELEVENTH God's love and man's are of the self-same blood. And He can see that always at the door Of foulest hearts the angel-nature yet Knocks to return and cancel all its debt. A Legend of Brittany. [ 19] MARCH TWELFTH We are of far too infinite an essence To rest contented with the Hes of Time. Ode. MARCH THIRTEENTH Where'er a human heart doth wear Joy's myrtle-wreath or sorrow's gyves, Where'er a human spirit strives After a life more true and fair, There is the true man's birthplace grand, His is a world-wide fatherland ! The Fatherland. MARCH FOURTEENTH The busy world shoves angrily aside The man who stands with arms akimbo set, Until occasion tells him what to do; And he who waits to have his task marked out Shall die and leave his errand unfulfilled. A Glance behind the Curtain. MARCH FIFTEENTH God bends from out the deep and says : "I gave thee the great gift of life; Wast thou not called in many ways ? Are not my earth and heaven at strife ? [20] I gave thee of my seed to sow, Bringest thou me my hundred-fold?" Can I look up with face aglow, And answer, "Father, here is gold"? Extreme Unction. MARCH SIXTEENTH For whom the heart of man shuts out. Sometimes the heart of God takes in. Ana fences them all round about With silence mid the world's loud din. The Forlorn. MARCH SEVENTEENTH St. Patrick's Day. ^ And the far-heard voice of Spring, From sunny slopes comes wandering. Calling the violets from the sleep That bound them under snow-drifts deep. To open their childlike, asking eyes On the new summer's paradise. Music. MARCH EIGHTEENTH Toil only gives the soul to shine. And makes rest fragrant and benio-n. The Heritage. [21 ] MARCH NINETEENTH No man of genius was ever so fully appreciated by contemporaries as to make him forget the future. A poet must needs be before his own age to be even with posterity. Con'versations on Some of the Old Poets. MARCH TWENTIETH The Anglo Saxon race has accepted the primal curse as a blessing, has deified work, and would not have thanked Adam for abstaining from the apple. A Moosehead Journal, MARCH TWENTY-FIRST Nor can I count him happiest who has never Been forced with his own hand his chains to sever. And tor himself find out the way divine; He never knew the aspirer's glorious pains, He never earned the struggle's priceless gains. Trial. MARCH TWENTY-SECOND Life is joy, and love is power, Death all fetters doth unbind, Strength and wisdom only flower When we toil for all our kind. [22] Hope is truth — tlic future glveth More than present takes away, And the soul forever hveth Nearer Clod from day to d'Ay. The Rose : A Enllad. MARCH TWENTY-THIRD One age moves onwaul, and the next huihls up Cities and gorgeous pahices, where stood i'he rude log luits of those who tamed the wild, Rearing from out the forests they had felled The goodly framework of a fairer state; The huilder's trowel and the settler's axe Are seldom wielded hy the selfsame hand. A Glance behind the (Curtain. MARCH TWENTY-FOURTH God sends his teachers unto eveiy age. To every clime, and every race of men. With revelations fitted to their growth And shape of mind, nor gives the realm of Truth Into the selfish rule of one sole race. Rhftcus. MARCH TWENTY-FIFTH If women fulfilled their divine errand there would he no need of reforming societies. The memory of the eyes that hung over a man in in- [23] fancy and childhood will haunt him through all his after life. If they were good and holy they will cheer and encourage him in every noble deed, and shame him out of every meanness and compromise. The Old Dramatists. MARCH TWENTY-SIXTH O, block by block, with sore and sharp endeavor, Lifelong we build these human natures up Into a temple fit for freedom's shrine, And Trial ever consecrates the cup Wherefrom we pour her sacrificial wine. Trial. MARCH TWENTY-SEVENTH If the chosen soul could never be alone In deep mid-silence, open-doored to God, No greatness ever had been dreamed or done; Among dull hearts a prophet never grew; The nurse of full-grown souls is solitude. Columbus. MARCH TWENTY-EIGHTH He is a coward who would borrow A charm against the present sorrow From the vague Future's promise of delight. To the Future. [24] MARCH TWENTY-NINTH New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good uncouth ; They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast with Truth. T^lie Present Crisis. MARCH THIRTIETH One strip of bark may feed the broken tree, Giving to some few limbs a sickly green; And one light shower on the hills, I ween, May keep the spring from drying utterly. Thus seemeth it with these our hearts to be; Hope is the strip of bark, the shower of rain. And so they are not wholly crushed with pain. So7inets. MARCH THIRTY-FIRST I feel an undefined respect for the man who has seen the sea-serpent. He is to his brother- fishers what the poet is to his fellow-men. Where they have seen nothing better than a school of horse-mackerel ... he has caught authentic glimpses of the withdrawing mantle-hem of the Edda age. At Sea. [25] APRIL APRIL FIRST APRUL 'S come back; the swellin' buds of oak Dim the fur hillsides with a purplish smoke; The brooks are loose an', singing to be seen, (Like gals), make all the hollers soft an' green. The birds are here, for all the season 's late; They take the sun's height an' don' never wait; Soon 'z he officially declares it 's spring Their light hearts lift 'em on a north'ard wing. An' th' ain't an acre, fur ez you can hear, Can't by the music tell the time o' year. The Bigloiv Papers. APRIL SECOND Lord ! all thy works are lessons — each contains Some emblem of man's all-containing soul; Shall he make fruitless all thy glorious pains, Delving within thy grace, an eyeless mole ? The Oak. [27] APRIL THIRD The serf of his own Past is not a man; To change and change is hfe, to move and never rest; — Not what we are, but what we hope, is best. The Pioneer. APRIL FOURTH They who love are but one step from Heaven. Sonnets. APRIL FIFTH The thing we long for, that we are For one transcendent moment, Before the Present poor and bare Can make its sneering comment. Longing. APRIL SIXTH Winds wander, and dews drip earthward, Rain falls, suns rise and set, Earth whirls, and all but to prosper A poor little violet. The Changeling, APRIL SEVENTH Wordsworth- s Birthday. God wills, man hopes : in common souls Hope is but vague and undefined. Till from the poet's tongue the message rolls A blessing to his kind. An Incident in a Railroad Car. [28] APRIL EIGHTH If it be impossible for a man to like every- thing, it is quite possible for him to avoid being driven mad by what does not please him; nay, it is the imperative duty of a wise man to find out what that secret is which makes a thing pleasing to another. A Fe-w Bits of Roman Mosaic. APRIL NINTH Children are God's apostles, day by day Sent forth to preach of love, and hope, and peace. On the Death of a Frienifs Child. APRIL TENTH I, country-born an' bred, know where to find Some blooms thet make the season suit the mind. An' seem to metch the doubtin' bluebird's notes — Half-vent'rin' liverworts in furry coats, Bloodroots, whose rolled-up leaves, ef you oncurl. Each on 'em 's cradle to a baby pearl — But these are jes' Spring's pickets. The BigloiA) Papers. APRIL ELEVENTH Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; Everything is happy now. Everything is upward striving; [29] 'T is as easy now for the heart to be true As for grass to be green or skies to be blue — 'T is the natural way of Hving. The Vision of Sir Launfal. APRIL TWELFTH 'T is good to be abroad in the sun, His gifts abide when the day is done; Each thing in nature from his cup Gathers a several virtue up. Out of Doors. APRIL THIRTEENTH Brain is always to be bought, but passion never comes to market. Italy. APRIL FOURTEENTH Wanting love, a man remains nailed to the dreadful cross of self without help or hope. The Old Dramatists. APRIL FIFTEENTH The soul is indifferent what garment she wears, or of what color or texture; the true king is not unkinged by being discrowned. The Old Dramatists. [30] APRIL SIXTEENTH Love Divine, that claspest our tired earth, And luUest it upon thy heart. Thou knowest how much a gentle soul is v^^orth To teach men what thou art ! To the Memory of Hood. APRIL SEVENTEENTH The love of all things springs from love of one; Wider the soul's horizon hourly grows, And over it with fuller glory flows The sky-like spirit of God ; a hope begun In doubt and darkness 'neath a fairer sun Cometh to fruitage, if it be of Truth. Sonnets. APRIL EIGHTEENTH • God is not dumb, that he should speak no more; If thou hast wanderings in the wilderness And find'st not Sinai, 't is thy soul is poor; There towers the mountain of the Voice no less, Which whoso seeks shall find. Bibliolatres. APRIL NINETEENTH Battle of Lexington and Cottcord. Ez fer war, I call it murder — There you hev it plain an' flat; 1 don't want to go no furder Than my Testyment fer that; [31 ] God hez sed so plump an' fairly, It 's ez long ez it is broad, An' you 've gut to git up airly Ef you want to take in God. The Biglo^w Papers. APRIL TWENTIETH Literature is not shut up in books, nor art in galleries : both are taken in by unconscious ab- sorption in the atmosphere of society. In the Mediterranean. APRIL TWENTY-FIRST The love of the beautiful and true, like the dewdrop in the heart of the crystal, remains for- ever clear and liquid in the inmost shrine of man's being, though all the rest be turned to stone by sorrow^ and degradation. The Old Drajnatists. APRIL TWENTY-SECOND Plain words are best. Truth wants no veil; the chastity and beauty of her countenance are defence enough against all lewd eyes. False- hood, only, needs to hide her face. Conversations on Some of the Old Poets. [32] APRIL TWENTY-THIRD Shakespeare' s Birthday. Shakespeare's characters seem to modify his plots as they are modified by them in turn. This may be the result of his unapproachable art; for art in him is but the tracing of nature to her primordial laws; is but nature precipitated, as it were, by the infallible test of philosophy. The Old Dramatists. APRIL TWENTY-FOURTH We can never say why we love, but only that we love. Connjersations on Some of the Old Poets. APRIL TWENTY-FIFTH We all are tall enough to reach God's hand. And angels are no taller. Ne^w Year s E've. APRIL TWENTY-SIXTH Away, unfruitful lore of books. For whose vain idiom we reject The spirit's mother-dialect, Aliens among the birds and brooks, Dull to interpret or believe What gospels lost the woods retrieve, Or what the eaves-dropping violet Reports from God, who walketh yet His garden in the hush of eve ! Out of Doors. APRIL TWENTY-SEVENTH Earth is no longer the fine work of art it was, for nothing is left to the imagination. At Sea. APRIL TWENTY-EIGHTH Each man has his private barometer of hope, the mercury in which is more or less sensitive, and the opinion vibrant with its rise or fall. A Moosehead "Journal. APRIL TWENTY-NINTH We are happy now because God wills it; The breeze comes whispering in our ear, That dandelions are blossoming near. That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky. That the robin is plastering his house hard by. The Vision of Sir Launfal. [34] APRIL THIRTIETH Beauty is Love, and what we love Straightway is beautiful, So is the circle round and full, And so dear Love doth live and move And have his being. Finding his proper food By sure inseeing. Bellerophon. [35] MAY MAY FIRST That comes with steady sun when April dies. MAY SECOND Sonnets. Each on his golden throne Full royally, alone, I see the stars above me, With sceptre and with diadem; Mildly they look down and love me, For I have ever yet loved them ; I see their ever-sleepless eyes Watching the growth of destinies. Bellerophon. MAY THIRD I know that God brings round His purposes in ways undreamed by us. A Glance behind the Curtain. [37] MAY FOURTH It is with true books as with Nature, each New day of living doth new insight teach. Sonnets. MAY FIFTH O woman's love ! O flower most bright and rare ! That blossom'st brightest in extremest need. Sonnets. MAY SIXTH little city-gals, don't never go it Blind on the word o' noospaper or poet ! They 're apt to pufF, an' May-day seldom looks Up in the country as it doos in books; They 're no more like than hornets'-nests an' hives. Or printed sermons be to holy lives. The Biglo^w Papers. MAY SEVENTH Browning's Birthday. But Poesy springs not from rocks and woods; Her womb and cradle are the human heart. V En'voi. MAY EIGHTH 1 ollus feels the sap start in my veins In Spring, with curus heats an' prickly pains, [38] Thet drive me, when I git a chance, to walk Off by myself to hev a privit talk With a queer critter thet can't seem to 'gree Along o' me like most folks — Mister Me. The Biglo^w Papers. MAY NINTH For half our May 's so awfully like May n't, 'T would rile a Shaker or an evrige saint; Though I own up I like our back'ard springs Thet kind o' haggle with their greens an' things, An' when you 'most give up, 'ithout more words Toss the fields full o' blossoms, leaves an' birds. The Bigloix) Papers. MAY TENTH An' my experunce — tell ye what it 's ben : Folks thet worked thorough was the ones thet thriv, But bad work fellers ye ez long 's ye live; You can't git red on 't; jest ez sure ez sin, It 's oilers askin' to be done agin. The Biglo-iv Papers. MAY ELEVENTH 'Fore long the trees begin to show belief, — The maple crimsons to a coral-reef, [39] Then safFern swarms swing off from all the willers So plump they look like yaller caterpillars. Thet 's robin-redbreast's almanick; he knows Thet arter this ther 's only blossom-snows; So, choosin' out a handy crotch an' spouse, He goes to plast'rin' his adobe house. The Bigloiv Papers. MAY TWELFTH The very gnarliest and hardest of hearts has some musical strings in it. But they are tuned differently in every one of us, so that the self- same strain, which wakens a thrill of sympa- thetic melody in one, may leave another quite silent and untouched. Conuersatioiis on Some of the Old Poets. MAY THIRTEENTH Truth is eternal, but her effluence. With endless change is fitted to the hour; Her mirror is turned forward to reflect The promise of the future, not the past. A Glance behind the Curtain. MAY FOURTEENTH To make one object, in outward or inward nature, more holy to a single heart is reward enough for a life. The Old Dramatists. [40] MAY FIFTEENTH Meanwhile the devil-may-care, the bobolink. Remembering duty, in mid-quaver stops Just ere he sweeps o'er rapture's tremulous brink, And 'twixt the winrows most demurely drops. An Indian-summer Re'verie. MAY SIXTEENTH It is so delightful to meet a man who knows just what you do not. Talk of the sympathy of kindred pursuits ! It is the sympathy of the upper and nether millstones, both forever grind- ing the same grist, and wearing each other smooth. In the Mediterranean. MAY SEVENTEENTH God does not weigh criminality in our scales. We have one absolute standard, with the seal of authority upon it; and with us an ounce is an ounce and a pound is a pound. Conversations on Some of the Old Poets. MAY EIGHTEENTH AH things that make us happy incline us also to be grateful, and I would rather enlarge than lessen the number of these. Conversations on Some of the Old Poets. [41 ] MAY NINETEENTH Love never contracts its circles; they widen by as fixed and sure a law as those around a pebble cast into still water. The Old Dramatists. MAY TWENTIETH That love for one, from which there doth not spring Wide love for all, is but a worthless thing. Sonnets. MAY TWENTY-FIRST There 's something in the apple-blossom, The greening grass and bobolink's song, That wakes again within my bosom Feelings which have slumbered long. The Bobolink. MAY TWENTY-SECOND All things below, all things above, Are open to the eyes of Love. Bellerophon. MAY TWENTY-THIRD Nothing in Nature weeps its lot, Nothing, save man, abides in memory, Forgetful that the Past is what Ourselves may choose the coming time to be. Sphinx. [42] MAY TWENTY-FOURTH If we could only carry that slow, imperturb- able old clock of Opportunity, that never strikes a second too soon or too late, in our fobs, and push the hands forward as we can those of our watches ! Cambridge Thirty 7'ears Ago. MAY TWENTY-FIFTH Emerson s Birthday. Poetry is something to make us wiser and better, by continually revealing those types of beauty and truth which God has set in all men's souls; not by picking out the petty faults of our neighbors to make a mock of. Con'versations on Some of the Old Poets. MAY TWENTY-SIXTH It is only in love that the soul finds weather as summerlike as that of the clime whence it has been transplanted, and can put forth its blossoms and ripen its fruit without fear of nip- ping frosts. The Old Dramatists. MAY TWENTY-SEVENTH The freemasonry of cultivated men is agree- able, but artificial, and I like better the natural grip with which manhood recognizes manhood. In the Mediterranean. [43] MAY TWENTY-EIGHTH When I meditate upon the pains taken for our entertainment in this life, on the endless variety of seasons, of human character and fortune . . . I sometimes feel a singular joy in looking upon myself as God's guest, and cannot but believe that v^e should all be wiser and happier, because more grateful, if we were always mindful of our privilege in this regard. The Biglouo Papers. MAY TWENTY-NINTH What a man pays for bread and butter is worth its market value, and no more. What he pays for love's sake is gold indeed, which has a lure for angels' eyes, and rings well upon God's touchstone. Con'versations on Some of the Old Poets. MAY THIRTIETH Memorial Day. Earth with her twining memories ivies o'er Their holy sepulchres; . . . All other glories are as falling stars. But universal Nature watches theirs : Such strength is won by love of human kind. Prometheus. [44] MAY THIRTY-FIRST Peace is more strong than war, and gentleness, Where force were vain, makes conquest o'er the wave; And love lives on and hath a power to bless, When they who loved are hidden in the grave. Elegy on the Death of Dr. Channing. [45] JUNE JUNE FIRST I HEN comes a hitch, — things lag behind, Till some fine mornin' Spring makes up her mind. An' ez, when snow-swelled rivers cresh their dams Heaped-up with ice thet dovetails in an' jams, A leak comes spirtin' thru some pin-hole cleft. Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an' left, Then all the waters bow themselves an' come, Suddin, in one gret slope o' shedderin' foam, Jes' so our Spring gits everythin' in tune An' gives one leap from April into June. 'The Biglonx: Papers. JUNE SECOND June's bridesman, poet o' the year, Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here; Half hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings, Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiverin' wings. Or, givin' way to 't in a mock despair. Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru the air. The Biglonv Papers. [47] JUNE THIRD Of Knowledge Love is master-key, Knowledge of Beauty; passing dear Is each to each, and mutually Each one doth make the other clear. Bellerophon. JUNE FOURTH Upward the soul forever turns her eyes; The next hour always shames the hour before; One beauty, at its highest, prophesies That by whose side it shall seem mean and poor; No God-like thing knows aught of less and less, But widens to the boundless perfectness. Sonnets. JUNE FIFTH It is of less consequence where a man buys his tools than what use he makes of them. Cambridge Thirty Years Ago. JUNE SIXTH Nothing short of full daylight can give the supremest sense of solitude. Darkness will not do so, for the imagination peoples it with more shapes than ever were poured from the frozen loins of the populous North. At Sea. [48] JUNE SEVENTH There never yet was flower fair in vain, Let classic poets rhyme it as they will; The seasons toil that it may blow again, And summer's heart doth feel its every ill; Nor is a true soul ever born for naught; Wherever any such hath lived and died, There hath been something for true freedom wrought, Some bulwark levelled on the evil side. Sonnets. JUNE EIGHTH Outward nature is but one of the soul's re- tainers, and dons a festal or a mourning garment according as its master does. There is nothing sad or joyful in nature, of itself The Old Dramatists. JUNE NINTH Go, look on Nature's countenance. Drink in the blessing of her glance; Look on the sunset, hear the wind. The cataract, the awful thunder; Go, worship by the sea ; Then, and then only, shall ye find. With ever-growing wonder, Man is not all in all to ye. The Bobolink. [ 49 JUNE TENTH For a cap and bells our lives we pay, Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking: 'T is heaven alone that is given away, 'T is only God may be had for the asking, No price is set on the lavish summer; June may be had by the poorest comer. The Vision of Sir Launfal, JUNE ELEVENTH Love is the most hospitable of spirits, and adorns the interior of his home for the nobler welcome, not the exterior for the more lordly show. . . . No matter into what hovel of clay he enters, that is straightway the palace, and beauty holds her court in vain. Conversations on Some of the Old Poets. JUNE TWELFTH And what is so rare as a day in June ? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays : Whether we look or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers. And, groping blindly above it for light. Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers. The Vision of Sir Launfal. [ 50 ] JUNE THIRTEENTH Now is the high-tide of the year; . . . No matter how barren the past may have been, 'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green. 'The Vision of Sir Launfal. JUNE FOURTEENTH Youth's dreams are but the flutterings Of those strong wings whereon the soul shall soar In aftertime to win a starry throne. A Glance behind the Curtain. JUNE FIFTEENTH I know nothing more full of delight and en- couragement than to trace the influence of one great and true spirit upon another. Conversations on Some of the Old Poets. JUNE SIXTEENTH It is not the mere absence of man, but the sense of his departure, that makes a profound loneliness. A Fenv Bits of Roman Mosaic. JUNE SEVENTEENTH One has not far to seek for book-nature, artist-nature, every variety of superinduced nature, in short, but genuine human nature is hard to find. /;/ the Mediterranean. [51] JUNE EIGHTEENTH An unhappy man, if he go into a wood, shall hear nothing but sad sounds there; the tinkle of the brook, the low ocean-murmur of the cloudy pines, the soft clatter of the leaves, shall all sound funereal to him; he shall see only the dead limbs upon the trees, and only the inhos- pitable corners of the rocks, too churlish even for the hardy lichen to pitch his tents upon. The Old Dramatists. JUNE NINETEENTH Seeing a waterfall or a forest for the first time, I have a feeling of something gone, a vague regret that in some former state, I have drank up the wine of their beauty, and left to the de- frauded present only the muddy lees. CoTi'versations on Some of the Old Poets. JUNE TWENTIETH Flowers are not flowers unto the poet's eyes, Their beauty thrills him by an inward sense; He knows that outward seemings are but lies, Or, at the most, but earthly shadows, whence The soul that looks within for truth may guess The presence of some wondrous heavenliness. U En'voi. [52] JUNE TWENTY-FIRST We may be but the chance acquaintance of him who has made us the sharer of his joy, but he who has admitted us to the sanctuary of his grief has made us also partakers of the dignity of friendship. Conversations on Some of the Old Poets. JUNE TWENTY-SECOND Whatever can be known of earth we know, Sheered Europe's wise men, in their snail- shells curled; No! said one man in Genoa, and that No Out of the dark created this New World. To W. L. Garrison. JUNE TWENTY-THIRD Love's nobility is shown in this, that it strengthens us to make sacrifices for others, and not for the object of our love alone. The Old Dramatists. JUNE TWENTY-FOURTH The moon looks down and ocean worships her. Stars rise and set, and seasons come and go. Even as they did in Homer's elder time But we behold them not with Grecian eyes : Then they were types of beauty and of strength, But now of freedom, unconfined and pure, Subject alone to Order's higher law. V Envoi. [53] JUNE TWENTY-FIFTH It is curious to consider from what infinitely varied points of view we might form our esti- mate of a great man's character, when we re- member that he had his points of contact with the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick- maker, as well as with the ingenious A, the sublime B, and the right honorable C. Ca7/ibriJge Thirty Tears Ago. JUNE TWENTY-SIXTH Through the broad Earth roams Opportunity And knocks at every door of hut or hall, Until she finds the brave soul that she wants. Hakon s Lay. JUNE TWENTY-SEVENTH Dear Patience, too, is born of woe, Patience that opes the gate Wherethrough the soul of man must go Up to each nobler state. Whose voice's flow so meek and low Smooths the bent brows of Fate. In Sadness. JUNE TWENTY-EIGHTH In truth, what we call greatness and nobleness is but entire health ; to those only who are de- naturalized themselves does it seem wonderful; [54] to the natural man they are as customary and unconscious as the beating of his heart, or the motion of his lungs, and as necessary. The Old Dramatists. JUNE TWENTY-NINTH The sacred human heart Whereon Love's candles burn unquenchably. Trimmed day and night by gentle-handed Peace. iVifii; Year s E-ue. JUNE THIRTIETH Nature, thy soul was one with mine, A.nd, as a sister by a younger brother Is loved, each flowing to the other, Such love for me was thine. The Bobolink. [55] JULY JULY FIRST ^"T^HERE is more force in names Than most men dream of; and a lie may keep Its throne a whole age longer, if it skulk Behind the shield of some fair-seeming name. A Glance behind the Curtain. JULY SECOND It is unwise to insist on doctrinal points as vital to religion. The Bread of Life is whole- some and sufficing in itself, but gulped down by these kickshaws cooked up by theologians, it is apt to produce an indigestion, nay, even at last an incurable dyspepsia of scepticism. The Eiglo-zv Papers. JULY THIRD There is no bore we dread being left alone with so much as our own minds. A Moosehead Journal. JULY FOURTH Independence Day. Slow are the steps of Freedom, but her feet Turn never backward: hers no bloody glare; Her light is calm, and innocent, and sweet, And where it enters there is no despair. Ode to France, JULY FIFTH It ain't disgraceful bein' beat, when a holl nation doos it, But Chance is like an amberill — it don't take twice to lose it. The Bigloiv Papers. JULY SIXTH God's measure is the heart of the offender, — a balance which varies with every one of us, a balance so delicate that a tear cast in the other side may make the weight of error kick the beam. Conversations on Some of the Old Poets. JULY SEVENTH Taste is that faculty which at once perceives, and hails as true, ideas which yet it has not the gift of discovering itself. It is not something to be educated and fostered, but is as truly innate as the creative faculty itself Conversations on Some of the Old Poets. [58] JULY EIGHTH There are three short and simple words, the hardest to pronounce in any language (and I suspect they were no easier before the confusion of tongues), but which no man or nation that cannot utter can claim to have arrived at man- hood. Those words are, / was %urong. The Biglo'xv Papers. JULY NINTH The lore Which she had learned of nature and the woods, That beauty's chief reward is to itself, And that the eyes of love reflect alone The inward fairness, which is blurred and lost Unless kept clear and white by Duty's care. A Chipfenva Legend. JULY TENTH The intellect can never be great, save in pupilage to the heart. Nay, it can never be truly strong but so. The Old Dramatists. JULY ELEVENTH The wise man travels to discover himself; it is to find himself out that he goes out of his habitual associations, trying everything in turn [59] till he find that one activity, that royal stand- ard, sovran over him by divine right, toward which all the disbanded powers of his nature and the irregular tendencies of his life gather joyfully. Cambridge Thirty Tears Ago. JULY TWELFTH To the soul which is truly king of itself, and not a prisoner in its desolate palace, the senses are but keepers of its treasury, and all beautiful things pay their tribute through these, and not to them. Con'versations on Some of the Old Poets. JULY THIRTEENTH God's and Heaven's great deeps are nearer Him to whose heart his fellow-man is nigh. Ode. JULY FOURTEENTH All of us probably have brushed against des- tiny in the street, have shaken hands with it, fallen asleep with it in railway carriages, and knocked heads with it in some way or other of its yet unrecognized incarnations. Cambridge Thirty Tears Ago. [60] JULY FIFTEENTH If our own experience is of so little use to us, what a dolt is he who recommends to man or nation the experience of others. A Mooschead 'Journal. JULY SIXTEENTH Good were the days of yore, when men were tried By ring of shields, as now by ring of gold; But, while the gods are left, and hearts of men, And the free ocean, still the days are good. Hakon s Lay. JULY SEVENTEENTH Whate'er of ancient song remains Has fresh air flowing in its veins. For Greece and eldest Ind knew well That out of doors, with world-wide swell, Arches the student's lawful cell. Out of Doors, JULY EIGHTEENTH rhackerafs Birthday. The simplest thoughts, feelings and experi- ences that lie upon the very surface of life are overlooked by all but uncommon eyes. Most look upon them as mere weeds. Yet a weed, to him that loves it, is a flower. Conversations on Some of the Old Poets. [6i ] JULY NINETEENTH The silent heart of God, Silent, yet pulsing forth exhaustless life Through the least veins of all created things. Ne^w Tear s Enje. JULY TWENTIETH Good never comes unmixed, or so it seems, Having tw^o faces, as some images Are carved, of foolish gods; one face is ill; But one heart lies beneath, and that is good. As are all hearts, w^hen \vt explore their depths, Prometheus. JULY TWENTY-FIRST Ther 's times w^hen I 'm onsocial ez a stone, An' sort o' suffocate to be alone — I 'm crowded jes' to think thet folks are nigh. An' can't bear nothin' closer than the sky. The BigloHJu Papers. JULY TWENTY-SECOND No mortle man can boast of perfic' vision. But the one moleblin' thing is Indecision, An' th' ain't no futur' for the man nor state Thet out of j-u-s-t can't spell great. The BigloTu Papers. [62] JULY TWENTY-THIRD How our own erring will it is that hangs The flaming sword o'er Eden's unclosed gate, Which gives free entrance to the pure in heart, And with its guarding walls doth fence the meek. Ncvo Tear s E-ve. JULY TWENTY-FOURTH Was not the golden sunset a dear friend ? Found I no kindness in the silent moon. And the green trees, whose tops did sway and bend. Low singing evermore their pleasant tune ? The Bobolink. JULY TWENTY-FIFTH Knowledge doth only widen love; The stream, that lone and narrow rose, Doth, deepening ever, onward move. And with an even current flows Calmer and calmer to the close. Lo've' 5 Altar. JULY TWENTY-SIXTH The rapidity with which the human mind levels itself to the standard around it gives us the most pertinent warning as to the company we keep. A Moosehcad "Journal. [63] JULY TWENTY-SEVENTH Pines, ef you 're blue, are the best friends I know, They mope an' sigh an' sheer your feelin's so — They hesh the ground beneath so, tu, I swan, You half forgit you 've got a body on. The Bigloiv Papers. JULY TWENTY-EIGHTH The forest primeval is best seen from the top of a mountain. It then impresses one by its ex- tent, like an Oriental epic. To be in it is nothing, for then an acre is as good as a thousand square miles, A Moosehead Journal. JULY TWENTY-NINTH Life, the one block Of marble that 's vouchsafed wherefrom to carve Our great thoughts, white and godlike, to shine down The future, Life, the irredeemable block, Which one o'er-hasty chisel-dint oft mars, Scanting our room to cut the features out Of our full hope, so forcing us to crown With a mean head the perfect limbs, or leave The god's face glowing o'er a satyr's trunk. Failure's brief epitaph. Columbus. [64] JULY THIRTIETH Men think it is an awful sight To see a soul just set adrift On that drear voyage from whose night The ominous shadows never lift; But 't is more awful to behold A helpless infant, newly born, Whose little hands unconscious hold The keys of darkness and of morn. Extreme Unction. JULY THIRTY-FIRST Many great souls have gone to rest, and sleep Under this armor, free and full of peace : If these have left the earth, yet Truth remains, Endurance, too, the crowning faculty Of noble minds, and Love, invincible By any weapons. Neiv Tear" s Eve. [65] AUGUST AUGUST FIRST /^NE seed contains another seed, ^■^^ And that a third, and so for evermore; And promise of as great a deed Lies folded in the deed that went before. Sphinx. AUGUST SECOND There is not in this life of ours One bliss unmixed with fears, The hope that wakes our deepest powers A face of sadness wears, And the dew that showers our dearest flowers Is the bitter dew of tears. In Sadness. AUGUST THIRD Thinkin' o' nothin', I 've heerd ole folks say, Is a hard kind o' dooty in its way: It 's thinkin' everythin' you ever knew, Or ever hearn, to make your feelin's blue. The Biglo-TV Papers. [67] AUGUST FOURTH Shelley s Birthday, High natures must be thunder-scarred With many a searing wrong; From mother Sorrow's breasts the bard Sucks gifts of deepest song, Nor all unmarred with struggles hard Wax the Soul's sinews strong. In Sadness. AUGUST FIFTH Folks thet 's afeared to fail are sure o' failin'; God hates your sneakin' creturs thet believe He '11 settle things they run away an' leave ! The Biglonv Papers. AUGUST SIXTH Tennyson's Birthday. Once hardly in a cycle blossometh A flower-like soul ripe with the seeds of song, A spirit fore-ordained to cope with wrong. Whose divine thoughts are natural as breath. Sonnets. AUGUST SEVENTH People are apt to confound mere alertness of mind with attention. . . . Attention is the stuff that memory is made of, and memory is accumu- lated genius. The Biglo^iv Papers. [68] AUGUST EIGHTH What frame in what gallery ever enclosed such a picture as is squared within the groundsel, side- posts and lintel of a barn-door, whether for eye or fancy ? Italy. AUGUST NINTH This world is awful contrary : the rope may stretch your neck Thet mebby kep' another chap frum washin' off a wreck. . . . But groutin' ain't no kin' o' use; an' ef the fust throw fails, Why, up an' try agin, thet 's all — the coppers ain't all tails. ^he Biglo^iv Papers. AUGUST TENTH We stupidly call the life of savages a state of nature, as if Nature loved our bestial qualities better than our divine ones. The condition of the poet may be more truly named so, in whom the highest refinement of civilization consists with the utmost simplicity of the unblunted spiritual instincts. / Con-'versations on Some of the Old Poets. [69] AUGUST ELEVENTH It is true that every man has his infalHble and inexorable monitor within — a conscience that forewarns, as well as one that reproves; and it were hard to tell which yields the sharper lash. Nature throws the tools of whatever art she destines a select soul for invitingly in his way. The Old Dramatists. AUGUST TWELFTH You smile, but let me think it is for sympathy. A sneer is the weapon of the weak. Con-ziersations on Some of the Old Poets. AUGUST THIRTEENTH Our country claims our fealty; we grant it so, but then Before Man made us citizens, great Nature made us men. On the Capture of Certain Fugitive Sla-ves near IVashlngton. AUGUST FOURTEENTH True Love is but a humble, low-born thing, And hath its food served up in earthen ware; It is a thing to walk with, hand in hand, Through the everydayness of this work-day world. Baring its tender feet to every roughness, Yet letting not one heart-beat go astray From Beauty's law of plainness and content. Lo^e. [70] AUGUST FIFTEENTH Still, through our paltry stir and strife, Glows down the wished Ideal, And Longing moulds in clay what Life Carves in the marble Real; To let the new life in, we know, Desire must ope the portal; Perhaps the longing to be so Helps make the soul immortal. Longing. AUGUST SIXTEENTH Be noble ! and the nobleness that lies In other men, sleeping, but never dead. Will rise in majesty to meet thine own : Then wilt thou see it gleam in many eyes. Then will pure light around thy path be shed, And thou wilt never more be sad and lone. Sonnets. AUGUST SEVENTEENTH Over our manhood bend the skies; Against our fallen and traitor lives The great winds utter prophecies; With our faint hearts the mountain strives; Its arms outstretched, the druid wood Waits with its benedicite; And to our age's drowsy blood Still shouts the inspiring sea. The Vision of Sir Launfal. [71 ] AUGUST EIGHTEENTH That is no true alms which the hand can hold; He gives nothing but worthless gold Who gives from a sense of duty. The Vision of Sir Launfal. AUGUST NINETEENTH No man thinks his own nature miraculous, while to his neighbor it may give a surfeit of wonder. Let him go where he will, he can find no heart so worth a study as his own. Con'versations on Some of the Old Poets. AUGUST TWENTIETH Surely, God did not give us these fine senses as so many posterns to the heart for the Devil to enter at. I believe that he has endowed us with no faculty but for his own glory. Conversations on Some of the Old Poets. AUGUST TWENTY-FIRST Morals can never be safely embodied in the constable. Polished, cultivated, fascinat- ing Mephistopheles ! it is for the ungovernable breaking away of the soul from unnatural com- pressions that thou waitest with a deprecatory smile. Cambridge Thirty Tears Ago. [72] AUGUST TWENTY-SECOND God bless the Present! it is all; It has been Future, and it shall be Past; Awake and live ! thy strength recall, And in one trinity unite them fast. Sphinx. AUGUST TWENTY-THIRD All the groaning clank Of this mad engine men have made of earth Dulls not some ears for catching purer tones. That wander from the dim surrounding vast. Or far more clear melodious prophecies, The natural music of the heart of man. Nenv Tear s E've. AUGUST TWENTY-FOURTH Open all thy soul and sense To every blessed influence That from the heart of Nature springs. Floavers. AUGUST TWENTY-FIFTH To be a sensualist in a certain kind and to a certain degree is the mark of a pure and youth- ful nature. To be able to keep a just balance between sense and spirit, and to have the soul welcome frankly all the delicious impulses which flow to it from without, is a good and holy thing. CoTfversaiions on Some of the Old Poets. in] AUGUST TWENTY-SIXTH Selfishness always builds a thick roof over- head, to cut off the heavenward gaze of the spirit. Conversations on Some of the Old Poets. AUGUST TWENTY-SEVENTH God will make the lily stalk, In the soft grasp of naked gentleness. Stronger than iron spear to shatter through The sevenfold toughness of Wrong's idle shield. A'ifov Year s E've. AUGUST TWENTY-EIGHTH Goethe's Birthday. And who hath trod Olympus, from his eye Fades not that broader outlook of the gods; His life's low valleys overbrow earth's clouds. Columbus. AUGUST TWENTY-NINTH O. W. Holmes's Birthday. There 's Holmes, who is matchless among you for wit; A Leyden-jar always full-charged, from which flit The electrical tingles of hit after hit. A Fable for Critics. [74] AUGUST THIRTIETH Seeing a goat the other day kneehng in order to graze with less trouble, it seemed to me a type of the common notion of prayer. Most people are ready enough to go down on their knees for material blessings, but how few for those spiritual gifts which alone are an answer to our orisons, if we but knew it ! The Bigloiv Papers. AUGUST THIRTY-FIRST There is nothing that does not harmonize with and illustrate what we have most at heart, and one key will open all the doors of nature. Conversations on Some of the Old Poets. [75] SEPTEMBER SEPTEMBER FIRST "1 X T'ISDOM is meek sorrow's patient child, ' ^ And empire over self, and all the deep Strong charities that make men seem like gods; And love, that makes them be gods, from her breasts Sucks in the milk that makes mankind one blood. Prometheus. SEPTEMBER SECOND We 're curus critters : Now ain't jes' the minute Thet ever fits us easy while we 're in it; Long ez 't was futur', 't would be perfect bliss — Soon ez it 's past, thet time 's worth ten o' this; An' yit there ain't a man thet need be told Thet Now 's the only bird lays eggs o' gold. The Biglo'w Papers, SEPTEMBER THIRD But now I 'm gittin' on in life, I find It 's a sight harder to make up my mind; Nor I don't often try tu, when events Will du it for me free of all expense, The moral question 's oUus plain enough — It 's jes' the human-natur' side thet 's tough; Wut 's best to think may n't puzzle me nor you — The pinch comes in decidin' wut to du. The Biglo'w Papers. SEPTEMBER FOURTH What men call luck Is the prerogative of valiant souls, The fealty life pays its rightful kings. A Glance behind the Curtain. SEPTEMBER FIFTH There is something more than mere earth in the spot v^^here great deeds have been done. The surveyor cannot give the true dimensions of Marathon or Lexington, for they are not redu- cible to square acres. A Fenjo Bits of Roman Mosaic. SEPTEMBER SIXTH Antiquity has alw^ays something reverend in it. Even its most material and perishable form, which we see in pyramids, cairns and the like, is brooded over by a mysterious presence which strangely awes us. Whatever has been hallowed by the love and pity, by the smiles and tears of [78] men, becomes something more to us than the moss-covered epitaphs of a buried age. Coniiersations on Some of the Old Poets. SEPTEMBER SEVENTH All great ideas come to us at first, like the gods of Homer, enveloped in a blinding mist; but to him whom their descent to earth concerns, to him who stands most in need of their help, the cloud becomes luminous and fragrant, and betrays the divinity behind it. Con-versations on Some of the Old Poets. SEPTEMBER EIGHTH He 's true to God who 's true to man; wherever wrong is done, To the humblest and the weakest, 'neath the all-beholding sun. That wrong is also done to us; and they are slaves most base, Whose love of right is for themselves, and not for all their race. On the Capture of Certain Fugiti'ue Slaves near Washington. SEPTEMBER NINTH As soon as a thing is past, it is as infinitely far away from us as if it had happened millions of years ago. Cambridge Thirty Tears Ago. [ 79 ] SEPTEMBER TENTH Action and Life — lo ! here the key Of all on earth that seemeth dark and wrong; Win this — and, with it, freely ye May enter that bright realm for which ye long. Sphinx. SEPTEMBER ELEVENTH The hand of God sows not in vain; Long sleeps the darkling seed below, The seasons come, and change, and go, And all the fields are deep with grain. On the Death of Dr. Channing. SEPTEMBER TWELFTH I can't tell the wy on 't, but nothin' is so sure Ez thet principle kind o' gits spiled by exposure; A man thet lets all sorts o' folks git a sight on 't Ough' to hev it all took right away, every mite on 't; Ef he can't keep it all to himself wen it 's wise to, He ain't one it 's fit to trust nothin' so nice to. 'The Biglonx} Papers. SEPTEMBER THIRTEENTH Are not our educations commonly like a pile of books laid over a plant in a pot .? The compressed nature struggles through at every crevice, but can never get the cramp and stunt out of it. A Moosehead Journal. [80] SEPTEMBER FOURTEENTH To the spirit elect there is no choice; He cannot say, This will I do, or that; . . . A hand is stretched to him from out the dark, Which grasping without question, he is led Where there is work that he must do for God. Columbus. SEPTEMBER FIFTEENTH Heaven is not mounted to on wings of dreams . . . 'T is sorrow builds the ladder up, Whose golden rounds are our calamities, Whereon our firm feet planting, nearer God The spirit climbs, and hath its eyes unsealed. On the Death of a Friend's Child. SEPTEMBER SIXTEENTH Longing is God's fresh heavenward will With our poor earthward striving; We quench it that we may be still Content with merely living. Longing. SEPTEMBER SEVENTEENTH Nex' thing to knowin' you 're well off is nuf to know when y' ain't. The Biglonv Papers. [8i] SEPTEMBER EIGHTEENTH The man of talents possesses them like so many tools, does his job with them, and there an end; but the man of genius is possessed by it, and it makes him into a book or a life according to its whim. Cambridge Thirty Tears Ago. SEPTEMBER NINETEENTH Great Truths are portions of the soul of man; Great souls are portions of Eternity; Each drop of blood that e'er through true heart ran With lofty message, ran for thee and me. Sonnets. SEPTEMBER TWENTIETH We call our sorrows Destiny, but ought Rather to name our high successes so. A Glance behind the Curtain. SEPTEMBER TWENTY-FIRST It is a bad sign when a man is skilled in apologies. Conversations on Some of the Old Poets. SEPTEMBER TWENTY-SECOND Credit should be given rather to the concen- trated resolution than to the creed or theory. Resolution is the youngest and dearest daughter [82] of Destiny, and may win from her fond mother almost any favor she chooses to ask, though in very wantonness. The Old Dramatists. SEPTEMBER TWENTY-THIRD After all, the great secret is, to learn how little the world is while we are yet living in it. The Old Dramatists. SEPTEMBER TWENTY-FOURTH Not only around our infancy Doth heaven with all its splendors lie : Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, We Sinais climb and know it not. The Vision of Sir Launfal. SEPTEMBER TWENTY-FIFTH Life is the jailer. Death the angel sent To draw the unwilling bolts and set us free. On the Death of a Friend'' s Child. SEPTEMBER TWENTY-SIXTH Arter all, Time's dial plate Marks cen'tries with the minute-finger, An' Good can't never come tu late, Though it doos seem to try an' linger. The Biglo%v Papers. [83] SEPTEMBER TWENTY-SEVENTH The senses can do nothing unless the soul be an accomplice, and in whatever the soul does, the body will have a voice. Con'versations on Some of the Old Poets. SEPTEMBER TWENTY-EIGHTH There seem nowadays to be two sources of literary inspiration, fulness of mind and empti- ness of pocket. The Biglo'U) Papers. SEPTEMBER TWENTY-NINTH How great it is to breathe with human breath, To be but poor foot-soldiers in the ranks Of our old exiled king, Humanity; Encamping after every hard-won field Nearer and nearer Heaven's happy plains. Nenju Year" s Eve. SEPTEMBER THIRTIETH Whatever a man's inward calling is, that will have undivided possession of him, or no share at all in him. The Old Dramatists. [84] OCTOBER OCTOBER FIRST \ X /E spend all our youth in building a vessel for our voyage of life, and set forth w^ith streamers flying; but the moment we come near the great lodestone of our proper destiny, out leap all our carefully driven bolts and nails, and we get many a mouthful of good salt brine, and many a bufl^et of the rough water of experience, before we secure the bare right to live. A Moosehead Journal. OCTOBER SECOND I might turn back to other destinies, For one sincere key opes all Fortune's doors; But whoso answers not God's earliest call. Forfeits or dulls that faculty supreme Of lying open to his genius Which makes the wise heart certain of its ends. Columbus. OCTOBER THIRD Who speaks the truth stabs Falsehood to the heart. V Ennjoi. [85] OCTOBER FOURTH We do not agree, nor should we be pleasant companions if we did. This would be a dull world indeed, if all our opinions must bevel to one standard; when all our hearts do, we shall see blue sky, and not sooner. The Old Dramatists. OCTOBER FIFTH Beautiful as fire is in itself, I suspect that part of the pleasure is metaphysical, and that the sense of playing with an element which can be so terrible adds to the zest of the spectacle. A Fe^w Bits of Roman Mosaic. OCTOBER SIXTH A base mind always takes that for cant in another which would be such in itself, and is apt to blame any innocent assertion of peculiar- ity for assumption. Cowersations on Some of the Old Poets. OCTOBER SEVENTH The world always judges a man (and rightly enough, too) by his little faults, which he shows a hundred times a day, rather than by his great virtues, which he discloses perhaps once in a lifetime. Cambridge Thirty Years Ago, [86] OCTOBER EIGHTH Beauty and Truth, and all that these contain, Drop not like ripened fruit about our feet; We climb to them through years of sweat and pain; Without long struggle, none did e'er attain The downward look from Quiet's blissful seat. To John G. Palfrey. OCTOBER NINTH Autumn is often called a melancholy season; I cannot find it so, though I have often known the summer landscape to seem barer and bleaker than the long gray beach at Nantasket. No; there hangs the wondrous lyre within our reach, its dumb chords bearing the unborn music in their womb, which our touch delivers — a love- ditty or a dirge. The Old Dramatists. OCTOBER TENTH True Love, which steals into the heart With feet as silent as the lightsome dawn That kisses smooth the rough brows of the dark, And hath its will through blissful gentleness. Lo've. [87] OCTOBER ELEVENTH I can't make out but jest one ginnle rule — No man need go an' make himself a fool, Nor jedgment ain't like mutton, thet can't bear Cookin' tu long, nor be took up tu rare. The Bigloav Papers. OCTOBER TWELFTH In creating, the only hard thing's to begin; A grass-blade 's no easier to make than an oak. If you 've once found the way, you 've achieved the grand stroke. A Fable for Critics. OCTOBER THIRTEENTH Incredulity robs us of many pleasures, and gives us nothing in return. It is well to distrust what we hear to make us think worse of a man, and to accept a story's pleasantness as prima facie evidence of its truth. Conversations on Some of the Old Poets. OCTOBER FOURTEENTH It is singular how impatient men are with overpraise of others, how patient with over- praise of themselves; and yet the one does them no injury, while the other may be their ruin. The Bigloiv Papers, [88] OCTOBER FIFTEENTH Patience, when it is a divine thing, is active, not passive. Conversations on Some of the Old Poets. OCTOBER SIXTEENTH It has often set me thinking v^hen I find that I can always pick up plenty of nuts under my shagbark tree. The squirrels know them by their lightness, and I have seldom seen one with the marks of their teeth in it. What a school- house is the world, if our wits would only not play truant ! The Bigloiv Papers. OCTOBER SEVENTEENTH Through the clouded glass Of our own bitter tears, we learn to look Undazzled on the kindness of God's face; Earth is too dark, and Heaven alone shines through. On the Death of a Friend' s Child. OCTOBER EIGHTEENTH The sincere thought which the meanest pebble gives to a human soul is of great price to us. Con'versations on Some of the Old Poets. OCTOBER NINETEENTH To try to be independent is to acknowledge our slavery. The Old Dramatists. [89] OCTOBER TWENTIETH I am often struck, especially in reading Mon- taigne, with the obviousness and famiharity of a great writer's thoughts, and the freshness they gain because said by him. The truth is, we mix their greatness with all they say and give it our best attention. The Bigloix) Papers. OCTOBER TWENTY-FIRST Our love for one is only made preeminent that it may show us the beauty and holiness of that love whose arms are wide enough for all. It is easy enough to die for one we love so fiercely; but it is a harder and nobler martyrdom to live for others. The Old Dramatists. OCTOBER TWENTY-SECOND We, too, have autumns, when our leaves Drop loosely through the dampened air, When all our good seems bound in sheaves, And we stand reaped and bare. . . . O thou, whose days are yet all spring. Faith, blighted once, is past retrieving; Experience is a dumb, dead thing; The victory 's in believing. To . [90] OCTOBER TWENTY-THIRD And often, from that other world, on this Some gleams from great souls gone before may shine, To shed on struggling hearts a clearer bliss, And clothe the Right with lustre more divine. Elegy on the Death of Dr. Charming. OCTOBER TWENTY-FOURTH He that loves the creature has made ready a shrine for the Creator in his heart. Con'uersatioHs on Some of the Old Poets. OCTOBER TWENTY-FIFTH The great intellect dies with its possessor; the great heart, though his name in whose breast it ' had its ebb and flow be buried in the mouldered past, survives forever, beckoning kindred na- tures to deeds of heroic trust and self-sacrifice. The Old Dramatists. OCTOBER TWENTY-SIXTH How much dignity does the love of nature give to minds otherwise trivial ! Cons^,^, ; 1 fc^ ,0o^ .0 o. 0,0 C^ >' ^•^^x. H. -r, = ;y.v' -*.•.----. .0 \ N O .0- ,y^ r C-^ "m "^ 'P \> s •> ' - ' ,. <> * ^^^'"^^ S^'-^, ..^ \0 o^ .O V I » 1 A \v <• V, ,X^^' '^-- ' ,0 N ^" .0- a^' A ^^' V - ^ '-^^ . IV^V/^ .N^^'^ » V. .V '^^ 003 582 488 1 vJ'^ttit