And gaily dinging down the van Charge with a cheer-Set on! Set on! Virtue is that beseems a Man! Arthur T. Quiller-Couch [1863 THE SPLENDID SPUR NOT on the neck of prince or hound, Of splendid steel Shall stand secure on sliding fate, When golden navies weep their freight. The scarlet hat, the laureled stave Are measures, not the springs, of worth; In a wife's lap, as in a grave, Man's airy notions mix with earth. Bravely to stir The dust in this loud world, and tread Trust in thyself,—then spur amain: Of sight and sound Count it the lists that God hath built For haughty hearts to ride a-tilt. Arthur T. Quiller-Couch [1863 THE TRANSCENDENTALISTS CONSCIENCE From "A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers" CONSCIENCE is instinct bred in the house, Into the moors. I love a life whose plot is simple, And does not thicken with every pimple, A soul so sound no sickly conscience binds it, That makes the universe no worse than 't finds it. I love an earnest soul, Whose mighty joy and sorrow Are not drowned in a bowl, And brought to life to-morrow; And not seventy; A conscience worth keeping, Laughing not weeping; A conscience wise and steady, And forever ready; Not changing with events, A conscience exercised about Large things, which one may doubt. Predestined to be good, Unto itself alone, And false to none; Born to its own affairs, Its own joys and own cares; By whom the work which God begun Is finished, and not undone; Taken up where he left off, Whether to worship or to scoff; If not good god, good devil. Goodness!-you hypocrite, come out of that, I have no patience towards Who love their work, Whose virtue is a song To cheer God along. hat. Henry David Thoreau [1817–1862] MY PRAYER GREAT God, I ask thee for no meaner pelf And next in value, which thy kindness lends, That my weak hand may equal my firm faith, Nor my relenting lines, That I thy purpose did not know, Or overrated thy designs. Henry David Thoreau [1817-1862] INSPIRATION IF with light head erect I sing, Though all the Muses lend their force, From my poor love of anything, The verse is weak and shallow as its source. But if with bended neck I grope More anxious to keep back than forward it,— Making my soul accomplice there Unto the flame my heart hath lit, Then will the verse forever wear,— Time cannot bend the line which God has writ. I hearing get, who had but ears, And sight, who had but eyes before; I moments live, who lived but years, And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore. Now chiefly is my natal hour, And only now my prime of life; Of manhood's strength it is the flower, 'Tis peace's end, and war's beginning strife. It comes in summer's broadest noon, By a gray wall, or some chance place, And vexing day with its presuming face. I will not doubt the love untold Which not my worth nor want hath bought, Henry David Thoreau [1817-1862] EACH AND ALL LITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown The heifer that lows in the upland farm, Stops his horse, and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; Nor knowest thou what argument Nothing is fair or good alone. I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, I brought him home, in his nest, at even; The delicate shells lay 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, 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; |