EMERSON.
Bard of the soaring soul,
Of thought sublime, serene,—
Lord of the Pleiades
And all the stars between!
And further still thy sway:—
Thy realm, that vaster deep
Where galaxies unseen
Their radiant courses keep.
With measure masterful
Thou raisest our desire,
Till to thy boldest flight
Our eager souls aspire.
But not alone thy thought
In star-sprent spaces strown;
Thy largess manifold
Hath nearer harvests sown.
Ah! yes;—a richer crop
We gather, in thy song,
Than ever homeward brought
The Wain with “oxen strong.”
The Snow Storm, and Wood Notes,
Forerunners, and May-Days,
To the dear earth belong,
And grace our lowliest ways.
Concord, and Boston “Hymn,”—
They stir our pulses still,
And hold, for Freedom’s need,
The patriot heart and will.
The Problem,—Each and All,
Thy kind theology!
And like the Lord Christ’s heart,
Thy sweet Apology.
The Dirge,—the Threnody,
Our tenderest tears unseal;—
We know their loneliness,
And all their sorrow feel.
To Virtue’s holiest heights
Leads, still, thy dauntless strain,
And on our follies falls
“Its beautiful disdain.”
Between Rhodora’s bloom
And Merlin’s mighty rhyme,
Our largest thoughts find room,
O World-Soul seer sublime!
But little need hast thou
Of tribute we may bring;—
Thy fame hath Eastertide
With each returning Spring.
The centuries shall guard
The glory of thy verse,
And worthier song than ours
Its golden notes rehearse.
Thou buildest thy renown
With ageless masonry:—
Monadnock’s granite walls
Thy monument shall be!