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FABLE.

THE mountain and the squirrel

Had a quarrel;

And the former called the latter 'Little Prig';

Bun replied,

'You are doubtless very big;

But all sorts of things and weather

Must be taken in together,

To make up a year
And a sphere.

And I think it no disgrace

To occupy my place.

If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry.

I'll not deny you make

A very pretty squirrel track;

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;

If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut.'

TWO RIVERS.

THY summer voice, Musketaquit,
Repcats the music of the rain;

But sweeter rivers pulsing flit

Through thee, as thou through Concord Plain.

Thou in thy narrow banks art pent:
The stream I love unbounded goes

Through flood and sea and firmament;

Through light, through life, it forward flows.

I see the inundation sweet,

I hear the spending of the stream

Through years, through men, through nature fleet, Through love and thought, through power and dream.

Musketaquit, a goblin strong,

Of shard and flint makes jewels gay;
They lose their grief who hear his song,
And where he winds is the day of day.

So forth and brighter fares my stream,
Who drink it shall not thirst again;
No darkness stains its equal gleam,
And ages drop in it like rain.

WALDEINSAMKEIT.

I Do not count the hours I spend
In wandering by the sea;
The forest is my loyal friend,
A Delphic shrine to me.

In plains that room for shadows make
Of skirting hills to lie,

Bound in by streams which give and take
Their colors from the sky;

Or on the mountain-crest sublime,

Or down the oaken glade,

O what have I to do with time?

For this the day was made.

Cities of mortals woe-begone
Fantastic care derides,

But in the serious landscape lone
Stern benefit abides.

Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy,
And merry is only a mask of sad,
But, sober on a fund of joy,
The woods at heart are glad.

There the great Planter plants
Of fruitful worlds the grain,

And with a million spells enchants
The souls that walk in pain.

Still on the seeds of all he made

The rose of beauty burns;

Through times that wear, and forms that fade,

Immortal youth returns.

The black ducks mounting from the lake,

The pigeon in the pines,

The bittern's boom, a desert make

Which no false art refines.

Down in yon watery nook,
Where bearded mists divide,

The gray old gods whom Chaos knew,

The sires of Nature, hide.

Aloft, in secret veins of air,

Blows the sweet breath of song,

O, few to scale those uplands dare,

Though they to all belong!

See thou bring not to field or stone
The fancies found in books;

Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own,

To brave the landscape's looks.

Oblivion here thy wisdom is,
Thy thrift, the sleep of cares;
For a proud idleness like this
Crowns all thy mean affairs.

SONG OF NATURE.

MINE are the night and morning, The pits of air, the gulf of space, The sportive sun, the gibbous moon, The innumerable days.

I hide in the solar glory,

I am dumb in the pealing song,

I rest on the pitch of the torrent,
In slumber I am strong.

No numbers have counted my tallies,
No tribes my house can fill,

I sit by the shining Fount of Life,
And pour the deluge still;

And ever by delicate powers

Gathering along the centuries

From race on race the rarest flowers,

My wreath shall nothing miss.

And many a thousand summers
My harvests ripened well,
And light from meliorating stars
With firmer glory fell.

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