Of Paradise, O hermit wise, Let us renounce the thought. Of old therein our names of sin Allah recorded not.
Who dear to God on earthly sod No corn-grain plants, The same is glad that life is had, Though corn he wants.
Thy mind the mosque and cool kiosk, Spare fast, and orisons; Mine me allows the drink-house, And sweet chase of the nuns.
O just fakeer, with brow austere, Forbid me not the vine; On the first day, poor Hafiz clay Was kneaded up with wine.
He is no dervise, Heaven slights his service, Who shall refuse There in the banquet, to pawn his blanket For Schiraz's juice.
Who his friend's shirt, or hem of his shirt, Shall spare to pledge, To him Eden's bliss and Angel's kiss Shall want their edge.
Up, Hafiz; grace from high God's face Beams on thee pure; Shy then not hell, and trust thou well, Heaven is secure.
Give All To Love
Give all to love; Obey thy heart; Friends, kindred, days, Estate, good-fame, Plans, credit, and the Muse,- Nothing refuse. 'Tis a brave master; Let it have scope: Follow it utterly, Hope beyond hope: High and more high It dives into noon, With wing unspent, Untold intent; But it is a god, Knows its own path, And the outlets of the sky. It was not for the mean; It requireth courage stout, Souls above doubt, Valor unbending; It will reward,- They shall return More than they were, And ever ascending. Leave all for love; Yet, hear me, yet, One word more thy heart behoved, One pulse more of firm endeavor,- Keep thee today, To-morrow, forever, Free as an Arab Of thy beloved. Cling with life to the maid; But when the surprise, First vague shadow of surmise Flits across her bosom young Of a joy apart from thee, Free be she, fancy-free; Nor thou detain her vesture's hem, Nor the palest rose she flung From her summer diadem.
Good-bye
Good-bye, proud world, I'm going home, Thou'rt not my friend, and I'm not thine; Long through thy weary crowds I roam; A river-ark on the ocean brine, Long I've been tossed like the driven foam, But now, proud world, I'm going home.
Good-by to Flattery's fawning face, To Grandeur, with his wise grimace, To upstart Wealth's averted eye, To supple Office low and high, To crowded halls, to court, and street, To frozen hearts, and hasting feet, To those who go, and those who come, Good-by, proud world, I'm going home.
I'm going to my own hearth-stone Bosomed in yon green hills, alone, A secret nook in a pleasant land, Whose groves the frolic fairies planned; Where arches green the livelong day Echo the blackbird's roundelay, And vulgar feet have never trod A spot that is sacred to thought and God.
Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home, I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome; And when I am stretched beneath the pines Where the evening star so holy shines, I laugh at the lore and the pride of man, At the sophist schools, and the learned clan; For what are they all in their high conceit, When man in the bush with God may meet.
Grace
How much, preventing God! how much I owe To the defenses thou hast round me set: Example, custom, fear, occasional slow, These scorned bondmen were my parapet. I dare not peep over this parapet To gauge with glance the roaring gulf beelow, The depths of sin to which I had descended, Had not these me against myself defended.
Guy
Mortal mixed of middle clay, Attempered to the night and day, Interchangeable with things, Needs no amulets nor rings. Guy possessed the talisman That all things from him began, And as, of old, Polycrates Chained the sunshine and the breeze, So did Guy betimes discover Fortune was his guard and lover; In strange junctures, felt with awe His own symmetry with law, That no mixture could withstand The virtue of his lucky hand. He gold or jewel could not lose, Nor not receive his ample dues; In the street, if he turned round, His eye the eye 'twas seeking found. It seemed his Genius discreet Worked on the Maker's own receipt, And made each tide and element Stewards of stipend and of rent; So that the common waters fell As costly wine into his well. He had so sped his wise affairs That he caught nature in his snares; Early or late, the falling rain Arrived in time to swell his grain; Stream could not so perversely wind, But corn of Guy's was there to grind; The whirlwind found it on its way To speed his sails, to dry his hay; And the world's sun seemed to rise To drudge all day for Guy the wise. In his rich nurseries, timely skill Strong crab with nobler blood did fill; The Zephyr in his garden rolled From plum trees vegetable gold; And all the hours of the year With their own harvest hovered were: There was no frost but welcome came, Nor freshet, nor midsummer flame; Belonged to wind and world the toil And venture, and to Guy the oil.
Hamatreya
Bulkeley, Hunt, Willard, Hosmer, Meriam, Flint, Possessed the land which rendered to their toil Hay, corn, roots, hemp, flax, apples, wool and wood. Each of these landlords walked amidst his farm, Saying, "'Tis mine, my children's and my name's. How sweet the west wind sounds in my own trees! How graceful climb those shadows on my hill! I fancy these pure waters and the flags Know me, as does my dog: we sympathize; And, I affirm, my actions smack of the soil.'
Where are these men? Asleep beneath their grounds: And strangers, fond as they, their furrows plough. Earth laughs in flowers, to see her boastful boys Earth-proud, proud of the earth which is not theirs; Who steer the plough, but cannot steer their feet Clear of the grave. They added ridge to valley, brook to pond, And sighed for all that bounded their domain; 'This suits me for a pasture; that's my park; We must have clay, lime, gravel, granite-ledge, And misty lowland, where to go for peat. The land is well,--lies fairly to the south. 'Tis good, when you have crossed the sea and back, To find the sitfast acres where you left them.' Ah! the hot owner sees not Death, who adds Him to his land, a lump of mould the more. Hear what the Earth says:--
Earth-Song
'Mine and yours; Mine, not yours, Earth endures; Stars abide-- Shine down in the old sea; Old are the shores; But where are old men? I who have seen much, Such have I never seen.
'The lawyer's deed Ran sure, In tail, To them, and to their heirs Who shall succeed, Without fail, Forevermore.
'Here is the land, Shaggy with wood, With its old valley, Mound and flood. "But the heritors?-- Fled like the flood's foam. The lawyer, and the laws, And the kingdom, Clean swept herefrom.
'They called me theirs, Who so controlled me; Yet every one Wished to stay, and is gone, How am I theirs, If they cannot hold me, But I hold them?'
When I heard the Earth-song, I was no longer brave; My avarice cooled Like lust in the chill of the grave.
Heroism
Ruby wine is drunk by knaves, Sugar spends to fatten slaves, Rose and vine-leaf deck buffoons; Thunder-clouds are Jove's festoons, Drooping oft in wreaths of dread, Lightning-knotted round his head; The hero is not fed on sweets, Daily his own heart he eats; Chambers of the great are jails, And head-winds right for royal sails.
In Memoriam
I mourn upon this battle-field, But not for those who perished here. Behold the river-bank Whither the angry farmers came, In sloven dress and broken rank, Nor thought of fame. Their deed of blood All mankind praise; Even the serene Reason says, It was well done. The wise and simple have one glance To greet yon stern head-stone, Which more of pride than pity gave To mark the Briton's friendless grave. Yet it is a stately tomb; The grand return Of eve and morn, The year's fresh bloom, The silver cloud, Might grace the dust that is most proud.
Yet not of these I muse In this ancestral place, But of a kindred face That never joy or hope shall here diffuse.
Ah, brother of the brief but blazing star! What hast thou to do with these Haunting this bank's historic trees? Thou born for noblest life, For action's field, for victor's car, Thou living champion of the right? To these their penalty belonged: I grudge not these their bed of death, But thine to thee, who never wronged The poorest that drew breath.
All inborn power that could Consist with homage to the good Flamed from his martial eye; He who seemed a soldier born, He should have the helmet worn, All friends to fend, all foes defy, Fronting foes of God and man, Frowning down the evil-doer, Battling for the weak and poor. His from youth the leader's look Gave the law which others took, And never poor beseeching glance Shamed that sculptured countenance.
There is no record left on earth, Save in tablets of the heart, Of the rich inherent worth, Of the grace that on him shone, Of eloquent lips, of joyful wit; He could not frame a word unfit, An act unworthy to be done; Honour prompted every glance, Honour came and sat beside him, In lowly cot or painful road, And evermore the cruel god Cried, 'Onward!' and the palm-crown showed. Born for success he seemed, With grace to win, with heart to hold, With shining gifts that took all eyes, With budding power in college-halls, As pledged in coming days to forge Weapons to guard the State, or scourge Tyrants despite their guards or walls. On his young promise Beauty smiled, Drew his free homage unbeguiled, And prosperous Age held out his hand, And richly his large future planned, And troops of friends enjoyed the tide,-- All, all was given, and only health denied.
I see him with superior smile Hunted by Sorrow's grisly train In lands remote, in toil and pain, With angel patience labour on, With the high port he wore erewhile, When, foremost of the youthful band, The prizes in all lists he won; Nor bate one jot of heart or hope, And, least of all, the loyal tie Which holds to home 'neath every sky, The joy and pride the pilgrim feels In hearts which round the hearth at home Keep pulse for pulse with those who roam.
What generous beliefs console The brave whom Fate denies the goal! If others reach it, is content; To Heaven's high will his will is bent. Firm on his heart relied, What lot soe'er betide, Work of his hand He nor repents nor grieves, Pleads for itself the fact, As unrepenting Nature leaves Her every act.
Fell the bolt on the branching oak; The rainbow of his hope was broke; No craven cry, no secret tear,-- He told no pang, he knew no fear; Its peace sublime his aspect kept, His purpose woke, his features slept; And yet between the spasms of pain His genius beamed with joy again.
O'er thy rich dust the endless smile Of Nature in thy Spanish isle Hints never loss or cruel break And sacrifice for love's dear sake, Nor mourn the unalterable Days That Genius goes and Folly stays. What matters how, or from what ground, The freed soul its Creator found? Alike thy memory embalms That orange-grove, that isle of palms, And these loved banks, whose oak-boughs bold Root in the blood of heroes old.
Letters
Every day brings a ship, Every ship brings a word; Well for those who have no fear, Looking seaward well assured That the word the vessel brings Is the word they wish to hear.
Loss And Gain
Virtue runs before the muse And defies her skill, She is rapt, and doth refuse To wait a painter's will.
Star-adoring, occupied, Virtue cannot bend her, Just to please a poet's pride, To parade her splendor.
The bard must be with good intent No more his, but hers, Throw away his pen and paint, Kneel with worshippers.
Then, perchance, a sunny ray From the heaven of fire, His lost tools may over-pay, And better his desire.
Love And Thought
Two well-assorted travellers use The highway, Eros and the Muse. From the twins is nothing hidden, To the pair is naught forbidden; Hand in hand the comrades go Every nook of nature through: Each for other they were born, Each can other best adorn; They know one only mortal grief Past all balsam or relief, When, by false companions crossed, The pilgrims have each other lost.
