Classic Poem

So spoke the Student; in his eye swam tears,
A sincere man, whose mournful, thoughtful years,
Have run away in longings for that good,
Which finds he only in some solitude,
Where swing in sunny distances the trees,
And squirrels chirp in frolic to the breeze,
And o'er the grass the green snake winds along,
Curving himself in like the Brook's clear song,
Where pigeons glance about the murmuring boughs,
And beetles hum, and the tall Pine-tree soughs. —
Dear student, in that life, so sad to thee,
Is better Nature, than all this to me.
Thou dost not feel the sweetness of the art,
When strikes the farmer in the earth his heart;
His crops are wise instructions of the power,
Which off his fingers reels the fruitful hour;
With a father's fondness, o'er his rich Fields
He looks content, and what the out-door yields,
Within his bosom meets its answering tone,
Nor is he satisfied to hold alone
This credit of the world, but with his friend
Who owns yon meadow, does his harvest blend
In fair exchanges, as the honest earth
For his just thoughts alone its crop gives birth.
The neighbor in his mind, has his fit place,
And trade is the keen Wizard's shifting mace
By which he deals in untold craftiness
With those about him; they in turn confess
The profit which this prudent Industry
Has made for them, and kept their wits at sea.
'Tis always the concealed, mysterious thought
Which in his bargains somewhere shall be caught;
This competition is the mystic thing,
He does not know its strength or power of wing,
And only on his neighbor tries its force,
Who can for him interpret its true source. —
What is the cheer within the village street,
Which makes the Court, the Jail, the Church complete,
Save that each day 't is a new birth of mind,
And these new men experiments can find?
So like a laboratory smells the town,
These villagers the chemists, — skill the crown
Which decks the royal head, — he is a King,
Who from his cunning competence can bring.
Shall witty scheme or formula compare
With Nature's secret force, which can prepare
Each hour new tactics for this village war,
So gently waged, so little do they jar.
And who do tenant then the Poor-house wall,
And who are fastened in the Prison's hall,
But those that baulk kind Nature in her play,
Who thus has laid them up, and stored away.
Is trade no happier than the game of old,
When iron muscles played the trick for gold,
When Barons led their fierce retainers forth,
Like Kurroglou and battered down the earth,
When no man's life was safe in wood or street,
And the whole neighborhood a martial beat.
Much I prefer to sit on Princeton hill,
And see around me the results of skill,
Where Mind does own the making of the thing,
The age of muscle having had its swing.
Are there no dear emotions in the vale,
Does not the Maiden hear the lover's wail,
Breathe gently forth below the Chesnut shade,
Does not her bosom heave, and blushes fade
Momently on her cheek, like shadows flying
Across the woodlands while soft day is dying
Upon that range of Hampshire hills, — does ago
No sweet respect from its young heirs engage,
Sounds not the running Schoolboy's chorus cry,
And village girls do they not smile and sigh;
Are not the wrinkles in that old man's brows,
The fruit of battle with the winter snows,
Or honest strokes beneath the summer's sun,
Of his swift scythe, those curvatures have run;
Are there no merry parties for the lakes,
And nutting frolics in the forest's brakes;
The horse, the cow, and dog play merry part,
The humblest village beats with cheery heart.
Within the plainest School-house lore is writ
As good as Bible-story, part of it;
The city claims a visit every year,
The Cattle-show is held each season near,
A thousand books fly everywhere about,
Of which the secret quickly is torn out,
Sweet bread, rich milk, and apples weigh the board,
The village, by its trade, doth spend not hoard.
He who has craft, he gets respect from all,
He who has none, by his deserts doth fall
To his true level, and Nature dwelling here
Pours out her sacred Instinct strong and clear.
The Student said, — If all this, truly so,
A stagnant element cakes deep below,
The threadbare relic of the elder age,
The heirloom of Judea, that sad page
Recording the fantastic miracles
Done in that day, which read like jugglers' spells,
Or incantations in a tiresome play,
Which later editors might crib away.
How sadly serious is Religion now,
That Seraph with her sparkling, crystal brow,
In whose deep humane eyes the world should read,
Tenderest consolation, and not bleed
At their cold, spectral, grim, forlorn replies,
Like one who stares at us with mere glass eyes.
What awkward repetitions of a Creed,
The pulpit and the minister, indeed,
Where congregations meet for gossipping,
Or boys for show, and girls to learn to sing.
Is this Religion, — Nature's other self,
Or the last issue of the thirst for pelf,
How cold to me the worn church-service is,
I wonder that some people do not hiss. —
O Student learn a wiser lore than thine,
Deem me presumptuous, do not call it mine;
A lore I read upon the steel-blue lakes,
And in the piled white clouds, this soft wind takes
Like sailing navies, o'er the Atlantic heaven,
A lore by Spirits to this mortal given,
That teaches in whate'er our souls revere,
Is the pure oxygen of that atmosphere,
Which God presents our race to freely breathe,
Which he does finely through our beings wreathe,
And that we reverence has power sublime,
Whether it be the birth of olden time,
Or the last Spirit-prophecy of him
Who dwelt on earth, a mild-eyed Seraphim.
O Jesus, if thy spirit haunts that vale
Whence softly on the air, the Church-bells wail,
Swells up this silent mount, a prophecy,
That thou didst teach our souls could never die;
If to some lonely heart, thy memory brings
The healing of thy Beauty on its wings,
And to this gentle heart its truth does say,
That thou wert mild and gentle, pure alway;
Does promise after that hath left this shore,
And when no longer sounds this hurried roar
Of eager life, a rest in sacred camps,
Where holy Angels tend unfading lamps,
Where all that here this lowly heart did love,
Dwells in the sunshine of that sphere above;
Where never sorrow, and where never pain
Creep o'er the mind, as on the flowers the rain
Of early winter, crossing out their flame;
Where music sounds perpetual the name
Of an eternal Beauty, and where day
Dies not in shadow on a mournful way;
Where shall that lowly heart meet better earth
Than here was present, where shall a new birth,
Quicken her faculties low lying sere,
And thought's rich Compensation shall appear;
If thus to one pure heart in any vale,
Above which now these vast white clouds do sail,
Thy lesson comes, though taught by miracles,
And in the dark contrivances of spells,
Yet shall each Church to me an altar seem,
Of sculpture lovely as a maiden's dream,
The lowly Hymn-book claim my gratitude,
The least frail office chain my darkest mood,
For I must feel such souls do dwell on earth,
Who look afar for an immortal birth,
And thou, serenest Jesus, art to them,
The lustrous mild-eyed, blissful Seraphim.