THE BELLS

225

In a happy Runic rhyme,

To the rolling of the bells,

Of the bells, bells, bells,

To the tolling of the bells,

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,-
Bells, bells, bells,—

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

EACH AND ALL

ITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clowr

LITTLE

Of thee from the hill-top looking down;

The heifer that lows in the upland farm,

Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm;

The sexton tolling his bell at noon,
Deems not that great Napoleon

Stops his horse, and lists with delight,

Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;

Nor knowest thou what argument

Thy life to thy neighbor's creed hath lent.
All are needed by each one;
Nothing is fair or good alone.

I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,
Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
I brought him home, in his nest at even;
He sings the song, but it cheers not now,
For I did not bring home the river and sky;
He sang to my ear,-they sang to my eye.
The delicate shells lay on the shore;
The bubbles of the latest wave
Fresh pearls to their enamels gave,
And the bellowing of the savage sea
Greeted their safe escape to me.
I wiped away the weeds and foam,
I fetched my sea-born treasures home;

227

EACH AND ALL

But the poor, unsightly, noisome things

Had left their beauty 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 beauties 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;
Over me soared the eternal sky,
Full of light and of deity;

Again I saw, again I heard,

The rolling river, the morning bird;
Beauty through all my senses stole;
I yielded myself to the perfect whole.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY

CHURCH-YARD

HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

THE

The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,

The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient, solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

GRAY'S ELEGY

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bowed the woods before their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour;

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

229

If memory o'er their tombs no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?