And scarcely visible to us here, Rounds and completes the perfect sphere; A prophecy and intimation, A pale and feeble adumbration, Of the great world of light, that lies Ah! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, With the hot tears and sweat of toil,- Weary with labor, faint with pain, And if a more auspicious fate On thy advancing steps await, Still let it ever be thy pride To linger by the laborer's side; To cheer the dreary march along Of the great army of the poor, O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor. Nor to thyself the task shall be Without reward; for thou shalt learn The wisdom early to discern True beauty in utility; As great Pythagoras of yore, Standing beside the blacksmith's door, And hearing the hammers, as they smote The anvils with a different note, Stole from the varying tones, that hung Vibrant on every iron tongue, The secret of the sounding wire, And formed the seven-chorded lyre. Enough! I will not play the Seer; For, like Acestes' shaft of old, The swift thought kindles as it flies, And burns to ashes in the skies, TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. WELCOME, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside, While the sullen gales of autumn Shake the windows. The ungrateful world Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, First I met thee. There are marks of age, There are thumb-marks on thy margin, Made by hands that clasped thee rudely,“ At the alehouse. Soiled and dull thou art; Yellow are thy time-worn pages As the russet, rain-molested Leaves of autumn. Thou art stained with wine Scattered from hilarious goblets, As these leaves with the libations Of Olympus. Yet dost thou recall Days departed, half-forgotten, When in dreamy youth I wandered By the Baltic, When I paused to hear The old ballad of King Christian Shouted from suburban taverns Thou recallest bards Who, in solitary chambers, And with hearts by passion wasted, Wrote thy pages. Thou recallest homes Where thy songs of love and friendship Made the gloomy Northern winter Bright as summer. Once some ancient Scald, In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, Chanted staves of these old ballads To the Vikings. Once in Elsinore, At the court of old King Hamlet, Yorick and his boon companions Once Prince Frederick's Guard Sang them in their smoky barracks ;— Suddenly the English cannon Joined the chorus! Peasants in the field, Sailors on the roaring ocean, Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics Thou hast been their friend; They, alas! have left thee friendless! Yet at least by one warm fireside And, as swallows build In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, So thy twittering songs shall nestle Quiet, close, and warm, Sheltered from all molestation, And recalling by their voices Youth and travel. |