A Singular Sense Of Detachment (short poems for the discerning palate)

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These Machines I determined to raise on a very new and odd foundation, the Rosicrucian doctrine of Spirits. I know how disagreeable it is to make use of hard words before a lady; but it is so much the concern of a poet to have his works understood, and particularly by your sex, that you must give me leave to explain two or three difficult terms.

The Rosicrucians are a people I must bring you acquainted with. The best account I know of them is in a French book called La Comte de Gabalis, which, both in its title and size, is so like a novel, that many of the fair sex have read it for one by mistake. According to these gentlemen, the four elements are inhabited by Spirits, which they call Sylphs, Gnomes, Nymphs, and Salamanders. As to the following cantos, all the passages of them are as fabulous as the Vision at the beginning, or the Transformation at the end except the loss of your hair, which I always mention with reverence.

The human persons are as fictitious as the airy ones; and the character of Belinda, as it is now managed, resembles you in nothing but in beauty. But let its fortune be what it will, mine is happy enough, to have given me this occasion of assuring you that I am, with the truest esteem, Madam,. This prologue was written in , after Addison had given Pope two of the main causes which led to their estrangement; and itself led the way for the third.

These verses were first published in Proof is lacking that these lines belong to Pope. They were printed by E. Curll in This was first printed in in the Miscellanies of Pope and Swift, but was probably written in Macer is supposed to be Ambrose Philips. This was written shortly after the coronation of George I. Referred to in a letter from Trumbull to Pope dated January, The epigram imitated is the twenty-third of the tenth book. See the fourth elegy of Tibullus, lines 55, In the course of his high-flown correspondence with Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, after her departure for the East, Pope often suggests the possibility of his travelling to meet her.

This mock pastoral was one of three which made up the original volume of Town Eclogues, published anonymously in Three more appeared in a later edition. The three ladies here addressed were attached to the court of the Prince and Princess of Wales. Pulteney was a daughter of one John Gumley, who had made a fortune by a glass manufactory.

It was first published in The Rev. He submitted the translation to Pope, , who gave him the following Edition: current; Page: [ ] lines, being a translation of a Prayer of Brutus. They met in , became friends, and in Lady Mary left England. In a letter of June, , Pope commends the poem to her consideration, with a suggestion of the personal applicability of the concluding lines to his own suffering under the existing circumstance of their separation. Abelard and Eloisa flourished in the twelfth century; they were two of the most distinguished persons of their age in Learning and Beauty, but for nothing more famous than for their unfortunate passion.

After a long course of calamities, they retired each to a several convent, and consecrated the remainder of their days to Religion. This, awakening all her tenderness, occasioned those celebrated letters out of which the following is partly extracted , which give so lively a picture of the struggles of Grace and Nature, Virtue and Passion. Pope himself became seriously involved in the South Sea speculations, and while he does not appear to have been a heavy loser in the end, his unwise action for friends, notably for Lady Mary Wortley seems to have gotten him into some difficulties.

This was of course written before the bursting of the bubble; presumably in He succeeded Addison in , and died in the following year. Probably Craggs, who was in office at the time when Pope established himself at Twickenham. Both were published in The plays have no literary merit. Written to Martha Blount in Lines were elsewhere adapted for a versified celebration of his own birthday, and for an epitaph on a suicide!

Though speculation has connected several other persons with this poem, it is probably still another hit at the luckless Ambrose Philips. It, with the three following poems, was first published in the Miscellanies, The enterprise was begun in , when these verses were probably written. First applied by Pope to Francis Chartres, but published in this form in The captain, some time after his return, being retired to Mr. Gulliver, apprehending from his late behaviour some estrangement of his affections, writes him the following expostulatory, soothing, and tenderly complaining epistle.

The public astonished Pope by taking this burlesque seriously, and praising it as poetry. These lines were enclosed in a letter to Bolingbroke, dated September 3, It was afterwards sold to Sir Hans Sloane. When the house was taken down in , its gateway, built by Inigo Jones, was given by Sir Hans Sloane to the Earl of Burlington, who removed it with the greatest care to his garden at Chiswick, where it may be still seen.

Southern was invited to dine on his birthday with Lord Orrery, who had prepared the entertainment, of which the bill of fare is here set down. Explained by Carruthers to refer to the large sums of money given in charity on account of the severity of the weather about the year Wilson, formerly fellow and librarian of Trinity College, Dublin; who speaks of the Fragment in the following terms:—. He left many blanks for fear of the Argus eye of those who, if they cannot find, can fabricate treason; yet, spite of his precaution, it fell into the hands of his enemies.

To the hieroglyphics there are direct allusions, I think, in some of the notes on the Dunciad. Swift set up a plain monument to his grandfather, and also presented a cup to the church of Goodrich, or Gotheridge in Herefordshire. He sent a pencilled elevation of the monument a simple tablet to Mrs. Howard, who returned it with the following lines, inscribed on the drawing by Pope.

It is not known who the Bishop was. This Journal was established in January, , and carried on for eight years by Pope Edition: current; Page: [ ] and his friends, in answer to the attacks provoked by the Dunciad. It corresponds in some measure to the Xenien of Goethe and Schiller. Occasioned by seeing some sheets of Dr. Who, having resigned his Place, died in his retirement at Easthamsted, in Berkshire, His only daughter having expired in his arms immediately after she arrived in France to see him.

John Hughes and Sarah Drew. The first two epistles of the Essay on Man were written in , the third in the year following, and the fourth in , when the complete Essay was published as we have it. The science of Human Nature is, like all other sciences, reduced to a few clear points: there are not many certain truths in this world. It is therefore in the anatomy of the mind, as in that of the body; more good will accrue to mankind by attending to the large, open, and perceptible parts, than by studying too much such finer nerves and vessels, the conformations and uses of which will for ever escape our observation.

The disputes are all upon these last; and, I will venture to say, they have less sharpened the wits than the hearts of men against each other, and have diminished the practice more than advanced the theory of morality. If I could flatter myself that this Essay has any merit, it is in steering betwixt the extremes of doctrines seemingly opposite, in passing over terms utterly unintelligible and in forming a temperate, yet not inconsistent, and a short, yet not imperfect, system of ethics. This I might have done in prose; but I chose verse, and even rhyme, for two reasons.

The one will appear obvious; that principles, maxims, or precepts, so written, both strike the reader more strongly at first, and are more easily retained by him afterwards: the other may seem odd, but it is true: I found I could express them more shortly this way than in prose itself; and nothing is more certain than that much of the force as well as grace of arguments or instructions depends on their conciseness. I was unable to treat this part of my subject more in detail without becoming dry and tedious; or more poetically without sacrificing perspicuity to ornament, without wandering from the precision, or breaking the chain of reasoning.

If any man can unite all these without diminution of any of them, I freely confess he will compass a thing above my capacity. What is now published is only to be considered as a general Map of Man, marking out no more than the greater parts, their extent, their limits, and their connexion, but leaving the particular to be more fully delineated in the charts which are to follow; consequently these epistles in their progress if I have health and leisure to make any progress will be less dry, and more susceptible of poetical ornament.

I am here only opening the fountains, and clearing the passage: to deduce the rivers, to follow them in their course, and to observe their effects, may be a task more agreeable. Of Man in the abstract. That we can judge only with regard to our own system, being ignorant of the relations of systems and things, verse 17, etc.

That Man is not to be deemed imperfect, but a being suited to his place and rank in the creation, agreeable to the general order of things, and conformable to ends and relations to him unknown, verse 35, etc. That it is partly upon his ignorance of future events, and partly upon the hope of a future state, that all his happiness in the present depends, verse 77, etc. The impiety of putting himself in the place of God, and judging of the fitness or unfitness, perfection or imperfection, justice or injustice, of his dispensations, verse , etc.

The absurdity of conceiting himself the final cause of the creation, or expecting that perfection in the moral world which is not in the natural, verse , etc. The unreasonableness of his complaints against Providence, while, on the one hand, he demands the perfections of Edition: current; Page: [ ] the angels, and, on the other, the bodily qualifications of the brutes; though to possess any of the sensitive faculties in a higher degree would render him miserable, verse , etc.

That throughout the whole visible world a universal order and gradation in the sensual and mental faculties is observed, which causes a subordination of creature to creature, and of all creatures to man. The gradations of Sense, Instinct, Thought, Reflection, Reason: that Reason alone countervails all the other faculties, verse , etc.

How much further this order and subordination of living creatures may extend above and below us; were any part of which broken, not that part only, but the whole connected creation must be destroyed, verse , etc. The extravagance, madness, and pride of such a desire, verse , etc. The consequence of all, the absolute submission due to Providence, both as to our present and future state, verse , etc. The business of Man not to pry into God, but to study himself.

His middle nature; his powers and frailties, verses 1 to The Edition: current; Page: [ ] limits of his capacity, verse 19, etc. The two principles of Man, Self-love and Reason, both necessary. Self-love the stronger, and why.

Their end the same, verse 81, etc. The Passions, and their use. The predominant passion, and its force. Its necessity, in directing men to different purposes. Its providential use, in fixing our principle, and ascertaining our virtue, verse 93, etc. Virtue and Vice joined in our mixed nature; the limits near, yet the things separate and evident: what is the office of Reason, verse , etc. How odious Vice in itself, and how we deceive ourselves into it, verse , etc.

That, however, the ends of Providence, and general goods, are answered in our passions and imperfections. How usefully these are distributed to all orders of men: how useful they are to Society; and to individuals; in every state, and every age of life, verse , etc. The whole Universe one system of Society.

Nothing made wholly for itself, nor yet wholly for another. The happiness of animals mutual, verse 7, etc. Reason or Instinct operates alike to the good of each individual. Reason or Instinct operates also to Society in all animals, verse 49, etc. How far Society carried by Instinct;—how much farther by reason, verse , etc. Of that which is called the state of nature. Reason instructed by Instinct in the invention of arts;—and in the forms of Society, verse , etc. Origin of political societies;—origin Edition: current; Page: [ ] of Monarchy;—patriarchal government, verse , etc.

Origin of true Religion and Government, from the same principle of Love;—origin of Superstition and Tyranny, from the same principle of Fear. The influence of Self-love operating to the social and public good. Restoration of true Religion and Government on their first principle.

Mixed government. Various forms of each, and the true end of all, verse , etc. False notions of Happiness, philosophical and popular, answered, from verses 19 to It is the end of all men, and attainable by all. God intends Happiness to be equal; and, to be so, it must be social, since all particular Happiness depends on general, and since he governs by general, and since he governs by general, not particular laws.

As it is necessary for order, and the peace and welfare of Society, that external goods should be unequal, Happiness is not made to consist in these. But notwithstanding that inequality, the balance of Happiness among mankind is kept even by Providence, by the two passions of Hope and Fear, verse 29, etc. What the Happiness of individuals is, as far as is consistent with the constitution of this world; and that the good man has here the advantage.

The error of imputing to virtue what are only the calamities of Nature, or of Fortune, verse 77, etc. The folly of expecting that God should alter his general laws in favour of particulars, verse , etc. That we are not judges who are good; but that whoever they are, they must be happiest, verse , etc.

That external goods are not the proper rewards, but often inconsistent with, or destructive of Virtue. That even these can make no man happy without Virtue:—instanced in Riches; Honours; Nobility; Greatness; Fame; Superior Talents, with pictures of human infelicity in men possessed of them all, verse , etc. That Virtue only constitutes a Happiness, whose object is universal, and whose prospect eternal.

That the perfection of Virtue and Happiness consists in a conformity to the Order of Providence here, and a resignation to it here and hereafter, verse , etc. Andover, March, A Pope. Ode on Solitude. Discourse on Pastoral Poetry. Spring; or, Damon. Summer; or, Alexis.

Winter; or, Daphne. Sappho to Phaon. Part I. Ode for Music on St. Tofts, a Famous Opera-Singer. Canto I. Prologue to Mr. Chorus of Athenians. John Moore. Ode to Quinbus Flestrin. Lemuel Gulliver. On Certain Ladies. Thomas Southern. To Erinna. A Question by Anonymous. On Charles, Earl of Dorset. Digby and of His Sister Mary. Elijah Fenton. Francis Atterbury. The Design. Of the Knowledge and Characters of Men. Of the Characters of Women. Of the Use of Riches. To Mr. Addison, occasioned by His Dialogue on Medals.

Epistle to Dr. John Donne, Dean of St. Martinus Scriblerus of the Poem. Book III. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. Rather with Samuel I beseech with tears, Speak, gracious Lord, oh, speak, thy servant hears. Let them be silent then; and thou alone, My God! Begone, ye Critics, and restrain your spite, Codrus writes on, and will forever write.

When you, like Orpheus, strike the warbling lyre, Attentive blocks stand round you and admire. Right then there passen by the way His Aunt, and eke her Daughters tway. Ducke in his trowses hath he hent, Not to be spied of ladies gent. Bette is to pine on coals and chalke, Then trust on Mon whose yerde can talke. Some play, some eat, some cack against the wall, And as they crouchen low, for bread and butter call.

Orpheus could charm the trees; but thus a tree, Taught by your hand, can charm no less than he; A poet made the silent wood pursue; This vocal wood had drawn the poet too. Yet guiltless too this bright destroyer lives, At random wounds, nor knows the wounds she gives; She views the story with attentive eyes, And pities Procris while her lover dies. These silver drops, like morning dew, Foretell the fervor of the day: So from one cloud soft showers we view, And blasting lightnings burst away.

But rebel Wit deserts thee oft in vain; Lost in the maze of words he turns again, And seeks a surer state, and courts thy gentle reign. But couldst thou seize some tongues that now are free, How Church and State should be obliged to thee! At Senate and at Bar how welcome wouldst thou be! She wears no colours sign of grace On any part except her face; All white and black beside: Dauntless her look, her gesture proud, Her voice theatrically loud, And masculine her stride. So have I seen, in black and white, A prating thing, a magpie hight, Majestically stalk; A stately worthless animal, That plies the tongue, and wags the tail, All flutter, pride, and talk.

So have I known those insects fair Which curious Germans hold so rare Still vary shapes and dyes; Still gain new titles with new forms; First grubs obscene, then wriggling worms, Then painted butterflies. You, that too wise for pride, too good for power, Enjoy the glory to be great no more, And carrying with you all the world can boast, To all the world illustriously are lost! Accept, O Garth!

a singular sense of detachment short poems for the discerning palate Manual

The hills and rocks attend my doleful lay, Why art thou prouder and more hard than they? Where stray ye, Muses! In those fair fields where sacred Isis glides, Or else where Cam his winding vales divides? Let other swains attend the rural care, Feed fairer flocks, or richer fleeces shear: But nigh yon mountain let me tune my lays, Embrace my love, and bind my brows with bays.

For you the swains the fairest flowers design, And in one garland all their beauties join; Accept the wreath which you deserve alone, In whom all beauties are comprised in one. Edition: current; Page: [ 24 ] See what delights in sylvan scenes appear! This harmless grove no lurking viper hides, But in my breast the serpent Love abides.

Here bees from blossoms sip the rosy dew, But your Alexis knows no sweets but you. O deign to visit our forsaken seats, 71 The mossy fountains, and the green retreats! But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat, The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat, To closer shades the panting flocks remove: Ye Gods! But soon the sun with milder rays descends To the cool ocean, where his journey ends.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! As some sad turtle his lost love deplores, And with deep murmurs fills the sounding shores; 20 Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn, Alike unheard, unpitied, and forlorn. Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along! Ye flowers that droop, forsaken by the spring, Ye birds that, left by Summer, cease to sing, Edition: current; Page: [ 25 ] Ye trees, that fade when Autumn-heats remove, Say, is not absence death to those who love? What have I said? Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay? Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind? She comes, my Delia comes!

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain! Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay! And is there magic but what dwells in love? Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains! I know thee, Love! Farewell, ye woods; adieu the light of day! One leap from yonder cliff shall end my pains, No more, ye hills, no more resound my strains! These thoughts he fortified with reasons still For none want reasons to confirm their will. Then let him choose a damsel young and fair, To bless his age, and bring a worthy heir; To soothe his cares, and, free from noise and strife, Conduct him gently to the verge of life.

But what so pure which envious tongues will spare? With matchless impudence they style a wife The dear-bought curse and lawful plague of life, A bosom serpent, a domestic evil, A night-invasion, and a midday-devil. A Wife! Would men but follow what the sex advise, All things would prosper, all the world grow wise. My soul abhors the tasteless dry embrace Of a stale virgin with a winter face: In that cold season Love but treats his guest With bean-straw, and tough forage at the best.

No crafty widows shall approach my bed; Those are too wise for bachelors to wed. Old as I am, my lusty limbs appear Like winter-greens, that flourish all the year. Ah, gentle Sir, take warning of a friend, Who knows too well the state you thus commend; Edition: current; Page: [ 38 ] And spite of all his praises must declare, All he can find is bondage, cost, and care. Do what you list, for me; you must be sage, And cautious sure; for wisdom is in age: But at these years to venture on the Fair!

And trust me, sir, the chastest you can choose, Will ask observance, and exact her dues. If what I speak my noble lord offend, My tedious sermon here is at an end.

  2. The Project Gutenberg eBook of Life of John Keats, by William Michael Rossetti.;
  3. The World is My Litter Box: Songs, Letters, and Essays by Cats.
  4. Turbulent Priests (Dan Starkey Book 3).
  5. Baudelaire: His Prose & Poetry 1919 Edition;

Who now but January exults with joy? If you, my friends, this virgin can procure, My joys are full, my happiness is sure. Old wives there are, of judgment most acute, Who solve these questions beyond all dispute; Consult with those, and be of better cheer; Marry, do penance, and dismiss your fear. I pass each previous settlement and deed, Too long for me to write, or you to read; Nor will with quaint impertinence display The pomp, the pageantry, the proud array. Full many an age old Hymen had not spied So kind a bridegroom, or so bright a bride.

Ye Bards! High mass was sung; they feasted in the hall; The servants round stood ready at their call. Edition: current; Page: [ 41 ] The female tribe surround him as he lay, And close beside him sat the gentle May: Where, as she tried his pulse, he softly drew A heaving sigh, and cast a mournful view! Then gave his bill, and bribed the Powers divine, With secret vows to favour his design. Who studies now but discontented May? On her soft couch uneasily she lay: The lumpish husband snored away the night, Till coughs awaked him near the morning light.

Large was his train, and gorgeous his array. But ah! How short a space our worldly joys endure! By means of this some wonder shall appear, Which, in due place and season, you may hear. Well sung sweet Ovid, in the days of yore, What sleight is that which love will not explore! For know, Sir Knight, of gentle blood I came; I loathe a whore, and startle at the name. But jealous men on their own crimes reflect, And learn from thence their ladies to suspect: Else why these needless cautions, Sir, to me? These doubts and fears of female constancy? Try when you list; and you shall find, my lord, It is not in our sex to break our word.

O for that tempting fruit, so fresh, so green! Help, dearest lord, and save at once the life Of thy poor infant, and thy longing wife! Now prove your patience, gentle ladies all! What feats the lady in the tree might do, I pass, as gambols never known to you; But sure it was a merrier fit, she swore, Than in her life she ever felt before. In that nice moment, lo! Why was I taught to make my husband see, By struggling with a man upon a tree?

Did I for this the power of magic prove? Unhappy wife, whose crime was too much love! Alas, my love! Come down, and vex your tender heart no more. Thus ends our tale; whose moral next to make, Let all wise husbands hence example take; And pray, to crown the pleasure of their lives, To be so well deluded by their wives.

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I envy not their bliss, if he or she Think fit to live in perfect chastity: Pure let them be, and free from taint or vice; I for a few slight spots am not so nice. Know then, of those five husbands I have had, Three were just tolerable, two were bad. Hark, old Sir Paul! Why to her house dost thou so oft repair? If I but see a cousin or a friend, 80 Lord! There swims no goose so gray, but soon or late She finds some honest gander for her mate. My garments always must be new and gay, And feasts still kept upon my wedding day.

On Jenkin, too, you cast a squinting eye: What! Are not thy worldly goods and treasure mine? John, Have goods and body to yourself alone. One you shall quit, in spite of both your eyes— I heed not, I, the bolts, the locks, the spies. I credit not the tales they tell: Take all the freedoms of a married life; I know thee for a virtuous, faithful wife. Lo thus, my friends, I wrought to my desires These three right ancient venerable sires. Let all mankind this certain maxim hold; Marry who will, our sex is to be sold.

Great is the blessing of a prudent wife, Who puts a period to domestic strife. Why, take me, love! But see! What means my dear? But oh, good Gods! This wicked world was once my dear delight; Now all my conquests, all my charms, good night! His soul, I hope, enjoys eternal glory, For here on earth I was his purgatory. Oft, when his shoe the most severely wrung, He put on careless airs, and sat and sung.

I say no more. Full hearty was his love, and I can show The tokens on my ribs in black and blue; Yet with a knack my heart he could have won, While yet the smart was shooting in the bone. How quaint an appetite in women reigns! Free gifts we scorn, and love what costs us pains. In pure good will I took this jovial spark, Of Oxford he, a most egregious clerk. It so befell, in holy time of Lent, That oft a day I to this gossip went; My husband, thank my stars, was out of town From house to house we rambled up and down, This clerk, myself, and my good neighbour Alse, To see, be seen, to tell, and gather tales.

We straight struck hands, the bargain was agreed; I still have shifts against a time of need. The mouse that always trusts to one poor hole Can never be a mouse of any soul. Fair Venus gave me fire and sprightly grace, And Mars assurance and a dauntless face. Stubborn as any lioness was I, And knew full well to raise my voice on high; As true a rambler as I was before, And would be so in spite of all he swore. My spouse who was, you know, to learning bred A certain treatise oft at evening read, Where divers authors whom the devil confound For all their lies were in one volume bound: Valerius whole, and of St.

Love seldom haunts the breast where learning lies, And Venus sets ere Mercury can rise. This by the way, but to my purpose now. For better fruit did never orchard bear: Give me some slip of this most blissful tree, And in my garden planted it shall be. With that my husband in a fury rose, And down he settled me with hearty blows. Here fabled Chiefs in darker ages born, Or Worthies old whom Arms or Arts adorn, 70 Who cities raised or tamed a monstrous race, The walls in venerable order grace: Heroes in animated marble frown, And Legislators seem to think in stone.

The eastern front was glorious to behold, With diamond flaming, and barbaric gold. Superior, and alone, Confucius stood, Who taught that useful science,—to be good. High on the first the mighty Homer shone; Eternal adamant composed his throne; Father of verse! Across the harp a careless hand he flings, And boldly sinks into the sounding strings. Millions of suppliant crowds the shrine attend, And all degrees before the Goddess bend; The poor, the rich, the valiant, and the sage, And boasting youth, and narrative old age.

Thus her blind sister, fickle Fortune, reigns, And, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains. Who then with incense shall adore our name? But, mortals! Muses, rise! At the dread sound pale mortals stood aghast, And startled Nature trembled with the blast. Fame sits aloft, and points them out their course, Their date determines, and prescribes their force; Some to remain, and some to perish soon, Or wane and wax alternate like the moon. Art thou, fond youth, a candidate for praise? But few, alas! Ease, health, and life for this they must resign, Unsure the tenure, but how vast the fine!

But if the purchase costs so dear a price As soothing Folly, or exalting Vice; Oh! Must then her name the wretched writer prove, To thy remembrance lost, as to thy love? Ask not the cause that I new numbers choose, The lute neglected and the lyric Muse; Love taught my tears in sadder notes to flow, And tuned my heart to elegies of woe.

No more my soul a charm in music finds; Music has charms alone for peaceful minds.

Poems and Ballads

No more the Lesbian dames my passion move, Once the dear objects of my guilty love; All other loves are lost in only thine, O youth, ungrateful to a flame like mine! If to no charms thou wilt thy heart resign, But such as merit, such as equal thine, By none, alas! Yet once thy Sappho could thy cares employ, Once in her arms you centred all your joy: No time the dear remembrance can remove, 51 For oh!

My music, then, you could for ever hear, And all my words were music to your ear. But ah, beware, Sicilian nymphs! By charms like thine which all my soul have won, Who might not—ah! For those Aurora Cephalus might scorn, And with fresh blushes paint the conscious morn. O scarce a youth, yet scarce a tender boy! O useful time for lovers to employ! Pride of thy age, and glory of thy race, Come to these arms, and melt in this embrace! The vows you never will return, receive; And take, at least, the love you will not give. See, while I write, my words are lost in tears!

The less my sense, the more my love appears. Edition: current; Page: [ 62 ] Not fiercer pangs distract the mournful dame, Whose first-born infant feeds the funeral flame. Then round your neck in wanton wreaths I twine; Then you, methinks, as fondly circle mine: A thousand tender words I hear and speak; A thousand melting kisses give and take: Then fiercer joys—I blush to mention these, Yet, while I blush, confess how much they please.

For thee the fading trees appear to mourn, And birds defer their songs till thy return: Night shades the groves, and all in silence lie, All but the mournful Philomel and I: With mournful Philomel I join my strain, Of Tereus she, of Phaon I complain. Fly hence, and seek the fair Leucadian main. Haste, Sappho, haste, from high Leucadia throw Thy wretched weight, nor dread the deeps below! I go, ye Nymphs! Ye gentle gales, beneath my body blow, And softly lay me on the waves below! This breast which once, in vain!

The winds my prayers, my sighs, my numbers bear, The flying winds have lost them all in air! Oh when, alas! If you return—ah, why these long delays? Poor Sappho dies while careless Phaon stays. If you will fly— yet ah! I saw as near her side I stood The violated blossoms drop with blood; Upon the tree I cast a frightful look; The trembling tree with sudden horror shook. I saw, unhappy! Edition: current; Page: [ 65 ] My sire, my sister, and my spouse, farewell! If in your breasts or love or pity dwell, Protect your plant, nor let my branches feel 90 The browsing cattle or the piercing steel.

I can no more; the creeping rind invades My closing lips, and hides my head in shades: Remove your hands; the bark shall soon suffice Without their aid to seal these dying eyes. Now the cleft rind inserted grafts receives, And yields an offspring more than Nature gives; Now sliding streams the thirsty plants renew, And feed their fibres with reviving dew. These cares alone her virgin breast employ, Averse from Venus and the nuptial joy. Add, that he varies every shape with ease, And tries all forms that may Pomona please.

But what should most excite a mutual flame, Your rural cares and pleasures are the same. O crown so constant and so pure a fire! Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass, As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass. First follow Nature, and your judgment frame By her just standard, which is still the same; Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, 70 One clear, unchanged, and universal light, Life, force, and beauty must to all impart, At once the source, and end, and test of Art.

Art from that fund each just supply provides, Works without show, and without pomp presides. Still with itself compared, his text peruse; And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse. Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take, May boldly deviate from the common track. Those oft are stratagems which errors seem, Nor is it Homer nods , but we that dream. Hail, Bards triumphant! A little learning is a dangerous thing; Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring: There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, And drinking largely sobers us again.

But in such lays as neither ebb nor flow, Correctly cold, and regularly low, 40 That shunning faults one quiet tenor keep, We cannot blame indeed—but we may sleep. All which exact to rule were brought about, Were but a combat in the lists left out. Others for language all their care express, And value books, as women men, for dress: Their praise is still—the Style is excellent; The Sense they humbly take upon content.

Words are like leaves; and where they most abound, Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found. In words as fashions the same rule will hold, Alike fantastic if too new or old: Be not the first by whom the new are tried, Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar. The power of music all our hearts allow, And what Timotheus was is Dryden now.

Some foreign writers, some our own despise; The ancients only, or the moderns prize. Regard not then if wit be old or new, But blame the False and value still the True. Edition: current; Page: [ 73 ] But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the Wit brightens! Some praise at morning what they blame at night, But always think the last opinion right. We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow; Our wiser sons no doubt will think us so. Scotists and Thomists now in peace remain Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Ducklane.

Some, valuing those of their own side or mind, Still make themselves the measure of mankind: Fondly we think we honour merit then, When we but praise ourselves in other men. Parties in wit attend on those of state, And public faction doubles private hate. Pride, Malice, Folly, against Dryden rose, In various shapes of parsons, critics, beaux: But sense survived when merry jests were past; For rising merit will buoy up at last. Might he return and bless once more our eyes, New Blackmores and new Milbournes must arise. Nay, should great Homer lift his awful head, Zoilus again would start up from the dead.

Be thou the first true merit to befriend; His praise is lost who stays till all commend. Short is the date, alas! What is this Wit, which must our cares employ? If Wit so much from Ignorance undergo, Ah, let not Learning too commence its foe! Good nature and good sense must ever join; To err is human, to forgive divine. But if in noble minds some dregs remain, Not yet purged off, of spleen and sour disdain, Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes, Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times.

These monsters, Critics! Some positive persisting fops we know, Who if once wrong will needs be always so; 10 But you with pleasure own your errors past, And make each day a critique on the last. Men must be taught as if you taught them not, And things unknown proposed as things forgot. Be niggards of advice on no pretence, For the worst avarice is that of Sense.

Fear not the anger of the wise to raise; Those best can bear reproof who merit praise. Fear most to tax an honourable fool, Whose right it is, uncensured to be dull: 30 Such without Wit, are poets when they please, As without Learning they can take degrees. False steps but help them to renew the race, As, after stumbling, jades will mend their pace.

With him most authors steal their works, or buy; Garth did not write his own Dispensary. Such once were critics; such the happy few Athens and Rome in better ages knew. Horace still charms with graceful negligence, And without method talks us into sense; Will, like a friend, familiarly convey The truest notions in the easiest way. Our critics take a contrary extreme, They judge with fury, but they write with phlegm; Nor suffers Horace more in wrong translations By Wits, than Critics in as wrong quotations. Thus useful arms in magazines we place, All ranged in order, and disposed with grace; But less to please the eye than arm the hand, Still fit for use, and ready at command.

Thee, bold Longinus! This humble praise, lamented Shade! I Descend, ye Nine, descend and sing: The breathing instruments inspire, Wake into voice each silent string, And sweep the sounding lyre. II By Music minds an equal temper know, Nor swell too high, nor sink too low. Dreadful gleams, Dismal screams, Fires that glow, Shrieks of woe, Sullen moans, 60 Hollow groans, And cries of tortured ghosts! But hark! See, shady forms advance! Oh, take the husband, or return the wife!

VI But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes: Again she falls, again she dies, she dies! How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move? Now under hanging mountains, Beside the falls of fountains, Or where Hebrus wanders, Rolling in meanders, All alone, Unheard, unknown, He makes his moan; And calls her ghost, For ever, ever, ever lost! ON MRS. Ah, quit not the free innocence of life, For the dull glory of a virtuous Wife; Nor let false shows, or empty titles please; Aim not at Joy, but rest content with Ease. Pride, Pomp, and State but reach her outward part; She sighs, and is no Duchess at her heart.

Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life! II Hark! What is this absorbs me quite, Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my Soul! I mount! I fly! O Grave! O Death! This verse be thine, my friend, nor thou refuse This from no venal or ungrateful Muse. Smit with the love of Sister-Arts we came, And met congenial, mingling flame with flame; Like friendly colours found them both unite, And each from each contract new strength and light. How oft our slowly growing works impart, While images reflect from art to art!

Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage, Her modest cheek shall warm a future age. Edition: current; Page: [ 83 ] O, lasting as those colours may they shine, Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line; New graces yearly like thy works display, Soft without weakness, without glaring gay! The kindred arts shall in their praise conspire, 69 One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre.

Light to stars the sun does thus restore, But shines himself till they are seen no more. Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! Is there no bright reversion in the sky For those who greatly think, or bravely die? Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes, The glorious fault of Angels and of Gods: Thence to their images on earth it flows, And in the breasts of Kings and Heroes glows.

Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball, Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall; On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates; There passengers shall stand, and pointing say While the long funerals blacken all the way , 40 Lo! Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!

What can atone, O ever injured shade! Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid? Ye Nymphs of Solyma! Rapt into future times, the bard begun: A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a son! The sick 4 and weak the healing plant shall aid, From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade. O spring to light, auspicious babe! A God, a God! Lo, Earth receives him from the bending skies! Hear him, 3 ye deaf, and all ye blind, behold! No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear, From every face he wipes off every tear. See a long race 7 thy spacious courts adorn; See future sons and daughters, yet unborn, In crowding ranks on every side arise, Demanding life, impatient for the skies!

Alexander Pope. Arabella Fermor. Say what strange motive, Goddess! The fair and innocent shall still believe. Think what an equipage thou hast in air, And view with scorn two pages and a chair. Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive, And love of Ombre, after death survive. For when the Fair in all their pride expire, To their first elements their souls retire. Soft yielding minds to water glide away, And sip, with Nymphs, their elemental tea.

The graver prude sinks downward to a Gnome In search of mischief still on earth to roam. The light coquettes in Sylphs aloft repair, And sport and flutter in the fields of air. When Florio speaks, what virgin could withstand, If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand? With varying vanities, from every part, They shift the moving toyshop of their heart; Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive, Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive.

This erring mortals levity may call; Oh blind to truth! Late, as I ranged the crystal wilds of air, In the clear mirror of thy ruling star I saw, alas! This to disclose is all thy guardian can: Beware of all, but most beware of Man! Here files of pins extend their shining rows, Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux. Now awful beauty puts on all its arms; The Fair each moment rises in her charms, Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, And calls forth all the wonders of her face; Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes.

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites, Burns to encounter two adventurous knights, At Ombre singly to decide their doom, And swells her breast with conquests yet to come.

Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join, Each band the number of the sacred Nine. Now move to war her sable Matadores, In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. Spadillio first, unconquerable lord! Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board. The rebel Knave, who dares his prince engage, Proves the just victim of his royal rage. Thus far both armies to Belinda yield; Now to the Baron Fate inclines the field.

Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild disorder seen, With throngs promiscuous strew the level green. The fourth, Leaves of Grass , is not so specially applicable to the particular poems of that selection here as I should have liked it to be; but I could not consent to drop this typical name. The Songs of Parting , my fifth section, are compositions in which the poet expresses his own. Most of them are merely headed with the opening words of the poems themselves—as "I was looking a long while;" "To get betimes in Boston Town;" "When lilacs last in the door-yard bloomed;" and so on.

It seems to me that in a selection such a lengthy and circuitous method of identi- fying the poems is not desirable: I should wish them to be remembered by brief, repeatable, and significant titles. I have therefore supplied titles of my own to such pieces as bear none in the original edition: wherever a real title appears in that edition, I have retained it.

With these remarks I commend to the English reader the ensuing selection from a writer whom I sincerely be- lieve to be, whatever his faults, of the order of great. Walt Whitman occupies at the present moment a unique position on the globe, and one which, even in past time, can have been occupied by only an infinitesi- mally small number of men. He is the one man who enter- tains and professes respecting himself the grave conviction that he is the actual and prospective founder of a new poetic literature, and a great one—a literature proportional to the material vastness and the unmeasured destinies of America: he believes that the Columbus of the continent or the Washington of the States was not more truly than himself in the future a founder and upbuilder of this America.

Surely a sublime conviction, and expressed more than once in magnificent words—none more so than the lines beginning. Come, I will make this continent indissoluble. Is it not, on the contrary, true, if not absolutely, yet with a most genuine and sub- stantial approximation? I believe it is thus true. I believe that Whitman is one of the huge, as yet mainly unrecognised, forces of our time; privileged to evoke, in a country hitherto still asking for its poet, a fresh, athletic, and American poetry, and predestined to be traced up to by generation after generation of believing and ardent— let us hope not servile—disciples.

Whitman seems in a peculiar degree marked out for "legislation" of the kind referred to. His voice will one day be potential or magisterial wherever the English language is spoken—that is to say, in the four corners of the earth; and, in his own American hemisphere, the uttermost avatars of democracy will confess him not more their announcer than their inspirer.

The Americans, of all nations at any time upon the earth, have probably the fullest poetical Nature. The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem.

Download PDF A Singular Sense Of Detachment (short poems for the discerning palate)

In the history of the earth hitherto the largest and most stirring appear tame and orderly to their. Other states indicate themselves in their deputies: but the genius of the United States is not best or most in its executives or legislatures, nor in its ambassadors or authors or colleges or churches or parlours, nor even in its newspapers or inventors, but always most in the common people.

Their manners, speech, dress, friendships, —the freshness and candour of their physiognomy—the picturesque looseness of their carriage—their deathless attachment to freedom—their aversion to anything inde- corous or soft or mean—the practical acknowledgment. The largeness of nature or the nation were monstrous without a corresponding largeness and generosity of the spirit of the citizen.

Not nature, nor swarming states, nor streets and steamships, nor prosperous business, nor farms nor capital nor learning, may suffice for the ideal of man, nor suffice the poet. No reminiscences may suf- fice either. A live nation can always cut a deep mark, and can have the best authority the cheapest—namely from its own soul. This is the sum of the profitable uses of individuals or states, and of present action and grandeur and of the subjects of poets.

As if the beauty and sacredness of the demonstrable must fall behind that of the mythical! As if men do not make their mark out of any times! As if. The American poets are to enclose old and new; for America is the race of races. Of them a bard is to be commensurate with a people. To him the other conti- nents arrive as contributions: he gives them reception for their sake and his own sake. Mississippi with annual freshets and changing chutes, Missouri and Columbia and Ohio and Saint Lawrence with the Falls and beautiful masculine Hudson, do not embouchure where they spend themselves more than they embou- chure into him.

The blue breadth over the inland sea of Virginia and Maryland, and the sea off Massachusetts and Maine, and over Manhattan Bay and over Champlain and Erie, and over Ontario and Huron and Michigan and Superior, and over the Texan and Mexican and Floridian and Cuban seas, and over the seas off California and Oregon, is not tallied by the blue breadth of the waters. Of all nations, the United States, with veins full of poetical stuff, most need poets, and will doubtless have the greatest, and use them the greatest. Their Presidents shall not be their common referee so much as their poets shall.

Of all mankind, the great poet is the equable man. Not in him, but off from him, things are grotesque or eccentric, or fail of their sanity. Nothing out of its place is good, and nothing in its place is bad. He bestows on every object or quality its fit proportions, neither more nor less. He is the arbiter of the diverse, and he is the key. He is the equalizer of his age and land: he supplies what wants supplying, and checks what wants checking. If peace is the routine, out of him speaks the spirit of peace, large, rich, thrifty, building vast and populous cities, encouraging agriculture and the arts and commerce—lighting the study of man, the soul, immor- tality—federal, state or municipal government, mar- riage, health, free-trade, intertravel by land and sea—.

The greatest poet hardly knows pettiness or triviality. If he breathes into any thing that was before thought small, it dilates with the grandeur and life of the universe. He is a seer—he is individual—he is complete in himself: the others are as good as he; only he sees it, and they do not. He is not one of the chorus—he does not stop for any regulation—he is the President of regulation.

What the eyesight does to the rest he does to the rest. Who knows the curious mystery of the eyesight? The other senses corroborate themselves, but. The land and sea, the animals, fishes, and birds, the sky of heaven and the orbs, the forests, mountains, and rivers, are not small themes: but folks expect of the poet to indicate more than the beauty and dignity which always attach to dumb real objects,—they expect him to indicate the path between reality and their souls.

Men and women perceive the beauty well enough—pro- bably as well as he. The passionate tenacity of hunters, woodmen, early risers, cultivators of gardens and orchards and fields, the love of healthy women for the manly form, seafaring persons, drivers of horses, the passion for light and the open air, all is an old varied sign of the unfailing perception of beauty, and of a residence of the poetic, in outdoor people. They can never be assisted by poets to perceive: some may, but they never can.

The poetic quality is not marshalled in rhyme or uniformity, or abstract addresses to things, nor in melancholy complaints or good precepts, but is the life of these and much else,. The known universe has one complete lover, and that is the greatest poet. He consumes an eternal passion, and is indifferent which chance happens, and which possible contingency of fortune or misfortune, and per- suades daily and hourly his delicious pay. What balks or breaks others is fuel for his burning progress to contact and amorous joy.

Other proportions of the reception of pleasure dwindle to nothing to his pro- portions. All expected from heaven or from the highest he is rapport with in the sight of the daybreak, or a scene of the winter woods, or the presence of children playing, or with his arm round the neck of a man or woman.

His love, above all love, has leisure and expanse—he leaves room ahead of himself. He is no irresolute or suspicious lover—he is sure—he scorns intervals. His experience and the showers and thrills. The fruition of beauty is no chance of hit or miss—it is inevitable as life—it is exact and plumb as gravitation. From the eyesight proceeds another eyesight, and from the hearing proceeds another hearing, and from the voice proceeds another voice, eternally curious of the harmony of things with man. To these respond perfections, not only in the committees that were supposed to stand for the rest, but in the rest themselves just the same.

These understand the law of perfection in masses and floods—that its finish is to each for itself and onward from itself—that it is profuse and impartial—that there is not a minute of the light or dark, nor an acre of the earth or sea, without it—nor any direction of the sky, nor any trade or employment, nor any turn of events. This is the reason that about the proper expression of beauty there is pre- cision and balance,—one part does not need to be thrust above another.

The best singer is not the one who has the most lithe and powerful organ: the pleasure of poems is not in them that take the handsomest measure and similes and sound. Without effort, and without exposing in the least how it is done, the greatest poet brings the spirit of any or all events and passions and scenes and persons, some more and some less, to bear on your individual character, as you hear or read.

To do this well is to compete with the laws that pursue and follow time. What is the purpose must surely be there, and the clue of it must be there; and the faintest indication is the indication of the best, and then becomes the clearest indication. Past and present and future are not disjoined but joined. The greatest poet forms the consistence of what is to be from what has been and is.

He drags the dead out of their coffins, and stands them again on their feet: he says to the past, Rise and walk before me that I may realize you. He learns the lesson—he places himself where the future becomes present. The greatest poet does not only dazzle his rays over character and scenes and passions,—he finally ascends and finishes all: he exhibits the pin- nacles that no man can tell what they are for or what is beyond—he glows a moment on the extremest verge. He is most wonderful in his last half-hidden smile or frown: by that flash of the moment of parting the one that sees it shall be encouraged or terrified afterward for many years.

The greatest poet does not moralize or make applications of morals,—he knows the soul. The soul has that measureless pride. The art of art, the glory of expression and the sunshine of the light of letters, is simplicity. Nothing is better than simplicity,—nothing can make up for excess or for the lack of definiteness. To carry on the heave of impulse, and pierce intellectual depths, and give all subjects their articulations, are powers neither common nor very un- common. But to speak in literature with the perfect rectitude and insousiance of the movements of animals, and the unimpeachableness of the sentiment of trees in the woods and grass by the roadside, is the flawless triumph of art.

If you have looked on him who has achieved it, you have looked on one of the masters of the artists of all nations and times. You shall not con- template the flight of the grey-gull over the bay, or the mettlesome action of the blood horse, or the tall leaning of sunflowers on their stalk, or the appearance of the sun journeying through heaven, or the appearance of the moon afterward, with any more satisfaction than you shall contemplate him. The greatest poet has less a marked style, and is more the channel of thoughts and.

The old red blood and stainless gentility of great poets will be proved by their unconstraint. A heroic person walks at his ease through and out of that custom or precedent or authority that suits him not. Of the traits of the brotherhood of writers, savans, musicians, inventors, and artists, nothing is finer than silent defiance advancing from new free forms.

In the need of poems, philosophy, politics, mechanism, science, behaviour, the craft of art, an appropriate native grand opera, shipcraft or any craft, he is greatest forever and forever who contributes the greatest original practical example. The cleanest ex- pression is that which finds no sphere worthy of itself, and makes one. The messages of great poets to each man and woman are,—Come to us on equal terms, only then can you.

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  • The American bards shall be marked for generosity and affection and for encouraging competitors: they shall be kosmos—without monopoly or secrecy—glad to pass any thing to any one—hungry for equals night and day. They shall not be careful of riches and privilege,—they shall be riches and privilege: they shall perceive who the most affluent man is. The most afflu- ent man is he that confronts all the shows he sees by equivalents out of the stronger wealth of himself.

    The American bard shall delineate no class of persons, nor one or two out of the strata of interests, nor love most nor. Exact science and its practical movements are no checks on the greatest poet, but always his encouragement and support. The outset and remembrance are there— there the arms that lifted him first and brace him best— there he returns after all his goings and comings.

    The sailor and traveller, the anatomist, chemist, astronomer, geologist, phrenologist, spiritualist, mathematician, his- torian, and lexicographer, are not poets; but they are the lawgivers of poets, and their construction underlies the structure of every perfect poem. No matter what rises or is uttered, they sent the seed of the conception of it: of them and by them stand the visible proofs of souls. If there shall be love and content between the father and the son, and if the greatness of the son is the exuding of the greatness of the father, there shall be love between the poet and the man of demonstrable science.

    In the beauty of poems are the tuft and final applause of science. Great is the faith of the flush of knowledge, and of the investigation of the depths of qualities and things. Cleav- ing and circling here swells the soul of the poet: yet is president of itself always. The depths are fathomless and therefore calm. The innocence and nakedness are re- sumed—they are neither modest nor immodest. The whole theory of the special and supernatural, and all that. Men and women, and the earth and all upon it, are simply to be taken as they are, and the investigation of their past and present and future shall be unintermitted, and shall be done with perfect candour.

    Upon this basis philosophy speculates, ever looking toward the poet, ever regarding the eternal tendencies of all toward happiness, never inconsistent with what is clear to the senses and to the soul. For the eternal tendencies of all toward happi- ness make the only point of sane philosophy. Whatever comprehends less than that—whatever is less than the laws of light and of astronomical motion—or less than the laws that follow the thief, the liar, the glutton, and the drunkard, through this life, and doubtless after- ward—or less than vast stretches of time, or the slow.

    In the make of the great masters the idea of political liberty is indispensible. Liberty takes the adherence of heroes wherever men and women exist; but never takes any adherence or welcome from the rest more than from poets. They are the voice and exposition of liberty. They out of ages are worthy the grand idea,—to them it is confided, and they must sustain it. Nothing has precedence of it, and nothing can warp or degrade it.

    The attitude of great poets is to cheer up slaves, and horrify despots. The turn of their necks, the sound of their feet, the motions of their wrists, are full of hazard to the one and hope to the other. Come nigh them awhile, and, though they neither speak nor advise, you. As the attributes of the poets of the kosmos concentre in the real body and soul and in the pleasure of things, they possess the superiority of genuineness over all fiction and romance.

    As they emit themselves, facts are showered over with light—the daylight is lit with more volatile light—also the deep between the setting and rising sun goes deeper many-fold. The poets of the kosmos advance through all interpositions and coverings and turmoils and strata- gems to first principles. They are of use—they dissolve poverty from its need and riches from its conceit.

    You large proprietor, they say, shall not realize or perceive more than any one else. The owner of the library is not he who holds a legal title to it, having bought and paid for it. Any one and every one is owner of the library who can read the same through all the varieties of tongues and subjects and styles, and in whom they enter with ease, and take residence and force toward paternity. Caution seldom goes far enough. It has been thought that the prudent citizen was the citizen who applied himself to solid gains, and did well for himself and his family, and completed a lawful life without debt or crime.

    The greatest poet sees and admits these economies as he sees the economies of food and sleep, but has higher notions of prudence than to think he gives much when he gives a few slight attentions at the latch of the gate. The premises of the prudence of life are not the hospitality of it, or the ripeness and harvest of it.

    Still the right explanation remains to be made about prudence.

    The prudence of the mere wealth and respectability of the most esteemed life appears too faint for the eye to observe at all when little and large alike drop quietly aside at the thought of the prudence suitable for immortality. What is wisdom that fills the thinness of a year or seventy or eighty years, to wisdom spaced out by ages, and coming back at a certain time with strong reinforcements and rich presents and the clear faces of wedding-guests as far as you can look in every direction running gaily toward you? Only the soul is of itself—all else has reference to what ensues.

    All that a person does or thinks is of consequence. Not a move can a man or woman make that affects him or her in a day or a month, or any part of the direct lifetime or the hour of death, but the same affects him or her onward afterward through the indirect lifetime. The indirect is always as great and real as the direct. Not one name of word or deed— not of the putrid veins of gluttons or rum-drinkers— not peculation or cunning or betrayal or murder—no serpentine poison of those that seduce women—not the foolish yielding of women—not of the attainment of gain by discreditable means—not any nastiness of appetite— not any harshness of officers to men, or judges to prisoners, or fathers to sons, or sons to fathers, or of husbands to wives, or bosses to their boys—not of greedy looks or malignant wishes—nor any of the wiles practised by people upon themselves—ever is or ever can be stamped on the programme, but it is duly realized and returned, and that returned in further performances, and they returned again.

    Nor can the push of charity or personal force ever be any- thing else than the profoundest reason, whether it bring arguments to hand or no. No specification is necessary—to add or subtract or divide is in vain. Little or big, learned or unlearned, white or black, legal or illegal, sick or well, from the first inspiration down the windpipe to the last expiration out of it, all that a male or female does that is vigorous and benevolent and clean is so much sure profit to him or her in the unshakable order of the universe and through the whole scope of it forever. If the savage or felon is wise, it is well—if the greatest poet or savant is wise, it is simply the same—if the President or chief justice is wise, it is the same—if the young mechanic or farmer is wise, it is no more or less.

    Did you guess any of them lived only its moment? The world does not so exist—no parts, palpable or impalpable, so exist—no result exists now without being from its long antecedent result, and that from its antecedent, and so backward without the farthest mentionable spot coming a bit nearer the beginning than any other spot. Whatever satisfies the soul is truth.

    If he does not flood himself with the imme- diate age as with vast oceanic tides—and if he does not attract his own land body and soul to himself, and hang on its neck with incomparable love—and if he be not himself the age transfigured—and if to him is not opened the eternity which gives similitude to all periods and locations and processes and animate and inanimate forms, and which is the bond of time, and rises up from its inconceivable vagueness and infiniteness in the swim- ming shape of to-day, and is held by the ductile anchors of life, and makes the present spot the passage from what was to what shall be, and commits itself to the representa- tion of this wave of an hour, and this one of the sixty beautiful children of the wave—let him merge in the general run and wait his development.

    Still, the final test of poems or any character or work remains. The prescient poet projects himself centuries ahead, and judges performer or performance after the changes of time. Does it live through them? Does it still hold on untired? Will the same style, and the direction of genius to similar points, be satisfactory now? Has no new dis- covery in science, or arrival at superior planes of thought and judgment and behaviour, fixed him or his so that either can be looked down upon?

    Have the marches of tens and hundreds and thousands of years made willing detours to the right hand and the left hand for his sake? Is he. A great poem is for ages and ages, in common, and for all degrees and complexions, and all departments and sects, and for a woman as much as a man, and a man as much as a woman. A great poem is no finish to a man or woman, but rather a beginning. Has any one fancied he could sit at last under some due authority, and rest satisfied with explanations, and realize and be content and full?

    To no such terminus does the greatest poet bring —he brings neither cessation or sheltered fatness and ease. The touch of him tells in action. Whom he takes he takes with firm sure grasp into live regions previously unattained. Thenceforward is no rest: they see the space and ineffable sheen that turn the old spots and lights into dead vacuums.

    The companion of him beholds the birth and progress of stars, and learns one of the meanings. Now there shall be a man cohered out of tumult and chaos. The elder encourages the younger, and shows him how: they two shall launch off fear- lessly together till the new world fits an orbit for itself, and looks unabashed on the lesser orbits of the stars, and sweeps through the ceaseless rings, and shall never be quiet again.

    The English language befriends the grand American expression—it is brawny enough, and limber and full enough. On the tough stock of a race who, through all change of circumstance, was never without the idea of political liberty, which is the animus of all liberty, it has attracted the terms of daintier and gayer and subtler and more elegant tongues.

    It is the powerful language of resistance—it is the dialect of common sense. It is the speech of the proud and melancholy races, and of all who aspire. It is the chosen tongue to express growth, faith, self-esteem, freedom, justice, equality, friendliness,. No great literature, nor any like style of behaviour or oratory or social intercourse or household arrangements or public institutions, or the treatment by bosses of employed people, nor executive detail, or detail of the army or navy, nor spirit of legislation, or courts or police, or tuition or architecture, or songs or amusements, or the costumes of young men, can long elude the jealous and passionate instinct of American standards.

    Is it uniform with my country? Are its dis- posals without ignominious distinctions? Is it for the evergrowing communes of brothers and lovers, large, well-united, proud beyond the old models, generous beyond all models? Is it something grown fresh out of the fields, or drawn from the sea, for use to me, to-day, here? I know that what answers for me, an American, must answer for any individual or nation that serves for a part of my materials.

    Does this answer? Will it help breed one good shaped man, and a woman to be his perfect and independent mate? Does it improve manners? Is it for the nursing of the young of the republic? Does it solve readily with the sweet milk of the breasts of the mother of many chil- dren? Has it too the old ever-fresh forbearance and impartiality?

    Does it look with the same love on the last born and on those hardening toward stature, and on the errant, and on those who disdain all strength of assault outside of their own? The poems distilled from other poems will probably pass away. The coward will surely pass away. The expectation of the vital and great can only be satisfied by the demeanour of the vital and great.

    The swarms of the polished, deprecating, and reflectors, and the polite, float off and leave no remembrance. America prepares with com- posure and goodwill for the visitors that have sent word. It is not intellect that is to be their warrant and welcome. The talented, the artist, the ingenious, the editor, the statesman, the erudite—they are not unappreciated —they fall in their place and do their work. The soul of the nation also does its work. No disguise can pass on it—no disguise can conceal from it.

    It rejects none, it permits all. Only toward as good as itself and toward the like of itself will it advance half- way. An individual is as superb as a nation when he has the qualities which make a superb nation. The soul of. Victory, union, faith, identity, time, Yourself, the present and future lands, the indissoluble compacts, riches, mystery, Eternal progress, the kosmos, and the modern reports. Minnesota; Chants going forth from the centre, from Kansas, and. I will put in my poems, that with you. And who but I should be the poet of comrades?

    States must be their religion; Otherwise there is no real and permanent grandeur; Nor character, nor life worthy the name, without religion; Nor land, nor man or woman, without religion. These ostensible realities, politics, points? Your ambition or business, whatever it may be? Land of wheat, beef, pork! Land of wool and hemp! Land of the apple and the grape!

    Land of the pastoral plains, the grass-fields of the world! Land of those sweet-aired interminable plateaus! Land of the herd, the garden, the healthy house of. Lands where the northwest Columbia winds, and where. Land of the eastern Chesapeake! Land of the Delaware! Land of Ontario, Erie, Huron, Michigan! Land of the Old Thirteen! Massachusetts land! Land of the ocean shores! Land of sierras and peaks! Land of boatmen and sailors! Inextricable lands! The side by side! Far-breathed land! The Pennsylvanian! O I at any rate include you all with perfect love! I cannot be discharged from you—not from one, any.

    Must not Nature be persuaded many times? States I harbinge, glad and sublime; And for the Past, I pronounce what the air holds of the. Walla; Leaving such to the States, they melt, they depart,. Presidents, emerge, dressed in working dresses; See, lounging through the shops and fields of the States. Read the hints. O to haste, firm holding—to haste, haste on, with me. Alabama and Texas! Always the vast slope drained by the Southern Sea—. Always the conti-. Always the prairies, pastures, forests, vast cities, travellers,. Canada, the snows; Always these compact lands—lands tied at the hips with.

    On interior rivers, by night, in the glare of pine knots,. On solid land, what is done in cities, as the bells strike. On rivers, boatmen safely moored at night-fall, in their. The scout riding on horseback over the plains west of the. Mississippi—he ascends a knoll and sweeps his eye. California life—the miner, bearded, dressed in his rude.

    Encircling all, vast-darting up and wide, the American. States—reminiscences, all institutions, All these States, compact—Every square mile of these. States without excepting a particle—you also—me. Me pleased, rambling in lanes and country fields, Pauma-. The athletic American matron speaking in public to crowds. O lands! O all so dear to me—what you are, whatever. Southward there, I screaming, with wings slow flapping,. And I triumphantly twittering; The migrating flock of wild geese alighting in autumn to.

    Whoever you are! How can I but, as here, chanting, invite you for yourself. It is not in those paged fables in the libraries, them I. I see men marching and countermarching by swift millions! I see the frontiers and boundaries of the old aristocracies. Lo, how he urges and urges, leaving the masses no rest; His daring foot is on land and sea everywhere—he colonizes. Are all nations communing? Is humanity forming en masse? Years prophetical! Your dreams, O years, how they penetrate through me!

    I know not whether I sleep or wake! The performed America and Europe grow dim, retiring in. But I see the athletes—and I see the results glorious and. Were I as the head teacher, charitable proprietor, wise. Were I to you as the boss employing and paying you,. If you carouse at the table, I carouse at the opposite side.

    I do not know what it is, except that it is grand, and that. Have you reckoned them for a trade, or farm-work? Or to achieve yourself a position? Or men and women that they might be written of, and. Or the attraction of gravity, and the great laws and har-.

    Or the brown land and the blue sea for maps and charts? Or that the growth of seeds is for agricultural tables, or. Will we rate our cash and business high? The most renowned poems would be ashes, orations and. Does all sit there with you, with the mystic, unseen soul? In that and them the heft of the heaviest—in them far. Gray-blue leaf by red-heat grown! Resting the grass amid and upon, To be leaned, and to lean on. Willamette, The slow progress, the scant fare, the axe, rifle, saddle-. Or hotels of granite and iron? Where are your jibes of being now?

    Where are your cavils about the Soul now? The centuries, and all authority, to be trod under the. Seas, and in many a bay and by-place, The live-oak kelsons, the pine planks, the spars, the hack-. What rivers are these? What are the mountains called that rise so high in the. What myriads of dwellings are they, filled with dwellers?

    Stretched in due time within me the midnight sun just. Mannahatta; I hear the stevedores unlading the cargoes, and singing; I hear the screams of the water-fowl of solitary north-. I hear the sibilant whisk of thongs through the air; I hear the Hebrew reading his records and psalms; I hear the rhythmic myths of the Greeks, and the strong. Bay; Others pass the straits of Dover—others enter the Wash—.

    Burampooter and Cambodia: Others wait at the wharves of Manhattan, steamed up,. Persia, and that of India; I see the falling of the Ganges over the high rim of. South Pacific and the North Atlantic; I see the cliffs, glaciers, torrents, valleys, of Switzerland—. Petersburg, Berlin, Con-. Ashantee-man in their huts; I see the Turk smoking opium in Aleppo; I see the picturesque crowds at the fairs of Khiva, and. You dim-descended, black, divine-souled African, large,.

    You Norwegian! You Spaniard of Spain! You Frenchwoman and Frenchman of France! You Belge! You sturdy Austrian! You neighbour of the Danube! You working-man of the Rhine, the Elbe, or the Weser! You Sardinian! You citizen of Prague! You lithe matador in the arena at Seville! You mountaineer living lawlessly on the Taurus or. You Bokh horse-herd, watching your mares and stallions.

    You Chinaman and Chinawoman of China! You women of the earth subordinated at your tasks! You Jew journeying in your old age through every risk,. You other Jews waiting in all lands for your Messiah! You thoughtful Armenian, pondering by some stream of. You foot-worn pilgrim welcoming the far-away sparkle of. You sheiks along the stretch from Suez to Babelmandeb,.

    You olive-grower tending your fruit on fields of Nazareth,. Damascus, or lake Tiberias! You Thibet trader on the wide inland, or bargaining in. You Japanese man or woman! Ceylon, Sumatra, Borneo! All you continentals of Asia, Africa, Europe, Australia,. All you on the numberless islands of the archipelagoes of. And you of centuries hence, when you listen to. Health to you! Good will to you all—from me and. You owned persons, dropping sweat-drops or blood-. You human forms with the fathomless ever-impressive. I dare not refuse you—the scope of the world, and of time.

    You low expiring aborigines of the hills of Utah, Oregon,. You Caffre, Berber, Soudanese! You haggard, uncouth, untutored Bedowee! You plague-swarms in Madras, Nankin, Kaubul, Cairo! You bather bathing in the Ganges! You benighted roamer of Amazonia! You peon of Mexico! I do not prefer others so very much before you either; I do not say one word against you, away back there,. Were the precedent dim ages debouching westward from.

    Paradise so long? Were the centuries steadily footing it that way, all the. They are justified—they are accomplished—they shall. Way for the Federal foot and dragoons—and the appari-. The old graveyards of the hills have hurried to see! Cocked hats of mothy mould! Arms in slings! Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you mistake. Is this hour with the living too dead for you? Could I wish humanity different? Could I wish the people made of wood and stone? Or that there be no justice in destiny or time?

    O I hear already the bustle of instruments—they will. O Manhattan, my own, my peerless! O strongest you in the hour of danger, in crisis! O truer. How you sprang! Manhattan arming. How I love them! The blood of the city up—armed! All the mutter of preparation—all the determined arming; The hospital service—the lint, bandages and medicines; The women volunteering for nurses—the work begun for,.

    Often in peace and wealth you were pensive, or covertly. Not you as some pale poetling, seated at a desk, lisping. Indiana, Rapidly crossing the West with springy gait, and descending. Long for my soul, hungering gymnastic, I devoured what. Niagara pouring; I traveled the prairies over, and slept on their breast—I. Heard the continuous thunder, as it bellowed after the.

    Now we advance our latent and ampler hunger to fill; Now we go forth to receive what the earth and the sea. What, to pavements and homesteads here—what were. What, to passions I witness around me to-day, was the. Was the wind piping the pipe of death under the black. How it climbs with daring feet and hands!

    How the true thunder bellows after the lightning! Yet a mournful wail and low sob I fancied I heard through. And do you rise higher than ever yet, O days, O cities! Crash heavier, heavier yet, O storms! America rise; Hence I will seek no more the food of the northern solitary. Would the talkers be talking? Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before. Then rattle quicker, heavier, drums—you bugles wilder.

    And what does it say to me all the while? How envied by all the earth! I hear the drums beat, and the trumpets blowing; I myself move abroad, swift-rising, flying then; I use the wings of the land-bird, and use the wings of the. No longer let our children deem us riches and peace. Not now are we any one of these spacious and haughty States,. With passions of demons, slaughter, premature death? Not houses of peace are you, nor any nor all their pros-. Not an hour, unless you,. O pennant! So loved! O you banner, leading the day, with stars. Valueless, object of eyes, over all and demanding all—O.

    I too leave the rest—great as it is, it is nothing—houses,. O banner so broad,. City of wharves and stores! Proud and passionate city! Spring up, O city!

    A Singular Sense Of Detachment (short poems for the discerning palate) A Singular Sense Of Detachment (short poems for the discerning palate)
    A Singular Sense Of Detachment (short poems for the discerning palate) A Singular Sense Of Detachment (short poems for the discerning palate)
    A Singular Sense Of Detachment (short poems for the discerning palate) A Singular Sense Of Detachment (short poems for the discerning palate)
    A Singular Sense Of Detachment (short poems for the discerning palate) A Singular Sense Of Detachment (short poems for the discerning palate)
    A Singular Sense Of Detachment (short poems for the discerning palate) A Singular Sense Of Detachment (short poems for the discerning palate)
    A Singular Sense Of Detachment (short poems for the discerning palate) A Singular Sense Of Detachment (short poems for the discerning palate)
    A Singular Sense Of Detachment (short poems for the discerning palate) A Singular Sense Of Detachment (short poems for the discerning palate)
    A Singular Sense Of Detachment (short poems for the discerning palate) A Singular Sense Of Detachment (short poems for the discerning palate)
    A Singular Sense Of Detachment (short poems for the discerning palate) A Singular Sense Of Detachment (short poems for the discerning palate)

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