Here was this atom in full breath,

Hurling defiance at vast death;

This scrap of valor just for play

Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray,

As if to shame my weak behavior;

I greeted loud my little saviour,

‘You pet! what dost here? and what for?

In these woods, thy small Labrador,

At this pinch, wee San Salvador!

What fire burns in that little chest

So frolic, stout, and self-possest?

Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine;

Ashes and jet all hues outshine.

Why are not diamonds black and gray,

To ape thy dare-devil array?

And I affirm, the spacious North

Exists to draw thy virtue forth.

I think no virtue goes with size;

The reason of all cowardice

Is, that men are overgrown,

And, to be valiant, must come down

To the titmouse dimension.’

’Tis good-will makes intelligence,

And I began to catch the sense

Of my bird’s song: ‘Live out of doors

In the great woods, on prairie floors.

I dine in the sun; when he sinks in the sea,

I too have a hole in a hollow tree;

And I like less when Summer beats

With stifling beams on these retreats,

Than noontide twilights which snow makes

With tempest of the blinding flakes.

For well the soul, if stout within,

Can arm impregnably the skin;

And polar frost my frame defied,

Made of the air that blows outside.’

With glad remembrance of my debt,

I homeward turn; farewell, my pet!

When here again thy pilgrim comes,

He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs.

Doubt not, so long as earth has bread,

Thou first and foremost shalt be fed;

The Providence that is most large

Takes hearts like thine in special charge,

Helps who for their own need are strong,

And the sky doats on cheerful song.

Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant

O’er all that mass and minster vaunt;

For men mis-hear thy call in spring,

As ’t would accost some frivolous wing,

Crying out of the hazel copse, Phe-be!

And, in winter, Chic-a-dee-dee!

I think old Cæsar must have heard

In northern Gaul my dauntless bird,

And, echoed in some frosty wold,

Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold.

And I will write our annals new,

And thank thee for a better clew,

I, who dreamed not when I came here

To find the antidote of fear,

Now hear thee say in Roman key,

Pæan! Veni, vidi, vici.

DAYS

Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,

Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,

And marching single in an endless file,

Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.

To each they offer gifts after his will,

Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.

I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp,

Forgot my morning wishes, hastily

Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day

Turned and departed silent. I, too late,

Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.

SEA–SHORE

I heard or seemed to hear the chiding Sea

Say, Pilgrim, why so late and slow to come?

Am I not always here, thy summer home?