Restores the world-wide mart;

So let each dweller on the Bay

Fold Boston in his heart,

Till these echoes be choked with snows,

Or over the town blue ocean flows.

Let the blood of her hundred thousands

Throb in each manly vein;

And the wit of all her wisest,

Make sunshine in her brain.

For you can teach the lightning speech,

And round the globe your voices reach.

And each shall care for other,

And each to each shall bend,

To the poor a noble brother,

To the good an equal friend.

A blessing through the ages thus

Shield all thy roofs and towers!

God with the fathers, so with us,

Thou darling town of ours!

SILENCE

They put their finger on their lip, –

The Powers above;

The seas their islands clip,

The moons in Ocean dip, –

They love but name not love.

THE THREE DIMENSIONS

‘Room for the spheres!’ – then first they shined,

And dived into the ample sky;

‘Room! room!’ cried the new mankind,

And took the oath of liberty.

Room! room! willed the opening mind,

And found it in Variety.

MOTTO TO ‘THE POET’

A moody child and wildly wise

Pursued the game with joyful eyes,

Which chose, like meteors, their way,

And rived the dark with private ray:

They overleapt the horizon’s edge,

Searched with Apollo’s privilege;

Through man, and woman, and sea, and star,

Saw the dance of nature forward far;

Through worlds, and races, and terms, and times,

Saw musical order, and pairing rhymes.

MOTTO TO ‘GIFTS’

Gifts of one who loved me, –

’T was high time they came;

When he ceased to love me,

Time they stopped for shame.

MOTTO TO ‘NATURE’

The rounded world is fair to see,

Nine times folded in mystery:

Though baffled seers cannot impart

The secret of its laboring heart,

Throb thine with Nature’s throbbing breast,

And all is clear from east to west.

Spirit that lurks each form within

Beckons to spirit of its kin;

Self-kindled every atom glows,

And hints the future which it owes.

MOTTO TO ‘NOMINALIST AND REALIST’

In countless upward-striving waves

The moon-drawn tide-wave strives;

In thousand far-transplanted grafts

The parent fruit survives;

So, in the new-born millions,

The perfect Adam lives.

Not less are summer-mornings dear

To every child they wake,

And each with novel life his sphere

Fills for his proper sake.

MOTTO TO ‘HISTORY’

There is no great and no small

To the Soul that maketh all:

And where it cometh, all things are;

And it cometh everywhere.

SOUTH WIND

In the turbulent beauty

Of a gusty autumn day,

Poet in a wood-crowned headland

Sighed his soul away.

Farms the sunny landscape dappled,

Swan-down clouds dappled the farms,

Cattle lowed in hazy distance

Where far oaks outstretched their arms.

Sudden gusts came full of meaning,

All too much to him they said; –

Southwinds have long memories,

Of that be none afraid.

I cannot tell rude listeners

Half the telltale Southwind said,

’Twould bring the blushes of yon maples