E sang on the Heath of the Volsungs,
Mid Volsung common men,
Shepherds, chafferers, delvers,
And the fowlers of the fen,
The beaters of the anvil,
AGAIN we greet the patient heart,
The conference-guiding master-hand,
Who put illusive dreams apart,
And wrought as careful wisdom planned.
With welcoming hearts we strive in vain
Yet, at the end, from seeming death he stirred
As one whose sleep is broke by sudden shine,
And whispered Christ, as if the soul had heard
Tidings of some exceeding sweet design.
WHEN iron taskwork levelled low
My youthful dreams of pride,
’T was “Oh to reach the end and go
Beyond all seas,” I sighed;
“For freedom’s songbirds pierce me sore,
“SPIRIT,” said God, “come up for Judgment now.”
The words seemed spoke in such familiar tone
As if the accents of a natural voice
Close to the heart as its own beating pulse.
IT touches the heart of “Our Mother”
with happiness queerly regretful
To muse on all they who instinctively
bring her their innermost grief,
For reasons she never can fathom
WHEN some of the ancient lineage prate
We brothers listen with a smile,
We do not boast ancestral state,
It really is n’t worth our while,
Since all must know that we can trace
We buried in Mount Auburn last July
The gentle, clerkly, wan old bookkeeper,
Who left to me his sheaf of casual verse.
“You’ll smile,” he wrote, “to learn I poetized,
However little. Here are all my rhymes;
OF all who’d thronged the Commons’ galleries
For early April evening’s main debate,
One student visionary sole remained.
OUR prison house extends so wide
It walls the farthest Oceans’ tide,
Enarches every Tropics bloom,
And gives the opposing Arctics room.