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YOUTH, like a traveler bound through Darien,
Looks from his airy path, and each way hails
The brave delight of waves, and swollen sails
That come and go to serve shore-dwelling men.
A little space elate he fareth, then
The land swells round him, and the sea-sound fails,
And he no longer breathes the ocean gales,
Nor sees such ample sweep of sky again.
O brother travelers ! though we shall not know
Reversed way through the Continent of Age,
This knowledge shall in part our grief assuage:
Still o'er the Narrow Land the free winds blow;
Its high ridge rings with songs of those who go
Bearing their undepleted heritage.


WHEN I must go into the turmoil rude
Of worldly men and ways, I cheerly go,
Since there I am as one that hath no foe,

n sylvan peace, where boughs exclude
ce sun, and paths with leaves are strewed,
ught brooks in shady stillness flow:
shun the turmoil, since I know
will make for me sweet solitude.
to exile must be sent,
grieve; the Fate's commanding lips
take my way without a fear.
esert I must pitch my tent,
within itself all fellowships,
and home, and rest, and plenteous cheer.



I am not constant as yon constant rocks,
That have their bases under ocean's floor,
That yield no piteous span, receive no score,
Though ships make thither, waves deal shocks on

I am but constant as the sea, whose flocks,
How wide soe'er they wander, evermore
Morning and evening crowd the vacant shore,
At beck of her who smiles through silvery locks ;
Constant, but as the oak now bare and dry,
That soon the genial season shall restore,
And its gray arms with fluttering honors fill;
Or as the violet, that seems to die,
Yet can its azure angel raise it still,
To greet the coming springtime as before.


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THE heart of Summer find me where it beats !
Search through the dawn-bright chambers of the rose;
Ay, question every tender breeze that blows
From off the water-lily's naiad fleets.
Oh, not with these! Then bide till later heats
Lead forth the poppy, that doth lead repose ;
Watch narrowly when at the day's faint close
Its sovran hour the evening-primrose greets.
Thou Summer's lover! Yet for all thy care
She will not show to thee her secret heart.
Though now its throbbings take the languid air,
And now a flush across the fields will start,
And now full near she breathes, soon otherwhere,
Mindless of thee, she moves and dwells apart.


What springs feed that great vein that from the heart
Of searchless Ethiopia descends,
That makes the changes of the year, and lends
A springtide to the land dim-faced and swart;
Whether it moves with foamy plunge and start,
Shaking its reed-built isles, or smoothly bends
Round Morn-loved Memnon's slumber, and befriends
The scarred Sphinx that sits her throne apart !
Now hear we, rising from the spacious land,
A murmur as of builders in the sun;
Or now, on some Canopian palace-roof,
With old diviners of the stars we stand,
While through the dusk the glimmering waters run,
Like some long caravan winding aloof.

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