and which seem to impose the alternative to resist or to avoid it. That there are mitigations and practical alleviations to this rigor, is not an excuse for the rule. Commanding worth, and personal power, must sit crowned in all companies, nor will extraordinary persons be slighted or affronted in any company of civilized men. But the system is an invasion of the sentiment of justice and the native rights of men, which, however decorated, must lessen the value of English citizenship. It is for Englishmen to consider, not for us; we only say, let us live in America, too thankful for our want of feudal institutions. Our houses and towns are like mosses and lichens, so slight and new; but youth is a fault of which we shall daily mend. This land, too, is as old as the Flood, and wants no ornament or privilege which nature could bestow. Here stars, here woods, here hills, here animals, here men abound, and the vast tendencies concur of a new order. If only the men are employed in conspiring with the designs of the Spirit who led us hither, and is leading us still, we shall quickly enough advance out of all hearing of other's censures, out of all regrets of our own, into a new and more excellent social state than history has recorded. POEMS OF EMERSON DAYS DAMSELS of Time, the hypocritic Days, To each they offer gifts after his will, Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all. Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day GOOD-BYE GOOD-BYE, proud world! I'm going home: Long I've been tossed like the driven foam; Good-bye to flattery's fawning face; To crowded halls, to court and street; To those who go, and those who come; I am going to my own hearth stone, And vulgar feet have never trod O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, I laugh at the lore and the pride of man, THE RHODORA: ON BEING ASKED WHENCE IS THE FLOWER? IN May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. THE HUMBLE-BEE BURLY, dozing humble-bee, Insect lover of the sun, Sailor of the atmosphere; Swimmer through the waves of air; Voyager of light and noon; Epicurean of June; Wait, I prithee, till I come Within earshot of thy hum,— When the south wind, in May days, With a net of shining haze Silvers the horizon wall, And, with softness touching all, Tints the human countenance With a color of romance, And, infusing subtle heats, Thou, in sunny solitudes, Hot midsummer's petted crone, |