RALPH WALDO EMERSON [Born in Boston, Massachusetts, May 25, 1803; died at Concord, Massachusetts, April 27, 1882] CONCORD HYMN SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF the Battle Monument, APRIL 19, 1836 By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world. The foe long since in silence slept ; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. On this green bank, by this soft stream, Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee. THE RHODORA ON BEING ASKED WHENCE IS THE FLOWER In May, when sea winds pierced our solitudes, Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the redbird come his plumes to cool, This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew: But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. THE HUMBLE-BEE Burly, dozing humble-bee, Where thou art is clime for me. Insect lover of the sun, Joy of thy dominion ! 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,— All without is martyrdom. 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 the color of romance, Turns the sod to violets, Hot midsummer's petted crone, Aught unsavory or unclean Hath my insect never seen; But violets and bilberry bells, Maple-sap and daffodils, Grass with green grass half-mast high, Succory to match the sky, Wiser far than human seer, Thou dost mock at fate and care, Leave the chaff and take the wheat. When the fierce northwestern blast 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; I am going to my own hearth-stone, And vulgar feet have never trod A spot that is sacred to thought and God. O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, I laugh at the lore and the pride of man, EACH AND ALL Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown Stops his horse, and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, I brought him home, in his nest, at even; I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my sea-born treasures home; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar. The lover watched his graceful maid, As mid the virgin train she strayed, |