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FABLE.Emerson. The Mountain and the Squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter “Little Prig :" Bun replied, “ You are doubtless very big, But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together To make up a year, And a sphere. And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry : I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel-track ; Talents differ ; all is well and wisely put ; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut.”


Then out spake brave Horatius,

The Captain of the Gate :
“ To every man upon this earth,

Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better

Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,

And the temples of his gods,
And for the tender mother

Who dandled him to rest,
And for the wife who nurses

His baby at her breast,

And for the holy maidens

Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus

That wrought the deed of shame? “Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,

With all the speed ye may ;
I, with two more to help me,

Will hold the foe in play.
In yon straight path a thousand

May well be stopped by three.
Now who will stand on either hand,

And keep the bridge with me ?” Then out spake Spurius Lartius;

A Ramnian proud was he : “ Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,

And keep the bridge with thee.” And out spake strong Herminius;

Of Titian blood was he: “I will abide on thy left side,

And keep the bridge with thee.” “Horatius," quoth the Consul,

“ As thou sayest, so let it be." And straight against that great array

Forth went the dauntless Three. For Romans in Rome's quarrel

Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son, nor wife, nor limb, nor life,

In the brave days of old. Then none was for a party ;

Then all were for the state ; Then the great man helped the poor,

And the poor man loved the great : Then lands were fairly portioned;

Then spoils were fairly sold : The Romans were like brothers

In the brave days of old.

Now Roman is to Roman

More hateful than a foe,
And the Tribunes beard the high,

And the Fathers grind the low.
As we wax hot in faction,

In battle we wax cold :
Wherefore men fight not as they fought

In the brave days of old.

TO A SKYLARK.-Shelley.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit !

Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,

Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still, and higher,

From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire ;

The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever, singest.
In the golden lightening

Of the sunken sun,
O’er which clouds are brightening,

Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven,

In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.
Keen are the arrows

Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is over


What thou art we know not;

What is most like thee ?
From rainbow clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody,

Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.
Like a high-born maiden

In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden

Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower.

Like a glow-worm golden

In a dell of dew Scattering unbeholden

Its aërial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the

view. Like a rose embowered

In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered,

Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy wingèd Sound of vernal showers


On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers,

All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine ;
I have never heard

Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus hymeneal,

Or triumphal chant,
Matched with thine would be all

But an empty vaunt-
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains

Of thy happy strain ?
What fields, or waves, or mountains ?

What shapes of sky or plain ?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain ?
With thy clear keen joyance

Languor cannot be :
Shadow of annoyance

Never came near thee :
Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,

Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep

Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? We look before and after,

And pine for what is not : Our sincerest laughter

With some pain is fraught : Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

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