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And hurried landward far away,
Crying, "Awake! it is the day!"

It said unto the forest, "Shout!
•Hang all your leafy banners out!"

It touched the wood-bird's folded wing,
And said, "O bird, awake and sing!”

And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer,
Your clarion blow, the day is near!"

It whispered to the fields of corn,
"Bow down, and hail the coming morn!"

It shouted through the belfry-tower,
"Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour."

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,
And said, "Not yet! in quiet lie."

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

THANATOPSIS

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart;—
Go forth, under the open sky, and list

To Nature's teachings, while from all around—
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-
Comes a still voice:-

Thanatopsis

Yet a few days, and thee

The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

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Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go

To mix forever with the elements,

To be a brother to the insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods-rivers that move

In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,—

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.-Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first

The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men—

The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man-
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan,
which moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,

Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878]

FACING THE SUNSET

THE LIE

Go, Soul, the Body's guest,
Upon a thankless arrant;

Fear not to touch the best;

The truth shall be thy warrant:

Go, since I needs must die,

And give the World the lie.

Say to the Court, it glows

And shines like rotten wood:
Say to the Church, it shows
What's good, and doth no good:
If Court and Church reply
Then give them both the lie.

Tell Potentates, they live.
Acting by others' action,
Not loved unless they give,
Not strong but by a faction:
If Potentates reply,
Give Potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition

That manage the Estate,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice, only hate:

And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell them that brave it most,

They beg for more by spending,

Who, in their greatest cost,

Seek nothing but commending:

And if they make reply,

Then give them all the lie.

Tell Zeal it wants devotion;
Tell Love it is but lust;
Tell Time it is but motion;

Tell Flesh it is but dust:
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.

Tell Age it daily wasteth;

Tell Honor how it alters;
Tell Beauty how she blasteth;
Tell Favor how it falters:
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.

Tell Wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell Wisdom she entangles

Herself in over-wiseness:
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.

Tell Physic of her boldness;

Tell Skill it is pretension;

Tell Charity of coldness;

Tell Law it is contention:

And as they do reply,

So give them still the lie.

Tell Fortune of her blindness;

Tell Nature of decay;

Tell Friendship of unkindness;

Tell Justice of delay:

And if they will reply,

Then give them all the lie.

Tell Arts they have no soundness,

But vary by esteeming;

Tell Schools they want profoundness,

And stand too much on seeming:

If Arts and Schools reply,

Give Arts and Schools the lie.

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