In the cold, moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:

Yet not unmeet was it that one like that young friend of ours,

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

5

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 10 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

15 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
20 Earth and her waters, and the depths of air
Comes a still voice - 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

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 for ever 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 sepulchre. 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, 25 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 5 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, 10 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
15 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
20 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 gl des away, the sons of men,

The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes 25 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.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

AMERICA, 1803-1882

'Twas one of the charméd days
When the genius of God doth flow,
The wind may alter twenty ways,
A tempest cannot blow;

It may blow north, it still is warm;
Or south, it still is clear;

Or east, it smells like a clover-farm;
Or west, no thunder fear.

The musing peasant lowly great
Beside the forest water sate;

The rope-like pine roots crosswise grown
Compose the network of his throne;
The wide lake, edged with sand and
Was burnished to a floor of glass,
Painted with green and proud

grass,

5

10

15

20

Of the tree and of the cloud.

He was the heart of all the scene;
On him the sun looked more serene;
To hill and cloud his face was known,-
5 It seemed the likeness of their own;
They knew by secret sympathy
The public child of earth and sky.
"You ask," he said, "what guide
Me through trackless thickets led,

-

10 Through thick-stemmed woodlands rough and wide. I found the water's bed.

The watercourses were my guide;

I traveled grateful by their side,
Or through their channel dry;

15 They led me through the thicket damp,
Through brake and fern, the beaver's camp,
Through beds of granite cut my road,
And their resistless friendship showed:
The falling waters led me,

20 The foodful waters fed me,

And brought me to the lowest land,

Unerring to the ocean sand.

The moss upon the forest bark

Was pole-star when the night was dark;
25 The purple berries in the wood
Supplied me necessary food;
For Nature ever faithful is

To such as trust her faithfulness.