Great spirits now on earth are sojourning;
He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake,
Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake,
Cathes his freshness from Archangel's wing:
He of the rose, the violet, the spring,
The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake:
And lo!--whose steadfastness would never take
A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering.
And other spirits there are standing apart
Upon the forehead of the age to come;
These, these will give the world another heart,
And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum
Of mighty workings?------

TO THE SPIRIT OF KEATS

Great soul, thou sittest with me in my room,
Uplifting me with thy vast, quiet eyes,
On whose full orbs, with kindly lustre, lies
The twilight warmth of ruddy ember-gloom:
Thy clear, strong tones will oft bring sudden bloom
Of hope secure, to him who lonely cries,
Wrestling with the young poet's agonies,
Neglect and scorn, which seem a certain doom:
Yes! the few words which, like great thunder-drops,
Thy large heart down to earth shook doubtfully,
Thrilled by the inward lightning of its might,

Great Sassacus fled from the eastern shores,
Where the sun first shines, and the great sea roars,
For the white men came from the world afar.
And their fury burnt like the bison star.

His sannops were slain by their thunder's power.
And his children fell like the star-eyed flower;
His wigwams were burnt by the white man's flame,
And the home of his youth has a stranger name —

His ancestor once was our countryman's foe,
And the arrow was plac'd in the new-strung bow,
The wild deer ranged through the forest free,

The great Pacific railway,
For California hail!
Bring on the locomotive,
Lay down the iron rail;
Across the rolling prairies
By steam we're bound to go,
The railroad cars are coming, humming
Through New Mexico,
The railroad cars are coming, humming
Through New Mexico.

The little dogs in dog-town
Will wag each little tail;
They'll think that something's coming
A-riding on a rail.
The rattlesnake will show its fangs,
The owl tu-whit, tu-who,
The railroad cars are coming, humming
Through New Mexico,

Great nature is an army gay,
Resistless marching on its way;
I hear the bugles clear and sweet,
I hear the tread of million feet.
— Across the plain I see it pour;
It tramples down the waving grass;
Within the echoing mountain-pass
I hear a thousand cannon roar.
— It swarms within my garden gate;
My deepest well it drinketh dry.
It doth not rest; it doth not wait;
By night and day it sweepeth by;
Ceaseless it marcheth by my door;
It heeds me not, though I implore.
I know not whence it comes, nor where

Great men have been among us; hands that penn'd
And tongues that utter'd wisdom--better none:
The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington,
Young Vane, and others who call'd Milton friend.
These moralists could act and comprehend:
They knew how genuine glory was put on;
Taught us how rightfully a nation shone
In splendour: what strength was, that would not bend
But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange,
Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then.
Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change!
No single volume paramount, no code,

Great Jack of Lent, clad in a robe of air,
Threw mountains higher than Alcides' beard:
Whilst Pancras Church, arm'd with a sapphire blade,
Began to reason on the business thus:
Ye squand'ring Troglodites of Amsterdam,
How long shall Cerberus a tapster be?
What if stout Ajax lay with Proserpine,
Must men leave eating powder'd beef for that?
For in the Commentaries of Tower Ditch
A fat stew'd bawd hath been a dish of state.
Will you forbid a man to pick his teeth,
Cause Brutus with a sword did slay himself?
Or if an humble bee do kill a whale,

Great is the tumult of men's anger grown,
Of hate exalted and of love defiled;
But hark, on gentle airs from Bethlehem blown,
Rise clear the tender accents of a Child!

A little Child — and yet the voice of dread
Is stilled, greed shamed as wrath and envy are:
Hate's sword is sheathed; the tyrant bows his head,
As sudden on earth's darkness streams a star!

Great is the tumult of men's anger grown,
— Of hate exalted and of love defiled;
But hark, on gentle airs from Bethlehem blown,
— Rise clear the tender accents of a Child!

Great heart, who taught thee so to dye?
Death yielding thee the victory?
Where took'st thou leave of life? if there,
How couldst thou be so freed from feare?
But sure thou dy'st and quit'st the state
Of flesh and blood before thy fate.
Else what a miracle were wrought,
To triumph both in flesh and thought?
I saw in every stander by,
Pale death, life onely in thine eye:
Th' example that thou left'st was then,
We look for when thou dy'st agen.
Farewell, truth shall thy story say,
We dy'd, thou onely liv'dst that day.

The great gold apples of night
Hang from the street's long bough
Dripping their light
On the faces that drift below,
On the faces that drift and blow
Down the night-time, out of sight
In the wind's sad sough.

The ripeness of these apples of night
Distilling over me
Makes sickening the white
Ghost-flux of faces that hie
Them endlessly, endlessly by
Without meaning or reason why
They ever should be.