O Love divine, whose constant beam
Shines on the eyes that will not see,
And waits to bless us, while we dream
Thou leav'st us when we turn from thee!

All souls that struggle and aspire,
All hearts of prayer, by thee are lit;
Or dim or clear, thy tongues of fire
On dusky tribes and centuries sit.

And everywhere thy Spirit walks
With man as under Eden's trees,
In gardens of the heart, and talks
In all his varied languages.

Nor bound, nor clime, nor creed thou know'st;
Wide as our need thy favors fall;

Great honour'd Peere, you as a gorgeous ringg ,
Eternall honour to our Court may bring,
On which beholding how y'are circle round,
Rightly no end unto your worth is found;
Greatly beset with Juels ringg like you
In many vertues make a glorious shew:
Vertue the greatest Juell far excelling,
See then what Peeres our English Courts hath dwelling.

Guarded with vertues thus set in a ringg ,
O noble Hero , your great honours bring:
Rightly it will be chronicled of you
In learned Poems, and who shall ensue,

Within this far Etruscan clime,
By vine-clad slopes and olive plains,
And round these walls still left by Time,
The bound'ries of his old domains: —

Here at the dreamer's golden goal,
Whose dome o'er winding Arno drops,
Where old Romance still breathes its soul
Through Poesy's enchanted stops: —

Where Art still holds her ancient state
(What though her banner now is furled),
And keeps within her guarded gate
The household treasures of the world: —

What joy amid all this to find
One single bird, or flower, or leaf,

If I were a poet, my sweetest song
Should have the bouquet of scuppernong,
With a racy smack in every line
From the savage juice of the muscadine.

The russel persimmon, the brown papaw,
The red wild plum and the summer haw,
Serviceberries and mandrake fruit,
Sassafras bark and ginseng root,
Should make my verse pungent and sweet by turns;
And the odor of grass and the freshness of ferns,
The kernels of nuts and the resins of trees,
The nectar distilled by the wild honey-bees,
Should be thrown in together, to flavor my words

Though I am little as all little things,
Though the stars that pass over my tininess are as the sands of the sea,
Though the garment of the night was made for a sky-giant and does not fit me,
Though even in a city of men I am as nothing,
Yet at times the gift of life is almost more than I can bear. ...
I laugh with joyousness, the morning is a blithe holiday;
And in the overrunning of my hardy bliss praise rises for the very breath I breathe.

How soaked the universe is with life —
Not a cranny but is drenched!
Ah, not even I was overlooked!

Do you think, my boy, when I put my arms around you
To still your fears,
That it is I who conquer the dark and the lonely night?

My arms seem to wrap love about you,
As your little heart fluttering at my breast
Throbs love through me â?¦

But, dear one, it is not your father:
Other arms are about you, drawing you near,
And drawing the earth near, and the night near,
And your father near. â?¦

Some day you shall lie alone at nights,
As now your father lies;
And in those arms, as a leaf fallen on a tranquil stream,

What is the grandest thought
Toward which the soul has wrought?
Has it the epic form,
And the power of a storm?
Comes it of prophecy
(That borrows light of uncreated fires),
Or of transmitted strains of memory
Sent down through countless sires?
I tiptoe on the verge
Of the Future, and I urge
Into vast space the cry of my despair
(Which, like a sea-gull lost in upper air,
Glides weakly on and on);
But whither is it gone,
This straying cry with human anguish fraught?
What is the final thought?

No songs of revolt am I singing,
No paean or saga of old;
But just the poor pot-boilers bringing
Long beers, when your boiler is cold.

No Queen in appearance or manners,
No great Maid of Orleans is she;
Yet high o'er the city her banners
Are flying for all men to see.

Her rampart is breast-high and granite —
By floor that is leaden and grey —
But nothing in trousers dare man it

Many forms belong to greatness.
He who now has left us bore it
As a doubt that made him sleepless,
But at last gave revelation, —
As a sight-enhancing power,
That gave visions joined with anguish
Over all beyond our seeing, —
As a flight on labor's pinions
From the thought unto the certain,
Thence aloft to intuition, —
Restless haste and changeful ardor,
God-inspired and unceasing,
Through the wide world ever storming,
Took its load of thoughts and doubtings,
Bore them, threw them off, — and took them,

Ever may you, warded by innocence,
Doubtles true ward to keep from all offence,
Warded by severall vertues that defend,
As well as if the body arm'd did tend,
Raging fierce foes, who would the same oppresse,
Doubtles be a sure ward in readines.

Ha! honour'd Peere, sith vertue is your ward ,
O very well you may to ward regard;
Warded that since you safely do remaine,
Asure ward and defence we may retaine:
Rightly of you, right noble Lord, who prest,
Duly to ward , do rightly ward distrest,
Ever that by you we secure may rest.