This marble needes no teares, let them be powr'd
For such whom earth's dull bowelles haue emboured
In child-head or in youth, and lefte to liue
By some sad chance fierce planets did contriue.
Eight lustres, twice full reckened, did make thee
All this life's happiness to know; and wee
Who saw thee in thy winter (as men flowres
Shrunke in their stemmes, or Ilium's faire towres,
Hidde in their rubbidge), could not but admire,
The casket spoyled, the jewel so intiere;
For, neither judgment, memorye, nor sence

Hearken the bluster and brag of the Mill!
The heart of the Mill am I,
Doomed to toil in the dark until
The springs of the world run dry;
With never a ray of sun to cheer
And never a star for lamp!
It cries its song in the great World's ear—
I toil in the dark and damp.

And ever the storm-clouds cast their showers
And the brook laughs loud in the sun,
To goad me on through the dizzy hours
That the will of the Mill be done!
And that is why I groan at work;
For deep down under the flood I lurk
Where the icy midnight lingers:

No Ill on Earth we tim'rous Mortals fly
With so much Dread as abject Poverty:
O despicable Name! We, thee to shun,
On ev'ry other Evil blindly run.
For Fear of thee, distrustful Nigards go
In tatter'd Rags, and starve their Bodies too,
And still are poor, for Fear of being so.
For Fear of thee, the cheating Trader vows,
His Wares are good, altho' his Conscience knows,
He has employ'd his utmost Skill and Care,
To hide their Faults, and make their Beauties glare,
The Sailor, terrify'd with Thoughts of thee,

Give the good gaunt horse the rein,
Sting him with the steel!
Set his nervous thews a-strain,
Let him feel the winner's pain,
Master-hand and -heel!
Fling him, hurl him at the wire
Though he sob and bleed!
Play upon him as a lyre —
Speed is music set on fire —
O, the mighty steed!

Hurl the lyric swift and true
Like a shaft of Doom!
Like the lightning's blade of blue
Letting all the heavens through,
And shuddering back to gloom!
Like the sudden river-thaw,
Like a sabred throng,
Give it fury clothed in awe —

I

The wild bee sips at the heat-drugged lips
Of the passionless lily a-nod;
The sunflowers stare through the hush at the glare
Of the face of their tutelar god, and the hair
Of the gossamer glints in the listless air.

Ragged and grim on the parched hill-rim,
The cottonwoods sulk in gray:
The guiding word of the plowman is heard
A dream-thralled mile away — half blurred,
Wounding the calm as a blunted sword.

Prophecy's minister, dolorous, sinister,

I saw it ripen, saw it redden
Upon the garden tree —
And who shall gather thee, sweet maiden!
O, who shall gather thee.

I cannot reach so high, sweet maiden!
I cannot reach so high —
Will distance love's delusions deaden?
Farewell! — I go — I'll try.

If monumentes were lasting, wee would raise
A fairer frame to thy desertes and praise;
But auarice, or misdeuotione's rage,
These tumbling down, or brought to nought by age,
Twice making man to dye, this marble beares
An embleme of affection and our teares.

I am a drinker of wine, why does the Priest quarrel with me?
Our natures are made by Fate, would that I could make his like mine!
Well dost thou say, my adviser, blessings upon thy speech;
Well dost thou mean, but by words hast thou ever yet turned the torrent?
Those have gone to Heaven who had neither knowledge nor sense,
Others have gone to Hell whose excellence was their boast.
Of what profit to Abujahal the words of the Prophet Mahommed?
Who will polish the mirror that God has covered with rust?

Said a rose amid the June night to a little wind there walking
(And the whisper of the moonlight was no fainter than its talking):
" It is plainly providential, " so remarked the garden Tory,
" That the ultimate essential is the gentle rose's glory.
Let the sordid delvers cavil! Through the world-fog sinking seaward
And the planetary travail God was slowly groping meward.
Weary ages of designing, aeons of creative throes
Spent the Master in refining sullen chaos to a rose!
Shall He robe His chosen meanly? Look upon me; am I splendid? "

'Twas when prevailing Night had spread
Her sable Mantle o'er the Earth;
The Tulip clos'd his painted Head,
Waiting next Morn a gayer Birth;
No other Noise was heard while Strephon sung;
These were the Words with which his Accents rung.

While, in Clarinda 's Arms enclos'd,
Like more than Mortal Damon lies;
While, on her snowy Breasts repos'd,
In softly melting Raptures dies;
Ye Nymphs and Nereids hear a Youth complain,
Who long Clarinda lov'd, but lov'd in vain!

Kindly at first she seem'd to bend;