No farther shoot Thy broad ambitious branches, and thy root. Fancy departs: no more invent; Contract thy firmament To compass of a tent. There's not enough for this and that, Make thy option which of two; Not the less revere the Giver, Soften the fall with wary foot; Still plan and smile, And,-fault of novel germs,- Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires, Bad husbands of their fires, Who, when they gave thee breath, The needful sinew stark as once, But left a legacy of ebbing veins, Amid the Muses, left thee deaf and dumb, As the bird trims her to the gale, Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime: "Lowly faithful, banish fear, Right onward drive unharmed; The port, well worth the cruise, is near, Ralph Waldo Emerson 0 HERE lies the land to which the ship would go? WH Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say. Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. Where lies the land to which the ship would go? And where the land she travels from? Away, Arthur Hugh Clough THE IDEAL1 F here our life be briefer than a day IF In time Eternal, if the circling year The translation is by George Wyndham, and is reprinted with the persion of Macmillan & Co., Ltd. If for the flight to an abode more clear Shall seem the image worshiped upon earth. 262 Joachim du Bellay DOVER BEACH HE sea is calm to-night, The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; on the French coast the light Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land, Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Ægæan, and it brought Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Matthew Arnold I STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife; I warmed both hands before the fire of life; Walter Savage Landor I THE PALACE OF ART1 BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure-house, I said, "O Soul, make merry and carouse, Dear soul, for all is well." bridged. A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnished brass, Suddenly scaled the light. Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf The rock rose clear, or winding stair. My soul would live alone unto herself In her high palace there. And "While the world runs round and round,” I said, "Reign thou apart, a quiet king, Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade To which my soul made answer readily: In this great mansion, that is built for me, Full of long-sounding corridors it was, Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass, Full of great rooms and small the palace stood, From living Nature, fit for every mood For some were hung with arras green and blue, Where with puffed cheek the belted hunter blew |