The East is unveiled, the East hath confessed 120 A flush: 't is dead; 't is alive: 't is dead, ere

the West

Was aware of it: nay, 't is abiding, 't is unwith

drawn:

Have a care, sweet Heaven! 'T is Dawn.

Now a dream of a flame through that dream of a flush is uprolled:

To the zenith ascending, a dome of un-
dazzling gold

Is builded, in shape as a bee-hive, from out of

the sea:

The hive is of gold undazzling, but oh, the Bee, The star-fed Bee, the build-fire Bee,

Of dazzling gold is the great Sun-Bee That shall flash from the hive-hole over the

sea.

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Yet now the dewdrop, now the morning

gray,

Shall live their little lucid sober day

Ere with the sun their souls exhale away.

Now in each pettiest personal sphere of dew
The summed moon shines complete as in the blue
Big dewdrop of all heaven: with these lit shrines
O'er silvered to the farthest sea-confines,
The sacramental marsh one pious plain
Of worship lies. Peace to the ante-reign
Of Mary Morning, blissful mother mild,
Minded of nought but peace, and of a child,

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Not slower than Majesty moves, for a mean and a measure

Of motion,-not faster than dateless Olympian

leisure

Might pace with unblown ample garments from pleasure to pleasure,

The wave-serrate sea-rim sinks unjarring,

unreeling,

Forever revealing, revealing, revealing, Edgewise, bladewise, halfwise, wholewise,-'t is done!

Good-morrow, Lord Sun!

With several voice, with ascription one,
The woods and the marsh and the sea and my

soul

Unto thee, whence the glittering stream of all morrows doth roll,

Cry good and past good and most heavenly morrow, Lord Sun.

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O Artisan born in the purple,—Workman Heat,— Parter of passionate atoms that travail to meet And be mixed in the death-cold oneness,innermost Guest

At the marriage of elements,-fellow of pub-
licans, blest

King in the blouse of flame, that loiterest o'er
The idle skies yet laborest past evermore,-
Thou, in the fine forge-thunder, thou, in the beat
Of the heart of a man, thou Motive,-Laborer

Heat:

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Yea, Artist, thou, of whose art yon sea 's all

news,

With his inshore greens and manifold mid-sea

blues,

Pearl-glint, shell-tint, ancientest, perfectest hues Ever shaming the maidens,-lily and rose

Confess thee, and each mild flame that glows In the clarified virginal bosoms of stones that shine,

It is thine, it is thine:

Thou chemist of storms, whether driving the winds a-swirl

Or a-flicker the subtiler essences polar that whirl In the magnet earth,-yea, thou with a storm

for a heart,

Rent with debate, many-spotted with question,

part

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From part oft sundered, yet ever a globed light, Yet ever the artist, ever more large and bright Than the eye of a man may avail of:-manifold

One,

I must pass from the face, I must pass from the face of the Sun:

Old Want is awake and agog, every wrinkle

a-frown;

The worker must pass to his work in the

terrible town:

But I fear not, nay, and I fear not the thing to

be done;

I am strong with the strength of my lord

the Sun:

How dark, how dark soever the race that must needs be run,

I am lit with the Sun.

Oh, never the mast-high run of the seas
Of traffic shall hide thee,

Never the hell-colored smoke of the factories
Hide thee,

Never the reek of the time's fen-politics
Hide thee,

ار

And ever my heart through the night shall with knowledge abide thee,

And ever by day shall my spirit, as one that

hath tried thee,

Labor, at leisure, in art,-till yonder beside

THE groves were God's first temples. Ere
man learned

To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them-ere he

framed

The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,
Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down,
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks

And supplication. For his simple heart
Might not resist the sacred influences

Which, from the stilly twilight of the place,

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And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound
Of the invisible breath that swayed at once
All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed
His spirit with the thought of boundless power
And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why

Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore

Only among the crowd, and under roofs

That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at

least,

Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,
Offer one hymn-thrice happy if it find
Acceptance in His ear.

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Father, thy hand

Hath reared these venerable columns, thou

Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down

Upon the naked earth, and forthwith rose

All these fair ranks of trees. They in thy sun
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy

breeze,

And shot towards heaven. The century-living

crow,

Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and

died

Among their branches, till at last they stood,
As now they stand, massy and tall and dark,

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