And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state;

Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall,
Like showers of manna, if they come at all:
Whose powers shed round him in the common strife,
Or mild concerns of ordinary life,

A constant influence, a peculiar grace;

But who, if he be called upon to face

Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined
Great issues, good or bad for human kind,
Is happy as a Lover; and attired

With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired;
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw;
Or if an unexpected call succeed,

Come when it will, is equal to the need:

- He who though thus endued as with a sense And faculty for storm and turbulence,

Is

yet a Soul whose master-bias leans

To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes;
Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be,
Are at his heart; and such fidelity

It is his darling passion to approve;

More brave for this, that he hath much to love:

'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high
Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye,
Or left unthought-of in obscurity, -
Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not,
Plays, in the many games of life, that one
Where what he most doth value must be won:
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,

Nor thought of tender happiness betray;

Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last,

From well to better, daily self-surpast:

Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,

Or He must go to dust without his fame,
And leave a dead unprofitable name,

Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;

And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: This is the happy Warrior; this is He

Whom

every Man in arms should wish to be.

VI.

A POET'S EPITAPH.

ART thou a Statesman, in the van
Of public business trained and bred?
First learn to love one living man;
Then may'st thou think upon the dead.

A Lawyer art thou? — draw not nigh;
Go, carry to some fitter place

The keenness of that practised eye,
The hardness of that sallow face.

Art thou a Man of purple cheer?
A rosy Man, right plump to see?
Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near :
This grave no cushion is for thee.

Or art thou One of gallant pride,

A Soldier, and no man of chaff?
Welcome! — but lay thy sword aside,
And lean upon a Peasant's staff.

Physician art thou? One, all eyes,
Philosopher! a fingering slave,
One that would peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave?

Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,
O turn aside, — and take, I pray,
That he below may rest in peace,
That abject thing, thy soul, away!

A Moralist perchance appears; Led, Heaven knows how! to this

And He has neither eyes nor ears;

poor

Himself his world, and his own God;

sod:

One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling Nor form, nor feeling, great nor small;

A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,

An intellectual All in All!

Shut close the door; press down the latch;

Sleep in thy intellectual crust;

Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch

Near this unprofitable dust.

But who is He, with modest looks,
And clad in homely russet brown?
He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their own.

He is retired as noontide dew,
Or fountain in a noon-day grove;
And
you must love him, ere to you
He will seem worthy of your love.

The outward shows of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley, he has viewed;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude.

In common things that round us lie
Some random truths he can impart,

-

The harvest of a quiet eye

That broods and sleeps on his own heart.