THE POET'S BOOKS.
A Poet should be conversant with God
In all his works. For, from the untrodden cliff
Where fiery Andes mocks the driven cloud,
To the obscurest moss which arctic storms
Deny an efflorescence, from the roar
Of the wild rainbow-cinctured cataract,
To the slight ripple of the loneliest lake,
All speak of Him.
Choose not the ponderous tomes
Where Science wastes away the oil of life,
And early hoary, seeks the voiceless tomb,
Its lessons still unlearn'd; nor lose thyself
In the entangling lore of many lands,
Until thy mother tongue seem strange to thee.
Much knowledge is much toil, and hath no end.
But come thou forth, amid the breeze-swept trees,
And learn their language. Ask the peaceful vales,
Where roam the herds, or where the reaper plies
His busy sickle—ask the solemn sea,
With all its foaming wilderness of waves,
To spread its mighty volume out for thee,
And search thou there, on every fearful page,
Jehovah's name.
Question the rough-leafed herb,
That lines the simpler's scrip, nor scorn to heed
Such answer as its healing essence yields.
