EACH AND ALL. LITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown 5 Stops his horse, and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. Nothing is fair or good alone. I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, I wiped away the weeds and foam, But the poor, unsightly, noisome things With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar. As 'mid the virgin train she strayed, H Nor knew her beauty's best attire Was woven still by the snow-white choir. At last she came to his hermitage Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage; The gay enchantment was undone, A gentle wife, but fairy none. Then I said, "I covet truth; Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; I leave it behind with the games of youth:"- The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, I inhaled the violet's breath; Around me stood the oaks and firs; Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground; Again I saw, again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird; - 10 On and away, their hasting feet Leaves on the wind melodious trace; Yet I could never see their face. Who the road had surely kept; They saw not my fine revelers,— 15 These had crossed them while they slept. In the country or the court. Fleetest couriers alive Never yet could once arrive, As they went or they returned, Sometimes their strong speed they slacken, In sleep their jubilant troop is near,- Nor knew her beauty's best attire Was woven still by the snow-white choir. At last she came to his hermitage Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage; A gentle wife, but fairy none. Then I said, "I covet truth; Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; I leave it behind with the games of youth:"- The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, I inhaled the violet's breath; Around me stood the oaks and firs; Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground; Again I saw, again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird; — I yielded myself to the perfect whole. FORERUNNERS. LONG I followed happy guides, To hunt upon their shining trails. 5 On and away, their hasting feet Leaves on the wind melodious trace; Yet I could never see their face. I met many Who the road had surely kept; They saw not my fine revelers, These had crossed them while they slept. In the country or the court. Fleetest couriers alive Never yet could once arrive, As they went or they returned, In sleep their jubilant troop is near,- It may be in wood or waste,- |