HAWTHORNE.  17

Was  it  not  well  that  one  —
One,  if  no  more  —  should  meditate  aloof,

Though  not  for  naught  the  time's  heroic  quarrel,
From  what  men  rush  to  do  and  what  is  done.
He  little  knew  to  join  the  web  and  woof

Whereof  slow  Progress  weaves  her  rich  apparel,
But  toward  the  Past  half  longing  turned  his  head.
His  deft  hand  dallied  with  its  common  share
Of  human  toil,  nor  sought  new  loads  to  lift,

But  held  itself,  instead,
All  consecrate  to  uses  that  make  fair,
By  right  divine  of  his  mysterious  gift.
How  should  the  world  discern
The  artist's  self,  save  through  the  fine  creation

Of  his  rare  moment  ?     How,  but  from  his  song,
The  unfettered  spirit  of  the  minstrel  learn  ?
Yet  on  this  one  the  stars  had  set  the  station


18  HAWTHORNE.
Which  to  the  chief  romancer  should  belong:
Child  of  the  Beautiful !   whose  regnant  brow
She  made  her  canopy,  and  from  his  eyes
Looked  outward  with  a  steadfast  purple  gleam.
Who  saw  him  marvelled  how
The  soul  of  that  impassioned  ray  could  lie

So  calm  beyond,  —  unspoken  all  its  dream.
What  sibyl  to  him  bore
The  secret  oracles  that  move  and  haunt?

At  night's  dread  noon  he  scanned  the  enchanted  glass,
Ay,  and  himself  the  warlock's  mantle  wore,
Nor  to  the  thronging  phantoms  said  Avaunt,

But  waved  his  rod  and  bade  them  rise  and  pass ;
Till  thus  he  drew  the  lineaments  of  men

Who  fought  the  old  colonial  battles  three,
Who  with  the  lustihood  of  Nature  warred
And  made  her  docile, — then


HAWTHORNE.  19

Wrestled  with  Terror  and  with  Tyranny,

Twin  wardens  of  the  scaffold  and  the  sword.
