We stride the river daily at its spring,
  Nor, in our childless thoughtlessness, foresee
What myriad vassal streams shall tribute bring,
  How like an equal it shall greet the sea.

O small beginnings, ye are great and strong,
  Based on a faithful heart and weariless brain! 
Ye build the future fair, ye conquer wrong,
  Ye earn the crown, and wear it not in vain.

ON THE DEATH OF CHARLES TURNER TORREY

Woe worth the hour when it is crime
  To plead the poor dumb bondman’s cause,
When all that makes the heart sublime,
The glorious throbs that conquer time,
  Are traitors to our cruel laws!

He strove among God’s suffering poor
  One gleam of brotherhood to send;
The dungeon oped its hungry door
To give the truth one martyr more,
  Then shut,—­and here behold the end!

O Mother State! when this was done,
  No pitying throe thy bosom gave;
Silent thou saw’st the death-shroud spun,
And now thou givest to thy son
  The stranger’s charity,—­a grave.

Must it be thus forever?  No! 
  The hand of God sows not in vain,
Long sleeps the darkling seed below,
The seasons come, and change, and go,
  And all the fields are deep with grain.

Although our brother lie asleep,
  Man’s heart still struggles, still aspires;
His grave shall quiver yet, while deep
Through the brave Bay State’s pulses leap
  Her ancient energies and fires.

When hours like this the senses’ gush
  Have stilled, and left the spirit room,
It hears amid the eternal hush
The swooping pinions’ dreadful rush,
  That bring the vengeance and the doom;—­

Not man’s brute vengeance, such as rends
  What rivets man to man apart,—­
God doth not so bring round his ends,
But waits the ripened time, and sends
  His mercy to the oppressor’s heart.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DR. CHANNING

I do not come to weep above thy pall,
  And mourn the dying-out of noble powers,
The poet’s clearer eye should see, in all
  Earth’s seeming woe, seed of immortal flowers.

Truth needs no champions:  in the infinite deep
  Of everlasting Soul her strength abides,
From Nature’s heart her mighty pulses leap,
  Through Nature’s veins her strength, undying, tides.

Peace is more strong than war, and gentleness,
  Where force were vain, makes conquest o’er the wave; 10
And love lives on and hath a power to bless,
  When they who loved are hidden in the grave.

The sculptured marble brags of deathstrewn fields,
  And Glory’s epitaph is writ in blood;
But Alexander now to Plato yields,
  Clarkson will stand where Wellington hath stood.

I watch the circle of the eternal years,
  And read forever in the storied page
One lengthened roll of blood, and wrong, and tears,
  One onward step of Truth from age to age. 20