The word unto the prophet spoken
Was writ on tables yet unbroken;
The word by seers or sibyls told,
In groves of oak, or fanes of gold.
Still floats upon the morning wind,
Still whispers to the willing mind.
One accent of the Holy Ghost
The heedless world hath never lost.
I know what say the fathers wise,--
The Book itself before me lies,
Old Chrysostom, best Augustine,
And he who blent both in his line,
The younger Golden Lips or mines,
Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines.
His words are music in my ear,
I see his cowled portrait dear;
And yet, for all his faith could see,
I would not the good bishop be.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
TO AMERICA.
"To America," included by permission of the Poet Laureate, is a good
poem and a great poem. It is a keen thrust at the common practice of
teaching American children to hate the English of these days on account
of the actions of a silly old king dead a hundred years. Alfred Austin
deserves great credit for this poem.
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