No smooth array of phrase, Artfully sought and ordered though it be, Which the cold rhymer lays Upon his page with languid industry, Can wake the listless pulse to livelier speed, Or fill with sudden tears the eyes that read. The secret wouldst thou know To touch the heart or fire the blood at will? Let thine own eyes o'erflow; Let thy lips quiver with the passionate thrill; Seize the great thought, ere yet its power be past, And bind, in words, the fleet emotion fast. Then, should thy verse appear Halting and harsh, and all unaptly wrought, Touch the crude line with fear, Save in the moment of impassioned thought; Then summon back the original glow, and mend The strain with rapture that with fire was penned. Yet let no empty gust Of passion find an utterance in thy lay, A blast that whirls the dust Along the howling street and dies away; But feelings of calm power and mighty sweep, Like currents journeying through the windless deep. Seek'st thou, in living lays, To limn the beauty of the earth and sky? Before thine inner gaze Let all that beauty in clear vision lie; Look on it with exceeding love, and write The words inspired by wonder and delight. Of tempests wouldst thou sing, Or tell of battles--make thyself a part Of the great tumult; cling To the tossed wreck with terror in thy heart; Scale, with the assaulting host, the rampart's height, And strike and struggle in the thickest fight. So shalt thou frame a lay That haply may endure from age to age, And they who read shall say: "What witchery hangs upon this poet's page! What art is his the written spells to find That sway from mood to mood the willing mind!" THE PATH. The path we planned beneath October's sky, Along the hillside, through the woodland shade, Is finished; thanks to thee, whose kindly eye Has watched me, as I plied the busy spade; Else had I wearied, ere this path of ours Had pierced the woodland to its inner bowers. Yet, 'twas a pleasant toil to trace and beat, Among the glowing trees, this winding way, While the sweet autumn sunshine, doubly sweet, Flushed with the ruddy foliage, round us lay, As if some gorgeous cloud of morning stood, In glory, mid the arches of the wood. A path! what beauty does a path bestow Even on the dreariest wild! its savage nooks Seem homelike where accustomed footsteps go, And the grim rock puts on familiar looks. The tangled swamp, through which a pathway strays, Becomes a garden with strange flowers and sprays. See from the weedy earth a rivulet break And purl along the untrodden wilderness; There the shy cuckoo comes his thirst to slake, There the shrill jay alights his plumes to dress; And there the stealthy fox, when morn is gray, Laps the clear stream and lightly moves away.