Art thou a Statist in the van
Of public conflicts trained and bred?
First learn to love one living man;
Then may'st thou think upon the dead. A Lawyer art thou?draw not nigh!
Go, carry to some fitter place
The keenness of that practised eye,
The hardness of that sallow face. Art thou a Man of purple cheer?
A rosy Man, right plump to see?
Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near,
This grave no cushion is for thee. Or art thou one of gallant pride,
A Soldier and no man of chaff?
Welcome!but lay thy sword aside,
And lean upon a peasant's staff. Physician art thou?one, all eyes,
Philosopher!a fingering slave,
One that would peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave? Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,
O turn aside, and take, I pray,
That he below may rest in peace,
Thy ever-dwindling soul, away! A Moralist perchance appears;
Led, Heaven knows how! To this poor sod:
And he has neither eyes nor ears;
Himself his world, and his own God; One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling
Nor form, nor feeling, great or small;
A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,
An intellectual All-in-all! Shut close the door; press down the latch;
Sleep in thy intellectual crust;
Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch
Near this unprofitable dust. But who is He, with modest looks,
And clad in homely russet brown?
He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their own. He is retired as noontide dew,
Or fountain in a noon-day grove;
And you must love him, ere to you
He will seem worthy of your love. The outward shows of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley, he has viewed;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude. In common things that round us lie
Some random truths he can impart,
The harvest of a quiet eye
That broods and sleeps on his own heart. But he is weak; both Man and Boy,
Hath been an idler in the land;
Contented if he might enjoy
The things which others understand. Come hither in thy hour of strength;
Come, weak as is a breaking wave!
Here stretch thy body at full length;
Or build thy house upon this grave.