Page:Poems, Emerson, 1847.djvu/112

100 The insanity of towns to stem

With simpleness for stratagem.

But if the brave old mould is broke,

And end in churls the mountain folk,

In tavern cheer and tavern joke,

Sink, O mountain, in the swamp!

Hide in thy skies, O sovereign lamp!

Perish like leaves, the highland breed!

No sire survive, no son succeed!

Soft! let not the offended muse

Toil's hard hap with scorn accuse.

Many hamlets sought I then,

Many farms of mountain men;

Found I not a minstrel seed,

But men of bone, and good at need.

Rallying round a parish steeple

Nestle warm the highland people,

Coarse and boisterous, yet mild,

Strong as giant, slow as child,

Smoking in a squalid room

Where yet the westland breezes come.