Page:Poems, Household Edition, Emerson, 1904.djvu/301

Rh Its peace sublime his aspect kept,

His purpose woke, his features slept;

And yet between the spasms of pain

His genius beamed with joy again.

O'er thy rich dust the endless smile

Of Nature in thy Spanish isle

Hints never loss or cruel break

And sacrifice for love's dear sake,

Nor mourn the unalterable Days

That Genius goes and Folly stays.

What matters how, or from what ground,

The freed soul its Creator found?

Alike thy memory embalms

That orange-grove, that isle of palms,

And these loved banks, whose oak-boughs bold

Root in the blood of heroes old.