DELICATE omens traced in air
To the lone bard true witness bare;
Birds with auguries on their wings
Chanted undeceiving things
Him to beckon, him to warn ;
Well might then the poet scorn
To learn of scribe or courier
Hints writ in vaster character;
And on his mind, at dawn of day,
Soft shadows of the evening lay.
For the prevision is allied
Unto the thing so signified;
Or say, the foresight that awaits
Is the same Genius that creates.
Ir chanced during one winter, a few years ago, that
our cities were bent on discussing the theory of the
Age. By an odd coincidence, four or five noted men
were each reading a discourse to the citizens of Boston
or New York, on the Spirit of the Times.
It so
happened that the subject had the same prominence in
some remarkable pamphlets and journals issued in
London in the same season. To me, however, the
question of the times resolved itself into a practical
question of the conduct of life. How shall I live? We
are incompetent to solve the times. Our geometry
cannot span the huge orbits of the prevailing ideas,
behold their return, and reconcile their opposition.
We can only obey our own polarity. 'Tis fine for us
to speculate and elect our course, if we must accept an
irresistible dictation.