Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Erastus WolcottEllsworth421 From “What Is the Use?”
I
For some things said and done before their eyes,
Quite overcast, and, in a restless muse,
Pacing a path about,
And often giving out:
“What is the use?”
By those strange words, and that unsettled brow;
Health, wealth, the fair esteem of ample views?
To these things thou art born.”
But he, as one forlorn,
“What is the use?
Man, and the natural world of woods and brooks,
Seeking that perfect good that I would choose;
But find no perfect good,
Settled, and understood.
What is the use?
Even in a breath bounding to each extreme
Of Joy and sorrow; therefore I refuse
All beaten ways of bliss,
And only answer this:
‘What is the use?’
Not many now—and, surely, soon, not one;
And should I sing like an immortal Muse,
Men, if they read the line,
Read for their good, not mine;
What is the use?
Common, though sweet as the new-scythed grass.
Of human deeds and thoughts, Time bears no news,
That, flying, he can lack,
Else they would break his back.
What is the use?
Perpetual tremble of immortal wires,
Divinely torturing rapture of the Muse,
Conspicuous wretchedness—
Thou starry, sole success—
What is the use?
That he who makes it is not easy now,
But hopes to be? Vain Hope, that dost abuse,
Coquetting with thine eyes,
And fooling him who sighs!
What is the use?
Lift the old kings’ mysterious coffin lids:
This dust was theirs, whose names these stones confuse,—
These mighty monuments
Of mighty discontents.
What is the use?
Blazed royal Ophir, Tyre, and Syrian girls,—
The great, wise, famous monarch of the Jews?
Though rolled in grandeur vast,
He said of all, at last,
‘What is the use?’
Even as a hermit caverned in a wood,
More sweetly fills my sober-suited views,
Than sweating to attain
Any luxurious pain.
What is the use?
His lantern-jawed and moral-mouthing creeds;
Systems and creeds the natural heart abuse.
What need of any Book,
Or spiritual crook?
What is the use?
Man, nature, God, one triple chain of gold,
Nature in all, sole Oracle and Muse.
What should I seek at all,
More than is natural?
What is the use?”
So wilted in the mood of a good mind,
I felt a kind of heat of earnest thought,
And studying in reply,
Answered him, eye to eye:—
The wandering rivers for the fountain lake:
What is the end of living?—happiness?—
An end that none attain
Argues a purpose vain.
But duty. Yet we see not all that is,
Nor may be, some day, if we love the light:
What man is, in desires,
Whispers where man aspires.
Souls on a globe that spins our lives away,
A multitudinous world, where heaven and hell,
Strangely in battle met,
Their gonfalons have set.
Yet, being born to battles, fight we must;
Under which ensign is our only choice.
We know to wage our best;
God only knows the rest.
And some things good, why not, with hand and soul,
Wrestle and succor out of wrong and sorrow;
Grasping the swords of strife;
Making the most of life?
If sought as God’s and man’s most loyal friend;
Naked we come into the world, and take
Weapons of various skill—
Let us not use them ill.”