Then Christ sought out an artisan,
A low-browed, stunted, haggard man,
And a motherless girl, whose fingers thin
Pushed from her faintly want and sin.

These set he in the midst of them,
And as they drew back their garment-hem,
For fear of defilement, ‘Lo, here,’ said he,
‘The images ye have made of me!’

ODE

WRITTEN FOR THE CELEBRATION OF THE INTRODUCTION OF THE COCHITUATE
WATER INTO THE CITY OF BOSTON

My name is Water:  I have sped
  Through strange, dark ways, untried before,
By pure desire of friendship led,
  Cochituate’s ambassador;
He sends four royal gifts by me: 
Long life, health, peace, and purity.

I’m Ceres’ cup-bearer; I pour,
  For flowers and fruits and all their kin,
Her crystal vintage, from of yore
  Stored in old Earth’s selectest bin,
Flora’s Falernian ripe, since God
The wine-press of the deluge trod.

In that far isle whence, iron-willed,
  The New World’s sires their bark unmoored,
The fairies’ acorn-cups I filled
  Upon the toadstool’s silver board,
And, ’neath Herne’s oak, for Shakespeare’s sight,
Strewed moss and grass with diamonds bright.

No fairies in the Mayflower came,
  And, lightsome as I sparkle here,
For Mother Bay State, busy dame,
  I’ve toiled and drudged this many a year,
Throbbed in her engines’ iron veins,
Twirled myriad spindles for her gains.

I, too, can weave:  the warp I set
  Through which the sun his shuttle throws,
And, bright as Noah saw it, yet
  For you the arching rainbow glows,
A sight in Paradise denied
To unfallen Adam and his bride.

When Winter held me in his grip,
  You seized and sent me o’er the wave,
Ungrateful! in a prison-ship;
  But I forgive, not long a slave,
For, soon as summer south-winds blew,
Homeward I fled, disguised as dew.

For countless services I’m fit,
  Of use, of pleasure, and of gain,
But lightly from all bonds I flit,
  Nor lose my mirth, nor feel a stain;
From mill and wash-tub I escape,
And take in heaven my proper shape.

So, free myself, to-day, elate
  I come from far o’er hill and mead,
And here, Cochituate’s envoy, wait
  To be your blithesome Ganymede,
And brim your cups with nectar true
That never will make slaves of you.

LINES

SUGGESTED BY THE GRAVES OF TWO ENGLISH SOLDIERS ON CONCORD BATTLE-GROUND

The same good blood that now refills
The dotard Orient’s shrunken veins,
The same whose vigor westward thrills,
Bursting Nevada’s silver chains,
Poured here upon the April grass,
Freckled with red the herbage new;
On reeled the battle’s trampling mass,
Back to the ash the bluebird flew.