| “But the shell |
| Which may be strong for lyric swell |
| Or trumpet spire for oratory, |
| Seek these mid the tritons hoary, |
| Where an incalculable wave |
| Wrecks the war-ship tall and brave, |
| Rushes up a mile-long strand, |
| Hails the stars and spurns the land, |
| Pushes back the noblest river |
| Seeking in vain its love forever, |
| There mightst thou find a shell |
| Fit to be strung for strains of Delphian swell.”[1] |
Margaret Fuller’s verses are not commonly quite worth preserving, though no one could think so ill of them as did she herself. But these which I have just quoted have in them some of those “lyric glimpses” that Emerson praised in her; the “incalculable wave” and “mile-long strand” are terse and poetic; and the suggestion that Emerson may have lost, as well as gained, by a life-long residence among scenes so soothing, — this is something of value, and perhaps no one else ventured to speak so frankly to the great leader of thought as did this feminine disciple. Nor can I remember to have seen elsewhere so much as a hint that the world might have been the better had some great combination of events wrenched him for a time from that ideal chimney-corner in Concord. Here one may easily differ from her; nevertheless, her suggestion is worth preserving.
At any rate, this was the tone and temper of her intercourse with the closest and most eminent
- ↑ MS.
