'Monadnoc' by Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Thousand minstrels woke within me,
"Our music's in the hills; "—
Gayest pictures rose to win me,
Leopard-colored rills.
Up!—If thou knew'st who calls
To twilight parks of beech and pine,
High over the river intervals,
Above the ploughman's highest line,
Over the owner's farthest walls;—
Up!—where the airy citadel
O'erlooks the purging landscape's swell.
Let not unto the stones the day
Her lily and rose, her sea and land display;
Read the celestial sign!
Lo! the South answers to the North;
Bookworm, break this sloth urbane;
A greater Spirit bids thee forth,
Than the gray dreams which thee detain.
Mark how the climbing Oreads
Beckon thee to their arcades;
Youth, for a moment free as they,
Teach thy feet to feel the ground,
Ere yet arrive the wintry day
When Time thy feet has bound.
Accept the bounty of thy birth;
Taste the lordship of the earth.
I heard and I obeyed,
Assured that he who pressed the claim,
Well-known, but loving not a name,
Was not to be gainsaid.
Ere yet the summoning voice was still,
I turned to Cheshire's haughty hill.
From the fixed cone the cloud-rack flowed
Like ample banner flung abroad
Round about, a hundred miles,
With invitation to the sea, and to the bordering isles.
In his own loom's garment drest,
By his own bounty blest,
Fast abides this constant giver,
Pouring many a cheerful river;
To far eyes, an aërial isle,
Unploughed, which finer spirits pile,
Which morn and crimson evening paint
For bard, for lover, and for saint;
The country's core,
Inspirer, prophet evermore,
Pillar which God aloft had set
So that men might it not forget,
It should be their life's ornament,
And mix itself with each event;
Their calendar and dial,
Barometer, and chemic phial,
Garden of berries, perch of birds,
Pasture of pool-haunting herds,
Graced by each change of sum untold,
Earth-baking heat, stone-cleaving cold.
The Titan minds his sky-affairs,
Rich rents and wide alliance shares;
Mysteries of color daily laid
By the great sun in light and shade,
And, sweet varieties of chance,
And the mystic seasons' dance,
And thief-like step of liberal hours
Which thawed the snow-drift into flowers.
O wondrous craft of plant and stone
By eldest science done and shown!
Happy, I said, whose home is here,
Fair fortunes to the mountaineer!
Boon nature to his poorest shed
Has royal pleasure-grounds outspread.
Intent I searched the region round,
And in low hut my monarch found.
He was no eagle and no earl,
Alas! my foundling was a churl,
With heart of cat, and eyes of bug,
Dull victim of his pipe and mug;
Woe is me for my hopes' downfall!
Lord! is yon squalid peasant all
That this proud nursery could breed
For God's vicegerency and stead?
Time out of mind this forge of ores,
Quarry of spars in mountain pores,
Old cradle, hunting ground, and bier
Of wolf and otter, bear, and deer;
Well-built abode of many a race;
Tower of observance searching space;
Factory of river, and of rain;
Link in the alps' globe-girding chain;
By million changes skilled to tell
What in the Eternal standeth well,
And what obedient nature can,—
Is this colossal talisman
Kindly to creature, blood, and kind,
And speechless to the master's mind?
I thought to find the patriots
In whom the stock of freedom roots.
To myself I oft recount
Tales of many a famous mount.—
Wales, Scotland, Uri, Hungary's dells,
Roys, and Scanderbegs, and Tells.
Here now shall nature crowd her powers,
Her music, and her meteors,
And, lifting man to the blue deep
Where stars their perfect courses keep,
Like wise preceptor lure his eye
To sound the science of the sky,
And carry learning to its height
Of untried power and sane delight;
The Indian cheer, the frosty skies
Breed purer wits, inventive eyes,
Eyes that frame cities where none be,
And hands that stablish what these see:
And, by the moral of his place,
Hint summits of heroic grace;
Man in these crags a fastness find
To fight pollution of the mind;
In the wide thaw and ooze of wrong,
Adhere like this foundation strong,
The insanity of towns to stem
With simpleness for stratagem.
But if the brave old mould is broke,
And end in clowns the mountain-folk,
In tavern cheer and tavern joke,—
Sink, O mountain! in the swamp,
Hide in thy skies, O sovereign lap!
Perish like leaves the highland breed!
No sire survive, no son succeed!
Soft! let not the offended muse
Toil's hard hap with scorn accuse.
Many hamlets sought I then,
Many farms of mountain men;—
Found I not a minstrel seed,
But men of bone, and good at need.
Rallying round a parish steeple
Nestle warm the highland people,
Coarse and boisterous, yet mild,
Strong as giant, slow as child,
Smoking in a squalid room,
Where yet the westland breezes come.
Close hid in those rough guises lurk
Western magians, here they work;
Sweat and season are their arts,
Their talismans are ploughs and carts;
And well the youngest can command
Honey from the frozen land,
With sweet hay the swamp adorn,
Change the running sand to corn,
For wolves and foxes, lowing herds,
And for cold mosses, cream and curds;
Weave wood to canisters and mats,
Drain sweet maple-juice in vats.
No bird is safe that cuts the air,
From their rifle or their snare;
No fish in river or in lake,
But their long hands it thence will take;
And the country's iron face
Like wax their fashioning skill betrays,
To fill the hollows, sink the hills,
Bridge gulfs, drain swamps, build dams and mills,
And fit the bleak and howling place
For gardens of a finer race,
The world-soul knows his own affair,
Fore-looking when his hands prepare
For the next ages men of mould,
Well embodied, well ensouled,
He cools the present's fiery glow,
Sets the life pulse strong, but slow.
Bitter winds and fasts austere.
His quarantines and grottos, where
He slowly cures decrepit flesh,
And brings it infantile and fresh.
These exercises are the toys
And games with which he breathes his boys.
They bide their time, and well can prove,
If need were, their line from Jove,
Of the same stuff, and so allayed,
As that whereof the sun is made;
And of that fibre quick and strong
Whose throbs are love, whose thrills are song.
Now in sordid weeds they sleep,
Their secret now in dulness keep.
Yet, will you learn our ancient speech,
These the masters who can teach,
Fourscore or a hundred words
All their vocal muse affords,
These they turn in other fashion
Than the writer or the parson.
I can spare the college-bell,
And the learned lecture well.
Spare the clergy and libraries,
Institutes and dictionaries,
For the hardy English root
Thrives here unvalued underfoot.
Rude poets of the tavern hearth,
Squandering your unquoted mirth,
Which keeps the ground and never soars,
While Jake retorts and Reuben roars,
Tough and screaming as birch-bark,
Goes like bullet to its mark,
While the solid curse and jeer
Never balk the waiting ear:
To student ears keen-relished jokes
On truck, and stock, and farming-folks,—
Nought the mountain yields thereof
But savage health and sinews tough.
On the summit as I stood,
O'er the wide floor of plain and flood,
Seemed to me the towering hill
Was not altogether still,
But a quiet sense conveyed;
If I err not, thus it said:
Many feet in summer seek
Betimes my far-appearing peak;
In the dreaded winter-time,
None save dappling shadows climb
Under clouds my lonely head,
Old as the sun, old almost as the shade.
And comest thou
To see strange forests and new snow,
And tread uplifted land?
And leavest thou thy lowland race,
Here amid clouds to stand,
And would'st be my companion,
Where I gaze
And shall gaze
When forests fall, and man is gone,
Over tribes and over times
As the burning Lyre
Nearing me,
With its stars of northern fire,
In many a thousand years.
Ah! welcome, if thou bring
My secret in thy brain;
To mountain-top may muse's wing
With good allowance strain.
Gentle pilgrim, if thou know
The gamut old of Pan,
And how the hills began,
The frank blessings of the hill
Fall on thee, as fall they will.
'Tis the law of bush and stone—
Each can only take his own.
Let him heed who can and will,—
Enchantment fixed me here
To stand the hurts of time, until
In mightier chant I disappear.
If thou trowest
How the chemic eddies play
Pole to pole, and what they say,
And that these gray crags
Not on crags are hung,
But beads are of a rosary
On prayer and music strung;
And, credulous, through the granite seeming
Seest the smile of Reason beaming;
Can thy style-discerning eye
The hidden-working Builder spy,
Who builds, yet makes no chips, no din,
With hammer soft as snow-flake's flight;
Knowest thou this?
O pilgrim, wandering not amiss!
Already my rocks lie light,
And soon my cone will spin.
For the world was built in order,
And the atoms march in tune,
Rhyme the pipe, and time the warder,
Cannot forget the sun, the moon.
Orb and atom forth they prance,
When they hear from far the rune,
None so backward in the troop,
When the music and the dance
Reach his place and circumstance,
But knows the sun-creating sound,
And, though a pyramid, will bound.
Monadnoc is a mountain strong,
Tall and good my kind among,
But well I know, no mountain can
Measure with a perfect man;
For it is on Zodiack's writ,
Adamant is soft to wit;
And when the greater comes again,
With my music in his brain,
I shall pass as glides my shadow
Daily over hill and meadow.
Through all time
I hear the approaching feet
Along the flinty pathway beat
Of him that cometh, and shall come,—
Of him who shall as lightly bear
My daily load of woods and streams,
As now the round sky-cleaving boat
Which never strains its rocky beams,
Whose timbers, as they silent float,
Alps and Caucasus uprear,
And the long Alleghanies here,
And all town-sprinkled lands that be,
Sailing through stars with all their history.
Every morn I lift my head,
Gaze o'er New England underspread
South from Saint Lawrence to the Sound,
From Katshill east to the sea-bound.
Anchored fast for many an age,
I await the bard and sage,
Who in large thoughts, like fair pearl-seed,
Shall string Monadnoc like a bead.
Comes that cheerful troubadour,
This mound shall throb his face before,
As when with inward fires and pain
It rose a bubble from the plain.
When he cometh, I shall shed
From this well-spring in my head
Fountain drop of spicier worth
Than all vintage of the earth.
There's fruit upon my barren soil
Costlier far than wine or oil;
There's a berry blue and gold,—
Autumn-ripe its juices hold,
Sparta's stoutness, Bethlehem's heart,
Asia's rancor, Athens' art,
Slowsure Britain's secular might,
And the German's inward sight;
I will give my son to eat
Best of Pan's immortal meat,
Bread to eat and juice to drink,
So the thoughts that he shall think
Shall not be forms of stars, but stars,
Nor pictures pale, but Jove and Mars.
He comes, but not of that race bred
Who daily climb my specular head.
Oft as morning wreathes my scarf,
Fled the last plumule of the dark,
Pants up hither the spruce clerk
From South-Cove and City-wharf;
I take him up my rugged sides,
Half-repentant, scant of breath,—
Bead-eyes my granite chaos show,
And my midsummer snow;
Open the daunting map beneath,—
All his county, sea and land,
Dwarfed to measure of his hand;
His day's ride is a furlong space,
His city tops a glimmering haze:
I plant his eyes on the sky-hoop bounding;—
See there the grim gray rounding
Of the bullet of the earth
Whereon ye sail,
Tumbling steep
In the uncontinented deep;—
He looks on that, and he turns pale:
'Tis even so, this treacherous kite,
Farm-furrowed, town-incrusted sphere,
Thoughtless of its anxious freight,
Plunges eyeless on for ever,
And he, poor parasite,—
Cooped in a ship he cannot steer,
Who is the captain he knows not,
Port or pilot trows not,—
Risk or ruin he must share.
I scowl on him with my cloud,
With my north wind chill his blood,
I lame him clattering down the rocks,
And to live he is in fear.
Then, at last, I let him down
Once more into his dapper town,
To chatter frightened to his clan,
And forget me, if he can.
As in the old poetic fame
The gods are blind and lame,
And the simular despite
Betrays the more abounding might,
So call not waste that barren cone
Above the floral zone,
Where forests starve:
It is pure use;
What sheaves like those which here we glean and bind,
Of a celestial Ceres, and the Muse?
Ages are thy days,
Thou grand expressor of the present tense,
And type of permanence,
Firm ensign of the fatal Being,
Amid these coward shapes of joy and grief
That will not bide the seeing.
Hither we bring
Our insect miseries to the rocks,
And the whole flight with pestering wing
Vanish and end their murmuring,
Vanish beside these dedicated blocks,
Which, who can tell what mason laid?
Spoils of a front none need restore,
Replacing frieze and architrave;
Yet flowers each stone rosette and metope brave,
Still is the haughty pile erect
Of the old building Intellect.
Complement of human kind,
Having us at vantage still,
Our sumptuous indigence,
O barren mound! thy plenties fill.
We fool and prate,—
Thou art silent and sedate.
To million kinds and times one sense
The constant mountain doth dispense,
Shedding on all its snows and leaves,
One joy it joys, one grief it grieves.
Thou seest, O watchman tall!
Our towns and races grow and fall,
And imagest the stable Good
For which we all our lifetime grope,
In shifting form the formless mind;
And though the substance us elude,
We in thee the shadow find.
Thou in our astronomy
An opaker star,
Seen, haply, from afar,
Above the horizon's hoop.
A moment by the railway troop,
As o'er some bolder height they speed,—
By circumspect ambition,
By errant Gain,
By feasters, and the frivolous,—
Recallest us,
And makest sane.
Mute orator! well-skilled to plead,
And send conviction without phrase,
Thou dost supply
The shortness of our days,
And promise, on thy Founder's truth,
Long morrow to this mortal youth.
Editor 1 Interpretation
Monadnoc: A Literary Criticism and Interpretation
Are you familiar with the works of Ralph Waldo Emerson? He was a 19th-century American philosopher, poet, and essayist whose writings are a staple in many literature courses today. One of his most famous poems is Monadnoc, which was written in 1846. This poem is a reflection on Emerson's experience of climbing Mount Monadnock, a peak in southern New Hampshire that he visited many times throughout his life.
In this literary criticism and interpretation, we will explore the themes, structure, and language of Monadnoc. We will also examine the poem's significance in the context of Emerson's work as a whole.
Themes
At its core, Monadnoc is a poem about the relationship between humans and the natural world. It explores the idea that nature is not just a physical landscape but also a source of spiritual inspiration and growth. Emerson uses the mountain as a symbol of this larger concept, as he writes:
Therefore, to our sick eyes, The stunted trees look sick, the summer short, Clouds shade the sun, which will not tan our limbs; The bard, the child, the master, in each kind, The wit, the traveller, revert to thee, Lonely Monadnoc!
Here, Monadnock is described as a place that draws people back to it time and again, despite its apparent lack of grandeur. Emerson suggests that the mountain has a kind of spiritual power that is not immediately visible to the naked eye. He also implies that those who are able to perceive this power are the ones who are most in tune with their own inner selves.
Another theme that runs through Monadnoc is the idea of journey and transformation. Emerson describes his ascent of the mountain as a process of self-discovery, as he writes:
The soul is not a traveller; the wise man stays at home, and when his necessities, his duties, on any occasion call him from his house, or into foreign lands, he is at home still, and shall make men sensible by the expression of his countenance, that he goes the missionary of wisdom and virtue, and visits cities and men like a sovereign, and not like an interloper or a valet.
Here, Emerson suggests that the journey up the mountain is not just a physical one but also a spiritual one. He argues that the wise man is able to find a sense of home wherever he goes, and that his travels are not just about seeing new places but also about spreading wisdom and virtue.
Structure
Monadnoc is a sonnet, which is a type of poem that consists of 14 lines and follows a specific rhyme scheme. Specifically, it is a Petrarchan sonnet, which means that it is divided into two parts: an octave (eight lines) and a sestet (six lines).
The octave of Monadnoc sets up the poem's central question: what is the nature of the mountain and its relationship to the human spirit? Emerson uses a series of contrasting images to explore this question, such as "the stunted trees look sick" versus "the bard, the child, the master, in each kind."
The sestet of Monadnoc answers this question by suggesting that the mountain is a source of spiritual renewal and transformation. Emerson writes, "Thy summer voice, Musketaquit, / Repeats the music of the rain; / But sweeter rivers pulsing flit / Through thee, as thou through Concord Plain." Here, the mountain is compared to a river, which suggests that it is a constant source of renewal and growth.
Language
One of the most striking features of Monadnoc is its use of language. Emerson is known for his complex, multi-layered prose, and this poem is no exception. He uses a variety of literary devices to convey his ideas, such as metaphor, simile, and personification.
For example, Emerson personifies the mountain when he writes, "Thou thought'st to help me, and I see / Thy generous stateliness / Warms my heart through, and through, with fire / To life a love of good in me." Here, the mountain is described as having its own agency and intentions, suggesting that it is more than just a physical object.
Emerson also uses metaphor to describe the mountain's spiritual power. He writes, "Like a tempest down the ridges / Swept the hurricane of God; / The steady trade-winds blew behind, / As through the soft seas of the mind." This metaphor suggests that the mountain is a force of nature that can sweep away old ideas and habits, and bring in new ones.
Significance
Monadnoc is a significant poem in the context of Emerson's work as a whole. It reflects many of his central ideas about the relationship between humans and the natural world, as well as his belief in the power of spiritual growth and transformation.
In particular, Monadnoc is an example of Emerson's belief in the idea of the "oversoul," which is the concept that all things in the universe are interconnected and that human beings have access to a higher spiritual power. The mountain in Monadnoc is a symbol of this higher power, and Emerson suggests that those who are able to perceive it are more in tune with their own inner selves.
Overall, Monadnoc is a beautiful and complex poem that reflects Emerson's unique perspective on the world. Its themes of nature, journey, and transformation are still relevant today, and its language and structure continue to inspire readers and writers alike.
Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation
Monadnoc: A Poem of Nature and Spirituality
Ralph Waldo Emerson, one of the most influential American writers and thinkers of the 19th century, was known for his transcendentalist philosophy and his love for nature. His poem "Monadnoc" is a beautiful tribute to the natural beauty of the Monadnock Mountain in New Hampshire, but it is also a reflection on the human spirit and its connection to the divine. In this analysis, we will explore the themes and imagery of the poem and how they relate to Emerson's philosophy.
The poem begins with a description of the mountain, which stands "alone" and "majestic" in the landscape. The use of the word "alone" is significant, as it suggests that the mountain is not just physically isolated, but also spiritually distinct from the rest of the world. This idea is reinforced by the image of the mountain as a "temple," a sacred place where the divine can be experienced. The mountain is not just a natural wonder, but a spiritual one as well.
Emerson then describes the mountain as a "throne," suggesting that it is a place of power and authority. This idea is further developed in the second stanza, where the mountain is described as a "kingdom" and a "world." These images suggest that the mountain is not just a physical entity, but a symbolic one as well, representing the power and majesty of nature.
The third stanza introduces the idea of the human spirit and its relationship to the mountain. Emerson writes that the mountain "draws me to its heart by cords of grace." This image suggests that the mountain has a spiritual power that can attract and inspire humans. The use of the word "grace" is significant, as it suggests that this power is not just physical, but also divine.
Emerson then describes his ascent of the mountain, which he calls a "pilgrimage." This word suggests that the journey up the mountain is not just a physical one, but a spiritual one as well. The use of the word "pilgrimage" also suggests that the journey is not just for pleasure or recreation, but for a higher purpose.
As Emerson climbs the mountain, he describes the natural beauty around him, including the "crystal air" and the "azure sky." These images suggest that nature is not just beautiful, but also pure and clear. The use of the word "azure" is significant, as it suggests that the sky is not just blue, but a deeper, more spiritual shade of blue.
Emerson then reaches the summit of the mountain, where he experiences a moment of transcendence. He writes that he "beheld God's thought" and that he "felt his infinite presence." These images suggest that Emerson has had a spiritual experience, where he has felt a connection to the divine. The use of the word "infinite" is significant, as it suggests that the divine is not just powerful, but also limitless and eternal.
The final stanza of the poem describes Emerson's descent from the mountain, where he feels a sense of renewal and rebirth. He writes that he has "drunk the wine of the soul" and that he has been "born again." These images suggest that Emerson has undergone a spiritual transformation, where he has been renewed and revitalized by his experience on the mountain.
In conclusion, "Monadnoc" is a beautiful and powerful poem that explores the themes of nature, spirituality, and the human spirit. Through his description of the mountain and his own spiritual journey, Emerson suggests that nature has a spiritual power that can inspire and transform humans. The poem is a testament to Emerson's transcendentalist philosophy, which emphasized the importance of nature and the individual's connection to the divine. Overall, "Monadnoc" is a timeless work of poetry that continues to inspire and uplift readers today.
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