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Thee, by nature wild and wavery,
And stairs to Sin and Famine known
Sing with the welcome of their feet; The den they enter grows a shrine,
The grimy sash an oriel burns, Their cup of water warms like wine,
Their speech is filled from heavenly urns. About their brows to me appears
An aureole traced in tenderest light, The rainbow-gleam of smiles through tears
In dying eyes, by them made bright, Of souls that shivered on the edge
Of that chill ford repassed no more, And in their mercy felt the pledge
And sweetness of the farther shore.
Fathom deep men bury thee
A WINTER-EVENING HYMN TO
BEAUTY on my hearth-stone blazing!
Elfish I may rightly name thee;
Elfish daughter of Apollo !
But when we make a friend of thee,
Feels through its gladdened fibres go The tingle and thrill and vassal glow Of instincts loyal to the sun.
And, as her incense floats and curls
O thou of home the guardian Lar,
in the porch ;
stirs Life in the withered words ! how swift
recede Time's shadows ! and how glows again Through its dead mass the incandescent
Thou holdest not the master key
ously; Only to ceremonial days, And great processions of imperial song That set the world at gaze, Doth such high privilege belong: But thou a postern-door canst ope To humbler chambers of the selfsame
palace Where Memory lodges, and her sister
Hope, Whose being is but as a crystal chalice Which, with her various mood, the elder
fills Of joy or sorrow, So coloring as she wills With hues of yesterday the unconscious
What warm protection dost thou bend
Thou sinkest, and my fancy sinks with
His precious flanks with stars besprent,
ODE TO HAPPINESS
Like rainbow-feathered birds that bloom I see him trace the wayward brook
A moment on some autumn bough Amid the forest mysteries,
That, with the spurn of their farewell, Where at their shades shy aspens look, Sbeds its last leaves, - thou once didst Or where, with many a gurgling crook,
dwell It croons its woodland histories.
With me year-long, and make intense
To boyhood's wisely vacant days
Their fleet but all-sufficing grace
Wbile soul could still transfigure sense, (Oh, stew him, Ann, as 't were your friend, And thrill, as with love's first caress, With amorous solicitude !)
At life's mere unexpectedness.
Days when my blood would leap and run I see him step with caution due,
Ås full of sunshine as a breeze, Soft as if shod with moccasins,
Or spray tossed up by Summer seas Grave as in church, for who plies you,
That doubts if it be sea or sun! Sweet craft, is safe as in a pew
Days that flew swiftly like the band From all our common stock o'sins. That played in Grecian games at strife,
And passed from eager hand to hand
The onward-dancing torch of life!
Wing-footed! thou abid'st with him
Who asks it not; but he who hath Čonfuses and appalls us oft.
Watched o'er the waves thy waning path,
Shall nevermore behold returning Unfluttered he : calm as the sky
Thy high-heaped canvas shoreward yearnLooks on our tragi-comedies,
ing! This way and that be lets him fily,
Thou first reveal'st to us thy face A sunbeam-shuttle, then to die
Turned o'er the shoulder's parting grace, Lands him, with cool aplomb, at ease. A moment glimpsed, then seen
more, The friend who gave our board such gust, Thou whose swift footsteps we can trace
Life's care may he o'erstep it half, Away from every mortal door.
Nymph of the unreturning feet,
I do thee wrong to call thee so; Oh, born beneath the Fishes' sign,
'T is I am changed, not thou art fleet: Of constellations happiest,
The man thy presence feels again, May he somewhere with Walton dine, Not in the blood, but in the brain, May Horace send him Massic wine, Spirit, that lov'st the upper air
And Burns Scotch drink, the nappi- Serene and passionless and rare, est!
Such as on mountain heights we find
And wide-viewed uplands of the mind; And when they come his deeds to weigh, Or such as scorns to coil and sing
And how he used the talents his, Round any but the eagle's wing One trout-scale in the scales he 'll lay
Of souls that with long upward beat (If trout had scales), and 't will out- Have won an nndisturbed retreat sway
Where, poised like wingëd victories, The wrong side of the balances. They mirror in relentless eyes
The life broad - basking 'neath their
feet, Man ever with his Now at strife,
Pained with first gasps of earthly air,
Then praying Death the last to spare, Still fearful of the ampler life.
With deepened eyes and bated breath,
Like one that somewhere hath met Death: But “No," she answers, “I am she Whom the gods love, Tranquillity;
That other whom you seek forlorn
Half earthly was; but I am born Of the immortals, and our race Wears still some sadness on its face:
He wins me late, but keeps me long, Who, dowered with every gift of passion, In that fierce flame can forge and fashion
Of sin and self the anchor strong;
Not unto them dost thou consent
Who, passionless, can lead at ease
A life like that of land-locked seas,
Of storm deep-grasping scarcely spent
'Twixt continent and continent. Such quiet souls have never known
Thy truer inspiration, thou
Who lov'st to feel upon thy brow Spray from the plunging vessel thrown
Grazing the tusked lee shore, the cliff That o'er the abrupt gorge holds its breath,
Where the frail hair-breadth of an if Is all that sunders life and death: These, too, are cared for, and round these Bends her mild crook thy sister Peace;
These in unvexed dependence lie, Each ’neath his strip of household sky; O'er these clouds wander, and the blue Hangs motionless the whole day through; Stars rise for them, and moons grow
large And lessen in such tranquil wise As joys and sorrows do that rise
Within their nature's sheltered marge; Their hours into each other flit
Like the leaf-shadows of the vine And fig-tree under which they sit,
And their still lives to heaven incline With an unconscious habitude,
Unhistoried as smokes that rise From happy hearths and sight elude
In kindred blue of morning skies. Wayward! when once we feel thy lack, 'T is worse than vain to woo thee back!
Yet there is one who seems to be
Sometimes, and bring a dream of thee; She is not that for which youth hoped,
But she hath blessings all her own,
And faith to sorrow given alone:
Wait a little: do we not wait ?
Spin, spin, Clotho, spin !
Wait, we say: our years are long;
Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!
We saw the elder Corsican,