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spray tossed

His precious flanks with stars besprent,
Worthy to swim in Castaly !

ODE TO HAPPINESS
The friend by whom such gifts are sent,
For him shall bumpers full be spent, SPIRIT, that rarely comest now
His health ! be Luck his fast ally ! And only to contrast my gloom,

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
I see leaf-shade and sun-fleck lend

Their fleet but all-sufficing grace
Their tremulous, sweet vicissitude Of trustful inexperience,
To smooth, dark pool, to crinkling bend,

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

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 unerring fly I see him cast,

The onward-dancing torch of life!
That as a rose-leaf falls as soft,
A flash ! a whirl ! he has him fast !

Wing-footed! thou abid'st with him
We tyros, how that struggle last

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 he lets him fly,

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.
And, when Death hooks him, as he must,
He 'll do it handsomely, I trust,

Nymph of the unreturning feet,
And John H- write his epitaph! How

may

I win thee back? But no,

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 undisturbed retreat sway

Where, poised like wingëd victories, The wrong side of the balances. They mirror in relentless eyes

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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;
Can thence compel the driving force
Of daily life's mechanic course,
Nor less the nobler energies
Of needful toil and culture wise;
Whose soul is worth the tempter's lure
Who can renounce, and yet endure,
To him I come, not lightly wooed,
But won by silent fortitude."

VILLA FRANCA

1859

Not unto them dost thou consent

Who, passionless, can lead at ease
A life of unalloyed content

A life like that of land-locked seas,
Who feel no elemental gush
Of tidal forces, no fierce rush

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
Thine elder sister, in whose eyes
A faint far northern light will rise

Sometimes, and bring a dream of thee; She is not that for which youth hoped,

But she hath blessings all her own,
Thoughts pure as lilies newly oped,

And faith to sorrow given alone:
Almost I deem that it is thou
Come back with graver matron brow,

Wait a little: do we not wait ?

a
Louis Napoleon is not Fate,
Francis Joseph is not Time;
There's One hath swifter feet than Crime;
Cannon-parliaments settle naught;
Venice is Austria's, whose is Thought ?
Minie is good, but, spite of change,
Gutenberg's gun has the longest range.

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin !
Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever!
In the shadow, year out, year in,
The silent headsman waits forever.

Wait, we say: our years are long;
Men are weak, but Man is strong;
Since the stars first curved their rings,
We have looked on many things;
Great wars come and great wars go,
Wolf-tracks light on polar snow;
We shall see him come and gone,
This second-hand Napoleon.

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!
Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever!
In the shadow, year out, year in,
The silent headsman waits forever.

We saw the elder Corsican,
And Clotho muttered as she span,
While crowned lackeys bore the train,

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My search is for the living gold;

Him I desire who dwells recluse, And not his image worn and old,

Day-servant of our sordid use.

'Neath Gregory's throne a spider swings,
And snares the people for the kings;
“ Luther is dead; old quarrels pass;
The stake's black scars are healed with

grass;
So dreamers prate; did man e'er live
Saw priest or woman yet forgive ?
But Luther's broom is left, and eyes
Peep o'er their creeds to where it lies.

Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!
Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever!
In the shadow, year out, year in,
The silent headsman waits forever.

If him I find not, yet I find

The ancient joy of cell and church, The glimpse, the surety undefined,

The unquenched ardor of the search.

Happier to chase a flying goal

Than to sit counting laurelled gains, To guess the Soul within the soul

Than to be lord of what remains.

Smooth sails the ship of either realm,
Kaiser and Jesuit at the helm ;
We look down the depths, and mark
Silent workers in the dark

Hide still, best Good, in subtile wise,

Beyond my nature's utmost scope; Be ever absent from mine eyes

To be twice present in my hope !

GOLD EGG: A DREAM-FANTASY

DAIMON ’t was printed in the book

And, as I read it slowly, The letters stirred and changed, and took Jove's stature, the Olynıpian look

Of painless melancholy.

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He paused upon the threshold worn:

“ With coin I cannot pay you; Yet would I fain make some return; The gift for cheapness do not spurn,

Accept this hen, I pray you.
“ Plain feathers wears my Hemera,

And bas from ages olden;
She makes her nest in conimon hay,
And yet, of all the birds that lay,

Her eggs alone are golden.”
He turned, and could no more be seen;

Old Baucis stared a moment, Then tossed poor Partlet ou the green, And with a tone, half jest, half spleen,

Thus made her housewife's comment:

“What 's Beauty ?” mused I; “is it told

By syuthesis ? analysis ?
Have you not made us lead of gold ?
To feed your crucible, not sold
Our temple's sacred chalices ?

Then o'er my senses came a change;

My book seemed all traditions,
Old legends of profoundest range,
Diablery, and stories strange

Of goblins, elves, magicians.
Old gods in modern saints I found,

Old creeds in strange disguises;
I thought them safely underground,
And here they were, all safe and sound,

Without a sign of phthisis.

“The stranger had a queerish face,

His smile was hardly pleasant, And, though he meant it for a grace, Yet this old hen of barnyard race

Was but a stingy present. "She's quite too old for laying eggs,

Nay, even to make a soup of; One only needs to see her legs, You might as well boil down the pegs I made the brood-ben's

coop

of !

Truth was, my outward eyes were closed,

Although I did not know it; Deep into dream-land I had dozed, And thus was happily transposed

From proser into poet.

So what I read took flesh and blood,

And turned to living creatures: The words were but the dingy bud That bloomed, like Adam, from the mud,

To human forms and features.

“Some eighteen score of such do I

Raise every year, her sisters;
Go, in the woods your fortunes try,
All day for one poor earthworm pry,

And scratch your toes to blisters !".
Philemon found the rede was good,

And, turning on the poor hen, He clapt his hands, and stamped, and

shooed, Hunting the exile tow'rd the wood,

To house with snipe and moor-hen. A poet saw and cried: “Hold ! hold !

What are you doing, madman ? Spurn you more wealth than can be

told, The fowl that lays the eggs of gold,

Because she 's plainly clad, man ?”

I saw how Zeus was lodged once more

By Bancis and Philemon;
The text said, “Not alone of yore,
But every day, at every door

Knocks still the masking Demon.”

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Rightly? That 's simply: 't is to see

Some substance casts these shadows Which we call Life and History, That aimless seem to chase and flee

Like wind-gleams over meadows.

Simply? That's nobly: 't is to know

That God may still be met with, Nor groweth old, nor doth bestow These senses fine, this brain aglow,

To grovel and forget with.

Here was the bird's primeval nest,

High on a promontory Star-pharosed, where she takes her rest To brood new æons 'neath her breast,

The future's unfledged glory.
I know not how, but I was there

All feeling, hearing, seeing;
It was not wind that stirred my hair
But living breath, the essence rare

Of unembodied being.
And in the nest an egg of gold

Lay soft in self-made lustre,
Gazing whereon, what depths untold
Within, what marvels manifold,

Seemed silently to muster!

Beauty, Herr Doctor, trust in me,

No chemistry will win you; Charis still rises from the sea: If you can't find her, might it be

Because you seek within you ?

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO A

FRIEND

Daily such splendors to confront

Is still to me and you sent? It glowed as when Saint Peter's front, Illumed, forgets its stony wont,

And seems to throb translucent.

The friend was Miss Jane Norton, sister of Mr. C. E. Norton.,

ALIKE I hate to be your debtor,
Or write a mere perfunctory letter;
For letters, so it seems to me,
Our careless quintessence should be,
Our real nature's truant play

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