May he somewhere with Walton dine, May Horace send him Massic wine, And Burns Scotch drink, the nappiest! And when they come his deeds to weigh, And how he used the talents his, One trout-scale in the scales he 'll lay (If trout had scales), and 't will outsway The wrong side of the bal ances. ODE TO HAPPINESS SPIRIT, that rarely comest now A moment on some autumn bough Sheds its last leaves, - thou once didst dwell The man thy presence feels again, With me year-long, and make in- Not in the blood, but in the brain, tense To boyhood's wisely vacant days IO And thrill, as with love's first caress, At life's mere unexpectedness. As full of sunshine as a breeze, seas Spirit, that lov'st the upper air 40 And wide-viewed uplands of the Or such as scorns to coil and sing Of souls that with long upward Have won an undisturbed retreat Where, poised like winged victories, That doubts if it be sea or They mirror in relentless eyes sun! Days that flew swiftly like the band That played in Grecian games at strife, The life broad- basking 'neath Grazing the tusked lee shore, the cliff That o'er the abrupt gorge holds its breath, 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, 'Tis worse than vain to woo thee back! Yet there is one who seems to be 89 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: Where the frail hair-breadth of Almost I deem that it is thou So dreamers prate; did man e'er They think I burrow from the sun, live In darkness, all alone, and weak; Saw priest or woman yet for- Such loss were gain if He were In the shadow, year out, year Why grovel longer in the gloom? in, The silent headsman waits for ever. 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 Building slow the sharp-tusked reefs, Old instincts hardening to new be- Patience a little; learn to wait; Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! Darkness is strong, and so is But surely God endures for- He is not here; he hath arisen.' More life for me where he hath lain Hidden while ye believed him dead, Than in cathedrals cold and vain, Built on loose sands of It is said. 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. If him I find not, yet I find The glimpse, the surety undefined, Happier to chase a flying goal Than to sit counting laurelled gains, |