Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to slay, New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good uncouth; They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast of Truth; Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! we ourselves must Pilgrims be, Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea, Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood-rusted key. 90 Each into each, the hazy dis- With watchful, measuring eye, and languid arms, tances! for his quarry waits. Who, with each sense shut Hung there becalmed, with the Whose gaps the misplaced sail Of dimpling light, and with the From every season drawn, of A stave that droops and dies 'neath comes share, shade and light, Who sees in them but levels brown and bare; Each change of storm or sunshine scatters free On them its largess of variety, For Nature with cheap means still works her wonders rare. the close sky of brass. Meanwhile that devil-maycare, the bobolink, Remembering duty, in midquaver stops Just ere he sweeps o'er rapture's tremulous brink, |