And through the sod hears throbbing slow O Duty, am I dead to thee And are those visioned shores I see My Dante frowns with lip-locked mien, But where is Truth? What does it mean, Such questionings are idle air: To the inspiring moment's care, Of fame or gold, but just to wear TO MR. JOHN BARTLETT, WHO HAD SENT ME A SEVEN-POUND TROUT. FIT for an Abbot of Theleme, For the whole Cardinal's College or The Pope himself to see in dream He lies there, the sogdologer! His precious flanks with stars besprent, I see him trace the wayward brook I see leaf-shade and sunfleck lend Their tremulous, sweet vicissitude To smooth, dark pool, to crinkling bend, (O, stew him, Ann, as't were your friend, I see him step with caution due, Grave as in church, for who plies you, From all our common stock o' sins. The unerring fly I see him cast, That as a rose-leaf falls as soft, A flash! a whirl! he has him fast! We tyros, how that struggle last Confuses and appalls us oft. Unfluttered he calm as the sky Looks on our tragi-comedies, This way and that he lets him fly, A sunbeam-shuttle, then to die Lands him, with cool aplomb, at ease. The friend who gave our board such gust, And John H-- write his epitaph! O, born beneath the Fishes' sign, May he somewhere with Walton dine, And Burns Scotch drink, the nappiest ! And when they come his deeds to weigh, ODE TO HAPPINESS. SPIRIT, that rarely comest now And only to contrast my gloom, Like rainbow-feathered birds that bloom A moment on some autumn bough That, with the spurn of their farewell, Sheds its last leaves,-thou once did'st dwell With me year-long, and make intense To boyhood's wisely vacant days Their fleet but all-sufficing grace Of trustful inexperience, While soul could still transfigure sense, Days when my blood would leap and run As full of sunshine as a breeze, Or spray tossed up by Summer seas Who asks it not; but he who hath Thy high-heaped canvas shoreward yearning! Turned o'er the shoulder's parting grace, A moment glimpsed, then seen no more,Thou whose swift footsteps we can trace Away from every mortal door. Nymph of the unreturning feet, How may I win thee back? But no, Such as on mountain heights we find Or such as scorns to coil and sing Of souls that with long upward beat Where, poised like winged victories, 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. Who, passionless, can lead at ease A life of unalloyed content A life like that of land-locked seas, That feel no elemental gush Of tidal forces, no flerce rush Of storm deep-grasping scarcely spent Who lov'st to feel upon thy brow 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, Sometimes, and bring a dream of thee; With deepened eyes and bated breath, But "No," she answers, "I am she That other whom you seek forlorn He wins me late, but keeps me long, Of needful toil and culture wise; VILLA FRANCA. WAIT a little: do we not wait? There's One hath swifter feet than Crime; Venice is Austria's,-whose is Thought? Lachesis, twist! and Atropos, sever! Wait, we say our years are long ; Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! Lachesis, twist! and Atropos, sever! |