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This way and that he lets him fly,
A sunbeam-shuttle, then to die
Thy high-heaped canvas yearning!
Lands him, with cool aplomb, at Thou first reveal'st to us thy face
The friend who gave our board such gust, Life's care may he o'erstep it half, And, when Death hooks him, as he must, He'll do it handsomely, I trust,
And John H-write his epitaph!
O, born beneath the Fishes' sign,
Of constellations happiest, 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,
ODE TO HAPPINESS.
SPIRIT, that rarely comest now
A moment on some autumn bough
With me year-long, and make intense
Of trustful inexperience,
While soul could still transfigure sense, And thrill, as with love's first caress, At life's mere unexpectedness.
Days when my blood would leap and
As full of sunshine as a breeze,
Or spray tossed up by Summer seas That doubts if it be sea or sun! Days that flew swiftly like the band
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 Watched o'er the waves thy waning path,
Shall nevermore behold returning
Turned o'er the shoulder's parting grace, A moment glimpsed, then seen
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, I do thee wrong to call thee so; 'Tis I am changed, not thou art fleet : The man thy presence feels again, Not in the blood, but in the brain, Spirit, that lov'st the upper air Serene and passionless and rare,
Such as on mountain heights we find
Or such as scorns to coil and sing
Of souls that with long upward beat Have won an undisturbed retreat Where, poised like winged victories, 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.
Not unto them dost thou consent
A life like that of land-locked seas,
Of storm deep-grasping scarcely spent
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 | There's One hath swifter feet than
And lessen in such tranquil wise
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:
But "No," she answers, "I am she
That other whom you seek forlorn
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."
WAIT a little do we not wait? Louis Napoleon is not Fate, Francis Joseph is not Time;
System for all, and rights for none, “The earth,” they murmur, “is the Despots atop, a wild clan below,
tomb Such is the Gaul fron, long ago ;
That vainly sought his life to prison;
Spin, spin, Clotho, spin !
Built on loose sands of It is said. 'Neath Gregory's throne a spider swings, My search is for the living gold ; And snares the people for the kings ;
Him I desire who dwells recluse,
Day-servant of our sordid use,
If him I find not, yet I find
The ancient joy of cell and church, Peep o'er their creeds to where it lies.
The glimpse, the surety undefined, Spin, spin, Clotho, spin !
The unquenched ardor of the search. Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! In the shadow, year out, year in,
Happier to chase a flying goal The silent headsman waits forever.
Than to sit counting laurelled gains,
Than to be lord of what remains.
Hide still, best Good, in subtile wise, We look down the depths, and mark Beyond my nature's utmost scope; Silent workers in the dark
Be ever absent from mine eyes
GOLD EGG: A DREAM-FANTASY.
HOW A STUDENT IN SEARCH OF THE But only God endures forever!
BEAUTIFUL FELL ASLEEP IN DRES-
VISCHER'S WISSENSCHAFT DES SCHÖ-
NEN, AND WHAT CAME THEREOF. Down mid the tangled roots of things
I SWAM with undulation soft,
Adrift on Vischer's ocean, That coil abont the central fire, seek for that which giveth wings
And, from my cock boat up aloft,
Sent down my mental plummet oft To stoop, not soar, to my desire.
In hope to reach a notion.