This way and that he lets him fly, Thy high-heaped canvas yearning! shoreward A sunbeam-shuttle, then to die ease. 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 bloom 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 run 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 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, 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 Man ever with his Now at strife, 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 large And lessen in such tranquil wise Like the leaf-shadows of the vine 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! 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.' VILLA FRANCA. 1859. WAIT a little do we not wait? Louis Napoleon is not Fate, Francis Joseph is not Time; Crime; Cannon-parliaments settle naught; Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! Wait, we say our years are long; Great wars come and great wars go, Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! We saw the elder Corsican, Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! The Bonapartes, we know their bees In dreamless garners underground: Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! The Cock that wears the Eagle's skin Can promise what he ne'er could win ; Slavery reaped for fine words sown, System for all, and rights for none, Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! '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 ere live Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! Smooth sails the ship of either realm, Building slow the sharp-tusked reefs, THE MINER. Down mid the tangled roots of things Sometimes I hear, as 't were a sigh, The sea's deep yearning far above, "Thou hast the secret not," I cry, "In deeper deeps is hid my Love." They think I burrow from the sun, In darkness, all alone, and weak; Such loss were gain if He were won, For 't is the sun's own Sun I seek. |