This way and that he lets him fly,

A sunbeam-shuttle, then to die

Thy high-heaped canvas yearning!

shoreward

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,
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 balances.

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 didst
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, 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

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, '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:
Almost I deem that it is thou
Come back with graver matron brow,
With deepened eyes and bated breath,
Like one that somewhere hath met
Death,

But "No," she answers, "I am she
Whom the gods love, Tranquillity:

That other whom you seek forlorn
Half earthly was; but I am born
Of the immortals, and our race
Wears still some sadness on its face:

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;