Mcet is it changes should control
Our being, lest we rust in ease.
We all are changed by still degrees,
All but the basis of the soul.
So let the change which comes be free
To ingroove itself with that, which flies,
And work, a joint of state, that plies
Its office, moved with sympathy.
A saying hard to shape in act;
For all the past of Time reveals
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals,
Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact.
Even now we hear with inward strife
A motion toiling in the gloom-
The Spirit of the years to come
Yearning to mix himself with Life.
A slow-developed strength awaits
Completion in a painful school;
Phantoms of other forms of rule,
New Majesties of mighty States-
The warders of the growing hour,
But vague in vapor, hard to mark;
And round them sea and air are dark
With great contrivances of Power.
Of many changes, aptly joined,
Is bodied forth the second whole.
Regard gradation, lest the soul Of Discord race the rising wind:
A wind to puff your idol-fires,
And heap their ashes on the head; To shame the boast so often made, That we are wiser than our sires.
O yet, if Nature's evil star
Drive men in manhood, as in youth,
To follow flying steps of Truth
Across the brazen bridge of war-
If New and Old, disastrous feud,
Must ever shock, like armed foes,
And this be true, till Time shall close,
That Principles are rained in blood;
Not yet the wise of heart would cease
To hold his hope through shame and guilt,
But with his hand against the hilt,
Would the troubled land, like Peace ;
Not less, though dogs of Faction bay, Would serve his kind in deed and word, Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, That knowledge takes the sword away—
Would love the gleams of good that broke From either side, nor veil his eyes: And if some dreadful need should rise, Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke :
To-morrow yet would reap to-day,
As we bear blossom of the dead;
Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed
Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay.
I KNEw an old wife lean and poor,
Her rags scarce held together;
There strode a stranger to the door,
And it was windy weather.
He held a goose upon his arm,
He uttered rhyme and reason,
"Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, It is a stormy season."
She caught the white goose by the leg,
A goose-'twas no great matter.
The goose let fall a golden egg
With cackle and with clatter.
She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf,
And ran to tell her neighbors;
And blessed herself, and cursed herself,
And rested from her labors.
And feeding high, and living soft,
Grew plump and able-bodied;
Until the grave churchwarden doffed,
The parson smirked and nodded.
So sitting, served by man and maid,
She felt her heart grow prouder :
But ah! the more the white goose laid,
It clacked and cackled louder.
It cluttered here, it chuckled there;
It stirred the old wife's mettle:
She shifted in her elbow-chair,
And hurled the pan and kettle.
"A quinsy choke thy cursed note!" Then waxed her anger stronger.
"Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, I will not bear it longer.",
Then yelped the cur, and yawled the cat;
Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer.
The goose flew this way and flew that,
And filled the house with clamor.
As head and heels upon the floor
They floundered all together,
There strode a stranger to the door,
And it was windy weather:
He took the goose upon his arm,
He uttered words of scorning;
"So keep you cold, or keep you warm,
It is a stormy morning."
The wild wind rang from park and plain,
And round the attics rumbled,
Till all the tables danced again,
And half the chimneys tumbled.
The glass blew in, the fire blew out,
The blast was hard and harder.
Her cap blew off, her gown blew up,
And a whirlwind cleared the larder;
And while on all sides breaking loose
Her household fled the danger,
Quoth she, "The Devil take the
And God forget the stranger!
AT Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve,-
The game of forfeits done-the girls all kissed
Beneath the sacred bush and past away-
The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall,
The host and I, sat round the wassail-bowl,
Then half-way ebbed: and there we held a talk,
How all the old honor had from Christmas gone,
Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games
In some odd nooks like this; till I, tired out
With cutting eights that day upon the pond,
Where, three times slipping from the outer edge,
I bumped the ice into three several stars,
Fell in a doze; and half-awake I heard
The parson taking wide and wider sweeps,
Now harping on the church-commissioners,
Now hawking at Geology and schism;
Until I woke, and found him settled down
Upon the general decay of faith-
Right through the world-"at home was little left,
And none abroad: there was no anchor, none,
To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt his hand
On Everard's shoulder, with "I hold by him."
"And I," quoth Everard, "by the wassail-bowl."
"Why yes," I said, "we knew your gift that way
At college but another which you had,
I mean of verse, (for so we held it then,)
What came of that?" "You know," said Frank, "he burnt
His epic of King Arthur, some twelve books'
And then to me demanding why? "O, sir,
He thought that nothing new was said, or else
Something so said 'twas nothing-that a truth
Looks freshest in the fashion of the day :
God knows: he has a mint of reasons: ask.
It pleased me well enough." Nay, nay," said Hall,
"Why take the style of those heroic times?
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