The bright scenes of my youth, — all gone out now. How eagerly its flickering blaze doth catch On every point now wrapped in time's deep shade! Into what wild grotesqueness by its flash And fitful checkering is the picture made! When I am glad or gay, Let me walk forth into the brilliant sun, And with congenial rays be shone upon: When I am sad, or thought-bewitched would be, Let me glide forth in moonlight's mystery, But never, while I live this changeful life, This past and future with all wonders rife, Never, bright flame, may be denied to me Thy dear, life-imaging, close sympathy. What but my hopes shot upwards e'er so bright? What but my fortunes sank so low in night? Why art thou banished from our hearth and hall, Thou who art welcomed and beloved by all? Was thy existence then too fanciful For our life's common light, who are so dull ? Did thy bright gleam mysterious converse hold With our congenial souls? secrets too bold? Well, we are safe and strong; for now we sit Beside a hearth where no dim shadows flit; Where nothing cheers nor saddens, but a fire Warms feet and hands, nor does to Old books to read! Ay, bring those nodes of wit, The brazen-clasped, the vellum-writ, Time-honored tomes! The same my sire scanned before, The same my grandsire thumbed oʻer, The same his sire from college bore, The well-earned meed Of Oxford's domes: Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by The Holy Book by which we live and die. IV. Old friends to talk! Ay, bring those chosen few, The wise, the courtly, and the true, So rarely found; Him for my wine, him for my stud, Him for my easel, distich, bud In mountain walk! Bring Walter good: With soulful Fred; and learned Will, And thee, my alter ego, (dearer still For every mood). R. H. MESSINGER. TO A CHILD. I WOULD that thou might always be As innocent as now, That time might ever leave as free Thy yet unwritten brow. I would life were all poetry To gentle measure set, That nought but chastened melody The silver stars may purely shine, But they who kneel at woman's shrine Breathe on it as they bow. N. P. WILLIS. THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations That is known as the children's hour. I hear in the chamber above me From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall-stair, Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper, and then a silence; To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, They climb up into my turret If I try to escape, they surround me: They almost devour me with kisses; "He that's for heaven itself unfit, Let him not hope to merit me." And though her charms are a strong law Compelling all men to admire, They are so clad with lovely awe, None but the noble dares desire. He who would seek to make her his, Will comprehend that souls of grace Own sweet repulsion, and that 'tis The quality of their embrace To be like the majestic reach Of coupled suns, that, from afar, Mingle their mutual spheres, while each Circles the twin obsequious star: And in the warmth of hand to hand, Of heart to heart, he'll vow to note And reverently understand How the two spirits shine remote; And ne'er to numb fine honor's nerve, Nor let sweet awe in passion melt, Nor fail by courtesies to observe The space which makes attraction felt; Nor cease to guard like life the sense Which tells him that the embrace of love Is o'er a gulf of difference move. COVENTRY PATMORE. DUCHESSE BLANCHE. IT happed that I came on a day That was like none of the rout, Than any other planet in Heaven, Than with another to be well. I saw her dance so comely, So goodly speak, and so friendly, 6 Her looking was not foolish sprad Nor wildly, though that she played; But ever methought her eyen said 1 Beseen, appearing. 2 Saints. 4 Quantity. 5 Thought. Spread. |