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If that new world hath hill and stream,
And breezy bank, and quiet dell, If forest murmur, waters gleam,
And wayside flowers their story tell, Thy band ere this has pluck'd the reed
That waver'd by the wooded shore; Its prisoned soul thy fingers freed,
To float melodious evermore.
So seems it to my musing mood,
So runs it in my surer thought, That much of beauty, more of good,
For thee the rounded years have wrought; That life will live, however blown
Like vapor on the summer air; That power perpetuates its own;
That silence here is music there.
INVITATION TO IZAAK WALTON
Whilst in this cold and blustering clime,
We pass away the roughest time
Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks
The dullest blasts our peace invade, And by great rains our smallest brooks
Are almost navigable made;
Whilst all the ills are so improved
Of this dead quarter of the year, That even you, so much beloved,
We would not now wish with us here:
In this estate, I say, it is
Some comfort to us to suppose That in a better clime than this
You, our dear friend, have more repose;
And some delight to me the while,
To think that I have seen her smile,
If the all-ruling Power please
We live to see another May,
Foul days in one fine fishing-day.
We then shall have a day or two,
Perhaps a week, wherein to try What the best master's hand can do
With the most deadly killing fly.
A day with not too bright a beam;
A warm, but not a scorching sun; A southern gale to curl the stream;
And, master, half our work is done.
Then, whilst behind some bush we wait
The scaly people to betray,
To make the preying trout our prey;
And think ourselves in such an hour
Who, like leviathans, devour
This, my best friend, at my poor home,
Shall be our pastime and our theme; But then — should you not deign to come,
You make all this a flattering dream.
TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE
Come, when no graver cares employ,
Your presence will be sun in winter,
For, being of that honest few
Who give the Fiend himself his due,
Should eighty thousand college councils
Should all our churchmen foam in spite
Yet one lay hearth would give you welcome
Where, far from noise and smoke of town,
All round a careless-order'd garden
You 'll have no scandal while you dine,
And only hear the magpie gossip
For groves of pine on either hand,
And further on, the hoary Channel
Where if below the milky steep
And on through zones of light and shadow
We might discuss the Northern sin
Dispute the claims, arrange the chances,
Or whether war's avenging rod
Till you should turn to dearer matters,
How best to help the slender store,
How gain in life, as life advances,
Come, Maurice, come: the lawn as yet
But when the wreath of March has blossom'd,
Or later, pay one visit here,
For those are few we hold as dear;
Nor pay but one, but come for many, Many, and many a happy year.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
TO VICTOR HUGO
Victor in poesy! Victor in romance!
And I, desiring that diviner day,
Yield thee full tnanks for thy full courtesy
To younger England, in the boy, my son.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
FOR THE MOORE CENTENNIAL CELE-
[may 28, 1879.]
Enchanter of Erin, whose magic has bound us,
Entranced while it summons the phantoms around us
The tell-tales of memory wake from their slumbers —
I hear the old song with its tender refrain;
What perfume of youth in each exquisite strain!
The home of my childhood comes back as a vision —
'T is a morning of May, when the air is Elysian —
We are clustered around the " Clementi" piano —
She is singing — the girl with the silver soprano —
"Let Erin remember'' the echoes are calling —
"The Exile" laments while the night-dews are falling — "The Morning of Life '' dawns again as of old.
But ah, those warm love-songs of fresh adolescence!
Around us such raptures celestial they flung
Through the seraph-toned lips of the maiden that sung!
Long hush'd are the chords that my boyhood enchanted
Yet still with their music is memory haunted
I feel like the priest to his altar returning —
The flame has died down, but the brands are still burning,
The veil for her bridal young Summer is weaving
And Spring the last tear-drops of May-dew is leaving
How like, how unlike, as we view them together,
One fresh as the breeze blowing over the heather,
Ah, passion can glow 'mid a palace's splendor;
The cage does not alter the song of the bird,
As ever the blossoming hawthorn has heard.
No fear lest the step of the soft-slipper'd Graces
Should fright the young Loves from their warm little nest,
For the heart of a queen, under jewels and laces,
Beats time with the pulse in the peasant-girl's breast!
Thrice welcome each gift of kind Nature's bestowing!
Her fountain heeds little the goblet we hold; Alike, when its musical waters are flowing,
The shell from the seaside, the chalice of gold.
The twins of the lyre to her voices had listened;
Both laid their best gifts upon Liberty's shrine; For Coila's loved minstrel the holly-wreath glisten'd;
For Erin's the rose and the myrtle entwine.
And while the fresh blossoms of Summer are braided
While her mantle of vendure is woven unfaded,
The land where the staff of Saint Patrick was planted,
Where the shamrock grows green from the cliffs to the shore,
The land of fair maidens and heroes undaunted,
Shall wreathe her bright harp with the garlands of Moore!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
A FRIEND'S GREETING
Snow-bound for earth, but summer-soul'd for thee,
Thy natal morning shines:
And let me read its lines!
For skill'd in fancy's palmistry am I,