2.

Yet sometimes, let me dream, the conscious wood
A momentary vision may renew
Of him who counts it treasure that he knew,
Though but in passing, such a priceless good,
And, like an elder brother, felt his mood
Uplifted by the spell that kept her true,
Amid her lightsome compeers, to the few
That wear the crown of serious womanhood: 
Were he so happy, think of him as one
Who in the Louvre or Pitti feels his soul
Rapt by some dead face which, till then unseen,
Moves like a memory, and, till life outrun,
Is vexed with vague misgiving past control,
Of nameless loss and thwarted might-have-been.

E.G.  DE R.

Why should I seek her spell to decompose
Or to its source each rill of influence trace
That feeds the brimming river of her grace? 
The petals numbered but degrade to prose
Summer’s triumphant poem of the rose: 
Enough for me to watch the wavering chase,
Like wind o’er grass, of moods across her face,
Fairest in motion, fairer in repose. 
Steeped in her sunshine, let me, while I may,
Partake the bounty; ample ’tis for me
That her mirth cheats my temples of their gray,
Her charm makes years long spent seem yet to be. 
Wit, goodness, grace, swift flash from grave to gay,—­
All these are good, but better far is she.

BON VOYAGE

Ship, blest to bear such freight across the blue,
May stormless stars control thy horoscope;
In keel and hull, in every spar and rope,
Be night and day to thy dear office true! 
Ocean, men’s path and their divider too,
No fairer shrine of memory and hope
To the underworld adown thy westering slope
E’er vanished, or whom such regrets pursue: 
Smooth all thy surges as when Jove to Crete
Swam with less costly burthen, and prepare
A pathway meet for her home-coming soon
With golden undulations such as greet
The printless summer-sandals of the moon
And tempt the Nautilus his cruise to dare!

TO WHITTIER

ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY

New England’s poet, rich in love as years,
Her hills and valleys praise thee, her swift brooks
Dance in thy verse; to her grave sylvan nooks
Thy steps allure us, which the wood-thrush hears
As maids their lovers’, and no treason fears;
Through thee her Merrimacs and Agiochooks
And many a name uncouth win gracious looks,
Sweetly familiar to both Englands’ ears: 
Peaceful by birthright, as a virgin lake,
The lily’s anchorage, which no eyes behold
Save those of stars, yet for thy brother’s sake
That lay in bonds, thou blewst a blast as bold
As that wherewith the heart of Roland brake,
Far heard across the New World and the Old.

ON AN AUTUMN SKETCH OF H.G.  WILD