40
Fortune with me was in such generous mood
That all my friends were yours, and all were good;
Three generations come when one I call,
And the fair grandame, youngest of them all,
In her own Florida who found and sips
The fount that fled from Ponce’s longing lips. 
How bright they rise and wreathe my hearthstone round,
Divine my thoughts, reply without a sound,
And with them many a shape that memory sees,
As dear as they, but crowned with aureoles these! 50
What wonder if, with protest in my thought,
Arrived, I find ’twas only love I brought? 
I came with protest; Memory barred the road
Till I repaid you half the debt I owed.

No, ’twas not to bring laurels that I came,
Nor would you wish it, daily seeing fame,
(Or our cheap substitute, unknown of yore,)
Dumped like a load of coal at every door,
Mime and hetaera getting equal weight
With him whose toils heroic saved the State. 60
But praise can harm not who so calmly met
Slander’s worst word, nor treasured up the debt,
Knowing, what all experience serves to show,
No mud can soil us but the mud we throw. 
You have heard harsher voices and more loud,
As all must, not sworn liegemen of the crowd,
And far aloof your silent mind could keep
As when, in heavens with winter-midnight deep,
The perfect moon hangs thoughtful, nor can know
What hounds her lucent calm drives mad below. 70
But to my business, while you rub your eyes
And wonder how you ever thought me wise. 
Dear friend and old, they say you shake your head
And wish some bitter words of mine unsaid: 
I wish they might be,—­there we are agreed;
I hate to speak, still more what makes the need;
But I must utter what the voice within
Dictates, for acquiescence dumb were sin;
I blurt ungrateful truths, if so they be,
That none may need to say them after me. 80
’Twere my felicity could I attain
The temperate zeal that balances your brain;
But nature still o’erleaps reflection’s plan,
And one must do his service as he can. 
Think you it were not pleasanter to speak
Smooth words that leave unflushed the brow and cheek? 
To sit, well-dined, with cynic smile, unseen
In private box, spectator of the scene
Where men the comedy of life rehearse,
Idly to judge which better and which worse 90
Each hireling actor spoiled his worthless part? 
Were it not sweeter with a careless heart,
In happy commune with the untainted brooks,
To dream all day, or, walled with silent books,
To hear nor heed the World’s unmeaning noise,
Safe in my fortress stored with lifelong joys? 
I love too well the pleasures of retreat
Safe from the crowd and cloistered from the street;
The fire that whispers its domestic joy,
Flickering on walls that knew me still a boy, 100
And knew my saintly father; the full days,