Work! while the subtle seasons onward roll In certain course, The ways of this frail world to help control; That keen remorse In life’s last moment--’ere thy deeds unroll May strike no sudden anguish to thy soul.
Work! taking lessons from the mighty Past, What men have done; Yet let not those old masters hold thee fast, They have begun; What later souls must finish. They have cast The first stones at earth’s evil--not the last.
Work! but seek not false Ambition’s flame To light thee on; Not so the men of wisdom ever came In days long gone; No sordid dream,--no bare desire for Fame Has left on Memory’s lips one worthy name.
Work! in the hope of sowing seedlings great; Let others reap,-- That, when stern Nature bids thy step abate, Thy body sleep, Thy soul shall tremble not at Death’s dark gate, But calm and sure shall meet its After-Fate.
Where blue-bells nod beneath the trees And violets scent the summer breeze I love to lie the whole day long And listen to the wild bird’s song, While bees hum in their harmonies.
Proud wealth can buy its days of ease, But not made up of hours like these; To none doth rank or fame belong Where blue-bells nod.
In vain the arts may strive to please The sense with novel images; For me, this sweet, cool fern among, All Nature’s right, all Art is wrong; Ah! leave me with my birds and bees, Where blue-bells nod.
Since thou hast come the world and I have parted, Like chance-met friends whom love has never chained, Away it spins, mad-brained and merry-hearted, While I count o’er what I have lost and gained. My losses are the breath of idle greeting, The siren-song of pleasure, folly’s laugh, Wealth’s patron smile, the pedant’s wit most fleeting, And all that goes to make youth’s epitaph. My gain is thee, who hath removed my blindness, Torn off the mask of sin, stript shame’s disguise, Shown me man’s frailty, taught me gold’s unkindness, And made a very heaven beneath the skies. So do I feel like one from dreams awaking Who laughs at night and all its foolish making.
FOUNDED ON A WELL KNOWN PASSAGE OF DANTE.
Do you remember, dear, the day we sat And read together from an old love-book Alone in that sweet, calm, sequestered nook Which Nature made for souls to marvel at? Beneath us stretched a soft and shining mat Of velvet verdure; leaves and blossoms shook As songsters all their melodies forsook To hear a legend from Love’s laureate We knew no fear, for there was no one by, The stream seemed in its ripple to repeat That tale of Lancelot, so sadly sweet, Whom love enthralled in endless slavery. Ah, me! there is no greater grief than when we feel The thought of happier days o’er present sorrows steal.