If that new world hath hill and stream, And wayside flowers their story tell, 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; ROSSITER JOHNSON. INVITATION TO IZAAK WALTON Where bleak winds howl and tempests roar, We pass away the roughest time Has been of many years before; Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks Whilst all the ills are so improved 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, Though Nature now does weep in rain, If the all-ruling Power please We then shall have a day or two, And, master, half our work is done. We 'll prove it just, with treacherous bait, Of meaner men the smaller fry. This, my best friend, at my poor home, CHARLES COTTON. TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE COME, when no graver cares employ, Your presence will be sun in winter, Should eighty thousand college councils Yet one lay hearth would give you welcome (Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight; Where, far from noise and smoke of town, All round a careless-order'd garden You'll have no scandal while you dine, For groves of pine on either hand, And further on, the hoary Channel 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, 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 thanks for thy full courtesy To younger England, in the boy, my son. ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. FOR THE MOORE CENTENNIAL CELE BRATION [MAY 28, 1879.] I ENCHANTER of Erin, whose magic has bound us, The tell-tales of memory wake from their slumbers – The home of my childhood comes back as a vision Hark! Hark! A soft chord from its song-haunted room! 'Tis a morning of May, when the air is Elysian The syringa in bud and the lilac in bloom We are clustered around the " Clementi" piano "Let Erin remember" the echoes are calling -- Through "The Vale of Avoca" the waters are rolled "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 That it seem'd as if Paradise breathed its quintessence Through the seraph-toned lips of the maiden that sung! Long hush'd are the chords that my boyhood enchanted As when the smooth wave by the angel was stirr'd, Yet still with their music is memory haunted And oft in my dreams are their melodies heard. I feel like the priest to his altar returning The crowd that was kneeling no longer is there; The flame has died down, but the brands are still burning, And sandal and cinnamon sweeten the air. II The veil for her bridal young Summer is weaving 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; And while the fresh blossoms of Summer are braided While Shannon and Liffey shall dimple and smile, 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 [To J. G. WHITTIER, ON HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY.] SNOW-BOUND for earth, but summer-soul'd for thee, Thy natal morning shines: Hail, friend and poet. Give thy hand to me, And let me read its lines! For skill'd in fancy's palmistry am I, When years have set their crown; |