And the mirth becomes too great,
And you all sit up too late,
Nodding all with too much head,
And so go off to too much bed.
O plethora of beef and bliss!
Monkish feaster, sly of kiss!
Southern soul in body Dutch!
Glorious time of great Too-Much!
Too much heat, and too much noise,
Too much babblement of boys;
Too much eating, too much drinking,
Too much ev'rything but thinking ;
Solely bent to laugh and stuff,
And trample upon base Enough.
Oh, right is thy instinctive praise
Of the wealth of Nature's ways!
Right thy most unthrifty glee,
And pious thy mince-piety!
For, behold! great Nature's self
Builds her no abstemious shelf,
But provides (her love is such
For all) her own great, good Too-Much,-
Too much grass, and too much tree,
Too much air, and land, and sea,
Too much seed of fruit and flower,
And fish, an unimagin'd dower!
(In whose single roe shall be
Life enough to stock the sea-
Endless ichthyophagy !)
Ev'ry instant through the day
Worlds of life are thrown away;
Worlds of life, and worlds of pleasure,
Not for lavishment of treasure,
But because she's so immensely
Rich, and loves us so intensely,
She would have us, once for all,
Wake at her benignant call,
And all grow wise, and all lay down
Strife, and jealousy, and frown,
And, like the sons of one great mother,
Share, and be blest, with one another.
LOVER OF MUSIC TO HIS PIANO-FORTE.
Oн friend, whom glad or grave we seek,
Heav'n-holding shrine!
I ope thee, touch thee, hear thee speak,
And peace is mine.
No fairy casket, full of bliss,
Out-values thee;
Love only, waken'd with a kiss,
More sweet may be.
To thee, when our full hearts o'er-flow
In griefs or joys,
Unspeakable emotions owe
Mirth flies to thee, and Love's unrest,
And Memory dear,
And Sorrow, with his tighten'd breast,
Comes for a tear.
Oh, since few joys of human mould
Thus wait us still,
Thrice bless'd be thine, thou gentle fold
Of peace at will.
No change, no sullenness, no cheat,
Thy saddest voice is ever sweet,—
Thine answer, kind.
TO THE MEMORY OF B. Y. AND A. M. D.
OUR fairest dreams are made of truths, Nymphs are sweet women, angels youths, And Eden was an earthly bower:
Not that the heavens are false ;-oh no! But that the sweetest thoughts that grow In earth, must have an earthly flower : Blest, if they know how sweet they are, And that earth also is a star.
I met a lady by the sea,
A heart long known, a face desir'd,
Who led me with sweet breathful glee
To one that sat retir'd ;-
That sat retir'd in reverend chair,
That younger lady's pride and care,
Fading heav'nward beauteously
In a long-drawn life of love,
With smiles below and thoughts above:
And round her play'd that fairy she,
Like Impulse by Tranquillity.
And truly might they, in times old,
Have deem'd her one of fairy mould
Keeping some ancestral queen
Deathless, in a bow'r serene;
For oft she might be noticed walking
Where the seas at night were talking ;
Or extracting with deep look
Power from out some learned book;
Or with pencil or with pen
Charming the rapt thoughts of men :
And her eyes! they were so bright,
They seemed to dance with elfin light,
Playmates of pearly smiles, and yet
So often and so sadly wet,
That Pity wonder'd to conceive,
How lady so belov'd could grieve.
And oft would both those ladies rare,
Like enchantments out of air,
In a sudden show'r descend
Of balm on want, or flow'rs on friend;
No matter how remote the place,
For fairies laugh at time and space.
From their hearts the gifts were given,
As the light leaps out of heaven.
Their very house was fairy :-none
Might find it without favour won
For some great zeal, like errant-knight,
Or want and sorrow's holy right;
And then they reach'd it by long rounds
Of lanes between thick pastoral grounds
Nest-like, and alleys of old trees,
Until at last, in lawny ease,
Down by a garden and its fountains,
In the ken of mild blue mountains,
Rose, as if exempt from death,
Its many-centuried household breath.
The stone-cut arms above the door
Were such as earliest chieftains bore,
Of simple gear, long laid aside;
And low it was, and warm and wide,-
A home to love, from sire to son,
By white-grown servants waited on.
Here a door opening breath'd of bowers
Of ladies, who lead lives of flowers ;
There, walls were books; and the sweet witch,
Painting, had there the rooms made rich
With knights, and dames, and loving eyes
Of heav'n-gone kindred, sweet and wise;
Of bishops, gentle as their lawn,
And sires, whose talk was one May-dawn.
Last, on the roof, a clock's old grace
Look'd forth, like some enchanted face
That never slept, but in the night
Dinted the air with thoughtful might
Of sudden tongue which seem'd to say,
"The stars are firm, and hold their way."
Behold me now, like knight indeed, Whose balmed wound had ceas'd to bleed, Behold me in this green domain Leading a palfrey by the rein,
On which the fairy lady sat
In magic talk, which men call "chat,'
Over mead, up hill, down dale,
While the sweet thoughts never fail,
Bright as what we pluck'd 'twixt whiles,
The mountain-ash's thick red smiles;
And aye she laugh'd, and talk'd, and rode,
And to blest eyes her visions shew'd
Of nook, and tow'r, and mountain rare,
Like bosom, making mild the air;
And seats, endear'd by friend and sire,
Facing sunset's thoughtful fire.
And then, to make romances true,
Before this lady open flew
A garden gate; and lo! right in,
Where horse's foot had never been,
Rode she! The gard'ner with a stare
To see her threat his lilies fair,
Uncapp'd his bent old silver hair,
And seem'd to say, "My lady good
Makes all things right in her sweet mood."
O land of Druid and of Bard, Worthy of bearded Time's regard, Quick-blooded, light-voiced, lyric Wales, Proud with mountains, rich with vales,
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