Is used, and the fine balance of desire
Is perfect, and strains evenly, and on.
Content dwells with him, for his mind is fed,
And temperance has driven out unrest.
He heaps no gold. It cannot buy him more
Of any thing he needs. The air of Heaven
Visits no freshlier the rich man's brow;
He has his portion of each silver star
Sent to his eye as freely, and the light
Of the blest sun pours on his book as clear
As on the golden missal of a king.
The spicy flowers are free to him; the sward,
And tender moss, and matted forest leaves
Are as elastic to his weary feet;
The pictures in the fountains, and beneath
The spreading trees, fine pencillings of light,
Stay while he gazes on them; the bright birds
Know not that he is poor, and as he comes
From his low roof at morn, up goes the lark
Mounting and singing to the gate of Heaven,
And merrily away the little brook
Trips with its feet of silver, and a voice
Almost articulate, of perfect joy.
Air to his forehead, water to his lips,
Heat to his blood, come just as faithfully,
And his own faculties as freely play.
Love fills his voice with music, and the tear
Springs at as light a bidding to his eye,
And his free limbs obey him, and his sight
Flies on its wondrous errands everywhere.
What does he need? Next to the works of God,
His friends are the rapt sages of old time.
And they impart their wisdom to his soul
In lavish fulness, when and where he will.
He sits in his mean dwelling, and communes
With Socrates and Plato, and the shades
Of all great men and holy, and the words
Written in fire by Milton, and the king
Of Israel, and the troop of glorious bards,
Ravish and steal his soul up to the sky-
And what is it to him, if these come in
And visit him, that at his humble door
There are no pillars with rich capitals,
And walls of curious workmanship within?
Fresh flung upon a river, that will dance
Upon the wave that stealeth out its life,
Then sink of its own heaviness."
THERE'S something in a noble boy,
A brave, free-hearted, careless one,
With his uncheck'd, unbidden joy,
His dread of books and love of fun,
And in his clear and ready smile,
Unshaded by a thought of guile,
And unrepress'd by sadness-
Which brings me to my childhood back,
As if I trod its very track,
And felt its very gladness.
And yet it is not in his play,
When every trace of thought is lost, And not when you would call him gay, That his bright presence thrills me most. His shout may ring upon the hill, His voice be echoed in the hall, His merry laugh like music trill, And I unheeding hear it all
For, like the wrinkles on my brow,
I scarcely notice such things now-
But when, amid the earnest game,
He stops, as if he music heard,
And, heedless of his shouted name
As of the carol of a bird,
Stands gazing on the empty air
As if some dream were passing there-
'Tis then that on his face I look,
His beautiful but thoughtful face,
And, like a long-forgotten book,
Its sweet, familiar meanings trace—
Remembering a thousand things
Which pass'd me on those golden wings,
Which time has fetter'd now
Things that came o'er me with a thrill,
And left me silent, sad, and still,
And threw upon my brow
A holier and a gentler cast,
That was too innocent to last.
'Tis strange how thought upon a child
Will, like a presence, sometimes press-
And when his pulse is beating wild,
And life itself is in excess-
When foot and hand, and ear and eye,
Are all with ardor straining high-
How in his heart will spring
A feeling, whose mysterious thrall
Is stronger, sweeter far than all ;
And, on its silent wing,
How with the clouds he'll float away,
As wandering and as lost as they !
TO LAURA W, TWO YEARS OF AGE.
BRIGHT be the skies that cover thee,
Child of the sunny brow-
Bright as the dream flung over thee-
By all that meets thee now-
Thy heart is beating joyously,
Thy voice is like a bird's
And sweetly breaks the melody
Of thy imperfect words.
I know no fount that gushes out
As gladly as thy tiny shout.
I would that thou might'st ever be
As beautiful as now,-
That time might ever leave as free
Thy yet unwritten brow:
I would life were "all poetry"
To gentle measure set,
That nought but chasten'd melody
Might stain thine eye of jet-
Nor one discordant note be spoken,
Till God the cunning harp hath broken.
I would but deeper things than these
With woman's lot are wove :
Wrought of intensest sympathies,
And nerved by purest love-
By the strong spirit's discipline,
By the fierce wrong forgiven,
By all that wrings the heart of sin,
Is woman won to heaven.
"Her lot is on thee," lovely child-
God keep thy spirit undefiled!
I fear thy gentle loveliness,
Thy witching tone and air,
Thine eye's beseeching earnestness
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