Most deeply-learned in the hollow game,

At which we now have nothing left to stake,
Albeit too wise to stake it, if we had.

But Truth will never let the heart alone

That once hath sought her, sending o'er and o'er Her sweet and unreproachful messengers

To lure us back again and give us all,

Which we, all fresh and burning in the game,
Wherein we lose and lose with seeming gain,

Brush off impatiently with sharp rebuff,
Feeling our better instincts now no more
But as reproaches lacking other aim

Than to abridge our little snatch of bliss.

And, when we rouse at length, and feel within

The stirring of our ancient love again,

Our eyes are blinded that we cannot see

The fair benignity of unveiled Truth
That plighted us its holy troth erewhile.
Our sun is setting: we are just too late:
And so, instead of lightening by our lives
The general burden of our drooping kind,-

Instead of being named in aftertime

With grateful reverence, as men who talked
With spirits, and the dreaded secret wrung
From out the loath lips of the sphinx of life,—
Instead of being, as all true men may,

Part of the memory of all great deeds,
The inspiration of all time to come,-

We linger to our graves with empty hearts,
And add our little handful to the soil,

As valueless and frail as fallen leaves,

SONG.

THERE is a light in thy blue eyes,

Like an eternal morn,

A glorious freshness of the skies,
That dulls not, nor is worn,

Though all earth's flitting shadows try
Its sunny immortality.

From thee I learn all gentleness,

From thee I learn all truth;

And, from thy brimming heart's excess,

My spirit garners youth,

Gleaning, in harvest-hours like this,

Ripe winter-stores of golden bliss.

1841.

O, happy soul! O, happy heart!
O, happy dreams of mine!
That thus can linger all apart

Within so charmed a shrine,

While the old weary earth turns round
With all its strife of empty sound!

K

IN SADNESS.

THERE is not in this life of ours

One bliss unmixed with fears;

The hope that wakes our deepest powers

A face of sadness wears,

And the dew that showers our dearest flowers

Is the bitter dew of tears.

Fame waiteth long, and lingereth

Through weary nights and morns,

And evermore the shadow Death
With mocking finger scorns
That underneath the laurel-wreath

Should be a wreath of thorns.