To H. W. L.

I need not praise the sweetness of his song,Where limpid verse to limpid verse succeedsSmooth as our Charles, when, fearing lest he wrongThe new moon's mirrored skiff, he slides along,Full without noise, and whispers in his reeds.

With loving breath of all the winds his nameIs blown about the world, but to his friendsA sweeter secret hides behind his fame,And Love steals shyly through the loud acclaimTo murmur a God bless you! and there ends.

As I muse backward up the checkered yearsWherein so much was given, so much was lost,Blessings in both kinds, such as cheapen tears,—But hush! this is not for profaner ears;Let them drink molten pearls not dream the cost.

Some suck up poison from a sorrow's core,As naught but nightshade grew upon earth's ground;Love turned all his to heart's-ease, and the moreFate tried his bastions, she but forced a doorLeading to sweeter manhood and more sound.

Even as a wind-waved fountain's swaying shadeSeems of mixed race, a gray wraith shot with sun,So through his trial faith translucent rayedTill darkness, half disnatured so, betrayedA heart of sunshine that would fain o'errun.

Surely if skill in song the shears may stayAnd of its purpose cheat the charmed abyss,If our poor life be lengthened by a lay,He shall not go, although his presence may,And the next age in praise shall double this.

Long days be his, and each as lusty-sweetAs gracious natures find his song to be;May Age steal on with softly-cadenced feetFalling in music, as for him were meetWhose choicest verse is harsher-toned than he!