Ade

A truce, a truce, a gallant truce!A hand flung up, and a shout of cheer;The toiling hand that has sped and spunThe labor of the year.

Farewell, ye turbulent hosts of rhyme,Whose wrangling wrought such ill-content,Farewell, ye beggarly broken lines,A Falstaff regiment.

The sour and sweet I could not tasteTill ye had sat and drunk your fillThe life i bore was never mine,But yours to waste at will.

Oh! yon, where the sunset's heart is warmA fair bird singeth, sorrow-free;I am his Sister belov'd, he says,And, wistful, he waits for me.

No bird of Juno's nor of Jove's,Nor Pallas, blinking thro' day-shut eyes;But a mate-dove, loving so faithfully,That Love did make him wise.

And we will sit as on burnished gold,The earth-ball rolling at our feet,And whisper of things which, had they been,Had been for song too sweet.