Merryfellow. Then learn such subtle powers to wield, And on the poet's business enter As one does on a love-adventure. They meet by chance, are pleased, and stay On being pressed, just for a day; Then hours to hours are sweetly linked in chain, Till net-caught by degrees, they find retreat is vain. At first the sky is bright, then darkly lowers; To-day, fine thrilling rapture wings the hours, To-morrow, doubts and anguish have their chance, And, ere one knows, they're deep in a romance. A play like this both praise and profit brings. Plunge yourself boldly in the stream of things-- What's lived by all, but known to few-- And bring up something fresh and new, No matter what; just use your eyes, And all will praise what all can prize; Strange motley pictures in a misty mirror, A spark of truth in a thick cloud of error; 'Tis thus we brew the genuine beverage, To edify and to refresh the age. The bloom of youth in eager expectation, With gaping ears drinks in your revelation; Each tender sentimental disposition Sucks from your art sweet woe-be-gone nutrition; Each hears a part of what his own heart says, While over all your quickening sceptre sways. These younglings follow where you bid them go. Lightly to laughter stirred, or turned to woe, They love the show, and with an easy swing, Follow the lordly wafture of your wing; Your made-up man looks cold on everything, But growing minds take in what makes them grow. Poet. Then give me back the years again, When mine own spirit too was growing, When my whole being was a vein Of thronging songs within me flowing! Then slept the world in misty blue, Each bud the nascent wonder cherished, And all for me the flowerets grew, That on each meadow richly flourished. Though I had nothing then, I had a treasure, The thirst for truth, and in illusion pleasure. Give me the free, unshackled pinion, The height of joy, the depth of pain, Strong hate, and stronger love's dominion; O give me back my youth again! Merryfellow. The fire of youth, good friend, you need, of course, Into the hostile ranks to break, Or, when the loveliest damsels hang by force, With amorous clinging, from your neck, When swift your wingèd steps advance To where the racer's prize invites you, Or, after hours of whirling dance, The nightly deep carouse invites you. But to awake the well-known lyre With graceful touch that tempers fire, And to a self-appointed goal, With tuneful rambling on to roll, Such are your duties, aged sirs; nor we Less honor pay for this, nor stint your fee; Old age, not childish, makes the old; but they Are genuine children of a mellower day.