I promise to be tender, And docile to your sway; I promise to surrender My soul—at least—_a day_. But if—but if—to-morrow I chance to grow more wise— If Love should dream you borrow Your light from Fancy’s eyes; If I should weary, playing On one eternal lyre, And touch, with fingers straying, Some other chords of fire; If they should answer willing, In sweeter tones than you, Forgive my heart for thrilling, And own _my ear is true_. You have the same permission To tire, to change, to go, With only one condition— That you will _let me know_. Then chide me not for changing When I’ve gone through the book, But chide the bee for ranging, And chide the sportive brook. When through the dark cloud smiling The sunbeam wandered warm, A rainbow came, beguiling To beauty all the storm. But if when light was banished By cold, unwelcome rain, That rare guest paled and vanished, Oh! could the cloud complain? A wild bee found a rose And nestled in its heart, But when its leaflets close The flutterer fain would part. Air, freedom, light and heaven It would not so resign; Then if those leaves be riven, Ah! should the rose repine? Since round your being real My fancy deigns to fly, Keep up to my Ideal, Or you are false—not I. Yet though unlike most lovers, I vow at once to change If fancy e’er discovers A nobler field to range. Of this at least be sure, That even when I go I’ll probably be truer Than some who swear they’re so. And though less true than truant, I shall not _fall_ in love; But of some star pursuant, Still rise to light above. Then, since around your Real My Fancy deigns to fly, Keep up to my Ideal, Or you are false as I. * * * * * STANZAS. Harm not the living—on the stage of life Play well your parts, that when the bell shall toll To note your exit, ye shall hear the strife Of echoing plaudits, and the deafening roll Of music round you. O! across the soul Will come the freshness of its dewy Spring; And ye shall leap toward the destined goal, And snatch the victor’s garland; while there ring, Through the arena, shouts of kindly welcoming! So live, that when upon the voiceless air Shall come the echoes of your passing bell, From the lone minster, they to you shall bear Sweet thoughts and pleasant memories—the dell Where grew the violets, shall, like a spell, Rise up before your spirit, and the rill That wantoned with them, laughing, ere it fell For very joy adown the craggy hill— And so your dream shall end—awake in Heaven ye will.