The old worn world of hurry and heat, The young, fresh world of thought and scope; While you, where silent surges fleet Tow’rd far sky-beaches still and sweet, Sunk wavering down the ocean-slope; Come back our ancient walks to tread, Old haunts of lost or scattered friends, Amid the Muses’ factories red, Where song, and smoke, and laughter sped The nights to proctor-haunted ends. Our old familiars are not laid, Though snapped our wands and sunk our books, They beckon, not to be gainsaid, Where, round broad meads which mowers wade, Smooth Charles his steel-blue sickle crooks; Where, as the cloudbergs eastward blow, From glow to gloom the hill-side shifts Its lakes of rye that surge and flow, Its plumps of orchard-trees arow, Its snowy white-weed’s summer drifts. Or let us to Nantasket, there To wander idly as we list, Whether, on rocky hillocks bare, Sharp cedar-points, like breakers, tear The trailing fringes of gray mist, Or whether, under skies clear-blown, The heightening surfs with foamy din, Their breeze-caught forelocks backward blown Against old Neptune’s yellow zone, Curl slow, and plunge forever in. For years thrice three, wise Horace said, A poem rare let silence bind; And love may ripen in the shade, Like ours, for nine long seasons laid In crypts and arches of the mind. That right Falernian friendship old Will we, to grace our feast, call up, And freely pour the juice of gold, That keeps life’s pulses warm and bold, Till Death shall break the empty cup. * * * * * TO A SUMMER HAUNT. BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. When cradled on thy placid breast, In hushed content I loved to muse, Too full the heart, too sweet the rest For thought and speech to interfuse. But now, when thou art shrined afar, Like Nature’s chosen urn of peace, Remembrance, like the evening star, Begins a vigil ne’er to cease. Each mossy rock, each fairy isle, Inlets with thickets overhung, The cloud’s rose-tint or fleecy pile, And Echo’s wildly-frolic tongue; The light and shade that o’er thee play, The ripple of thy moonlit wave, The long, calm, dreamy summer day, The very stones thy waters lave;