“Pray, why, if in Arcadia once, Need one so soon forget the way there? Or why, once there, be such a dunce As not contentedly to stay there?” Dear child, ’twas but a sorry jest, And from my heart I hate the cynic Who makes the Book of Life a nest For comments staler than rabbinic. If Love his simple spell but keep, Life with ideal eyes to flatter, The Grail itself were crockery cheap To Every-day’s communion-platter. One Darby is to me well known, Who, as the hearth between them blazes, Sees the old moonlight shine on Joan, And float her youthward in its hazes. He rubs his spectacles, he stares,-- ’Tis the same face that witched him early! He gropes for his remaining hairs,-- Is this a fleece that feels so curly? “Good heavens! but now ’twas winter gray, And I of years had more than plenty; The almanac’s a fool! ’Tis May! Hang family Bibles! I am twenty! “Come, Joan, your arm; we’ll walk the room-- The lane, I mean--do you remember? How confident the roses bloom, As if it ne’er could be December! “Nor more it shall, while in your eyes My heart its summer heat recovers, And you, howe’er your mirror lies, Find your old beauty in your lover’s.” THE NEST. MAY. When oaken woods with buds are pink, And new-come birds each morning sing, When fickle May on Summer’s brink Pauses, and knows not which to fling, Whether fresh bud and bloom again, Or hoar-frost silvering hill and plain, Then from the honeysuckle gray The oriole with experienced quest Twitches the fibrous bark away, The cordage of his hammock-nest, Cheering his labor with a note Rich as the orange of his throat. High o’er the loud and dusty road The soft gray cup in safety swings, To brim ere August with its load Of downy breasts and throbbing wings, O’er which the friendly elm-tree heaves An emerald roof with sculptured eaves. Below, the noisy World drags by In the old way, because it must, The bride with heartbreak in her eye, The mourner following hated dust: Thy duty, wingëd flame of Spring, Is but to love, and fly, and sing. Oh, happy life, to soar and sway Above the life by mortals led, Singing the merry months away, Master, not slave of daily bread, And, when the Autumn comes, to flee Wherever sunshine beckons thee! PALINODE.--DECEMBER. Like some lorn abbey now, the wood Stands roofless in the bitter air; In ruins on its floor is strewed The carven foliage quaint and rare, And homeless winds complain along The columned choir once thrilled with song. And thou, dear nest, whence joy and praise The thankful oriole used to pour, Swing’st empty while the north winds chase Their snowy swarms from Labrador: But, loyal to the happy past, I love thee still for what thou wast. Ah, when the Summer graces flee From other nests more dear than thou, And, where June crowded once, I see Only bare trunk and disleaved bough; When springs of life that gleamed and gushed Run chilled, and slower, and are hushed;