Ye little think what toil it was to build A world of men imperfect even as this, Where we conceive of Good by what we miss, Of Ill by that wherewith best days are filled; A world whose every atom is self-willed, Whose corner-stone is propt on artifice, Whose joy is shorter-lived than woman’s kiss, Whose wisdom hoarded is but to be spilled. Yet this is better than a life of caves, Whose highest art was scratching on a bone, Or chipping toilsome arrowheads of flint; Better, though doomed to hear while Cleon raves, To see wit’s want eterned in paint or stone, And wade the drain-drenched shoals of daily print. THE BRAKES. What countless years and wealth of brain were spent To bring us hither from our caves and huts, And trace through pathless wilds the deep-worn ruts Of faith and habit, by whose deep indent Prudence may guide if genius be not lent,-- Genius, not always happy when it shuts Its ears against the plodder’s ifs and buts, Hoping in one rash leap to snatch the event. The coursers of the sun, whose hoofs of flame Consume morn’s misty threshold, are exact As bankers' clerks, and all this star-poised frame, One swerve allowed, were with convulsion rackt; This world were doomed, should Dulness fail, to tame Wit’s feathered heels in the stern stocks of fact. A FOREBODING. What were the whole void world, if thou wert dead, Whose briefest absence can eclipse my day, And make the hours that danced with Time away Drag their funereal steps with muffled head? Through thee, meseems, the very rose is red, From thee the violet steals its breath in May, From thee draw life all things that grow not gray, And by thy force the happy stars are sped. Thou near, the hope of thee to overflow Fills all my earth and heaven, as when in Spring, Ere April come, the birds and blossoms know, And grasses brighten round her feet to cling; Nay, and this hope delights all nature so That the dumb turf I tread on seems to sing. III. FANCY. UNDER THE OCTOBER MAPLES. What mean these banners spread, These paths with royal red So gaily carpeted? Comes there a prince to-day? Such footing were too fine For feet less argentine Than Dian’s own or thine, Queen whom my tides obey. Surely for thee are meant These hues so orient That with a sultan’s tent Each tree invites the sun; Our Earth such homage pays, So decks her dusty ways, And keeps such holidays, For one, and only one. My brain shapes form and face, Throbs with the rhythmic grace And cadence of her pace To all fine instincts true; Her footsteps, as they pass, Than moonbeams over grass Fall lighter,--and, alas, More insubstantial too! LOVE’S CLOCK. A PASTORAL. DAPHNIS _waiting_. “O Dryad feet, Be doubly fleet, Timed to my heart’s expectant beat While I await her! 'At four,' vowed she; ’Tis scarcely three, Yet by _my_ time it seems to be A good hour later!” CHLOE. “Bid me not stay! Hear reason, pray! ’Tis striking six! Sure never day Was short as this is!” DAPHNIS.