I. With these words, Good-bye, Adieu Take I leave to part from you, Leave to go beyond your view, Through the haze of that which is to be; Fare thou forth, and wing thy way, So our language makes me say. Though it yield, the forward spirit needs must pray In the word that is hope's old token. II. Though the fountain cease to play, Dew must glitter near the brink, Though the weary mind decay, As of old it thought so must it think. Leave alone the darkling eyes Fixed upon the moving skies, Cross the hands upon the bosom, there to rise To the throb of the faith not spoken. REMEMBER [Illustration: Greek Passage-210] You come not, as aforetime, to the headstone every day, And I, who died, I do not chide because, my friend, you play; Only, in playing, think of him who once was kind and dear, And, if you see a beauteous thing, just say, he is not here. APPENDIX TO THE INFALLIBLE ("Ionica," 1858, p. 60) Old angler, what device is thine To draw my pleasant friends from me? Thou fishest with a silken line Not the coarse nets of Galilee. In stagnant vivaries they lie, Forgetful of their ancient haunts; And how shall he that standeth by Refrain his open mouth from taunts? How? by remembering this, that he, Like them, in eddies whirled about, Felt less: for thus they disagree: He can, they could not, bear to doubt. THE SWIMMER'S WISH ("Ionica," 1858, p. 81) Fresh from the summer wave, under the beech, Looking through leaves with a far-darting eye, Tossing those river-pearled locks about, Throwing those delicate limbs straight out, Chiding the clouds as they sailed out of reach, Murmured the swimmer, I wish I could fly. Laugh, if you like, at the bold reply, Answer disdainfully, flouting my words: How should the listener at simple sixteen Guess what a foolish old rhymer could mean Calmly predicting, "You will surely fly"-- Fish one might vie with, but how be like birds? Sweet maiden-fancies, at present they range Close to a sister's engarlanded brows, Over the diamonds a mother will wear, In the false flowers to be shaped for her hair.-- Slow glide the hours to thee, late be the change, Long be thy rest 'neath the cool beechen boughs! Genius and love will uplift thee: not yet, Walk through some passionless years by my side, Chasing the silly sheep, snapping the lily stalk, Drawing my secrets forth, witching my soul with talk. When the sap stays, and the blossom is set, Others will take the fruit, I shall have died. AN APOLOGY ("Ionica," 1858, p. 115) Uprose the temple of my love Sculptured with many a mystic theme, All frail and fanciful above, But pillared on a deep esteem.