“And many, many are the souls Life’s movement fascinates, controls. It draws them on, they cannot save Their feet from its alluring wave; They cannot leave it, they must go With its unconquerable flow. But ah! how few, of all that try This mighty march, do aught but die! For ill-endowed for such a way, Ill-stored in strength, in wits, are they. They faint, they stagger to and fro, And wandering from the stream they go; In pain, in terror, in distress, They see, all round, a wilderness. Sometimes a momentary gleam They catch of the mysterious stream; Sometimes, a second’s space, their ear The murmur of its waves doth hear; That transient glimpse in song they say, But not as painter can portray; That transient sound in song they tell, But not as the musician well. And when at last their snatches cease, And they are silent and at peace, The stream of life’s majestic whole Hath ne’er been mirrored on their soul. “Only a few the life-stream’s shore With safe unwandering feet explore; Untired its movement bright attend, Follow its windings to the end. Then from its brimming waves their eye Drinks up delighted ecstasy, And its deep-toned, melodious voice Forever makes their ear rejoice. They speak! the happiness divine They feel runs o’er in every line; Its spell is round them like a shower; It gives them pathos, gives them power. No painter yet hath such a way, Nor no musician made, as they, And gathered on immortal knolls Such lovely flowers for cheering souls. Beethoven, Raphael, cannot reach The charm which Homer, Shakspeare, teach. To these, to these, their thankful race Gives, then, the first, the fairest place; And brightest is their glory’s sheen, For greatest hath their labor been.” _PERSISTENCY OF POETRY._ Though the Muse be gone away, Though she move not earth to-day, Souls, erewhile who caught her word, Ah! still harp on what they heard. _A CAUTION TO POETS._ What poets feel not, when they make, A pleasure in creating, The world, in _its_ turn, will not take Pleasure in contemplating. _THE YOUTH OF NATURE._ Raised are the dripping oars, Silent the boat! The lake, Lovely and soft as a dream, Swims in the sheen of the moon. The mountains stand at its head Clear in the pure June-night, But the valleys are flooded with haze. Rydal and Fairfield are there; In the shadow Wordsworth lies dead. So it is, so it will be for aye. Nature is fresh as of old, Is lovely; a mortal is dead.