The yesterday doth never smile, The day goes drudging through the while, Yet, in the name of Godhead, I The morrow front, and can defy; Though I am weak, yet God, when prayed, Cannot withhold his conquering aid. Ah me! it was my childhood's thought, If He should make my web a blot On life's fair picture of delight, My heart's content would find it right. But O, these waves and leaves,-- When happy stoic Nature grieves, No human speech so beautiful As their murmurs mine to lull. On this altar God hath built I lay my vanity and guilt; Nor me can Hope or Passion urge Hearing as now the lofty dirge Which blasts of Northern mountains hymn, Nature's funeral high and dim,-- Sable pageantry of clouds, Mourning summer laid in shrouds. Many a day shall dawn and die, Many an angel wander by, And passing, light my sunken turf Moist perhaps by ocean surf, Forgotten amid splendid tombs, Yet wreathed and hid by summer blooms. On earth I dream;--I die to be: Time, shake not thy bald head at me. I challenge thee to hurry past Or for my turn to fly too fast. Think me not numbed or halt with age, Or cares that earth to earth engage, Caught with love's cord of twisted beams, Or mired by climate's gross extremes. I tire of shams, I rush to be: I pass with yonder comet free,-- Pass with the comet into space Which mocks thy aeons to embrace; Aeons which tardily unfold Realm beyond realm,--extent untold; No early morn, no evening late,-- Realms self-upheld, disdaining Fate, Whose shining sons, too great for fame, Never heard thy weary name; Nor lives the tragic bard to say How drear the part I held in one, How lame the other limped away. APRIL The April winds are magical And thrill our tuneful frames; The garden walks are passional To bachelors and dames. The hedge is gemmed with diamonds, The air with Cupids full, The cobweb clues of Rosamond Guide lovers to the pool. Each dimple in the water, Each leaf that shades the rock Can cozen, pique and flatter, Can parley and provoke. Goodfellow, Puck and goblins, Know more than any book. Down with your doleful problems, And court the sunny brook. The south-winds are quick-witted, The schools are sad and slow, The masters quite omitted The lore we care to know. MAIDEN SPEECH OF THE AEOLIAN HARP