Yet, yet, recall the mind that you had then, And, so recalling, listen yet again; If you escaped, ’tis plainly understood Impunity may leave a culprit good; If you were punished, did you then, as now, The justice of that punishment allow? Did what your age consents to now, appear Expedient then and needfully severe? In youth’s indulgence think there yet might be A truth forgot by grey severity. That strictness and that laxity between, Be yours the wisdom to detect the mean. ’Tis possible, young sir, that some excess Mars youthful judgment and old men’s no less; Yet we must take our counsel as we may For (flying years this lesson still convey), ’Tis worst unwisdom to be overwise, And not to use, but still correct one’s eyes. _ἀνεμώλια._ Go, foolish thoughts, and join the throng Of myriads gone before; To flutter and flap and flit along The airy limbo shore. Go, words of sport and words of wit, Sarcastic point and fine, And words of wisdom wholly fit, With folly’s to combine. Go, words of wisdom, words of sense, Which, while the heart belied, The tongue still uttered for pretence, The inner blank to hide. Go, words of wit, so gay, so light, That still were meant express To soothe the smart of fancied slight By fancies of success. Go, broodings vain o’er fancied wrong; Go, love-dreams vainer still; And scorn that’s not, but would be, strong; And Pride without a Will. Go, foolish thoughts, and find your way Where myriads went before, To languish out your lingering day Upon the limbo shore. November, 1850 _COLUMBUS._ How in God’s name did Columbus get over Is a pure wonder to me, I protest, Cabot, and Raleigh too, that well-read rover, Frobisher, Dampier, Drake, and the rest. Bad enough all the same, For them that after came, But, in great Heaven’s name, How _he_ should ever think That on the other brink Of this wild waste terra firma should be, Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me. How a man ever should hope to get thither, E’en if he knew that there was another side; But to suppose he should come any whither, Sailing straight on into chaos untried, In spite of the motion Across the whole ocean, To stick to the notion That in some nook or bend Of a sea without end He should find North and South America, Was a pure madness, indeed I must say, to me. What if wise men had, as far back as Ptolemy, Judged that the earth like an orange was round, None of them ever said, Come along, follow me, Sail to the West, and the East will be found. Many a day before Ever they’d come ashore, From the ‘San Salvador,’ Sadder and wiser men They’d have turned back again; And that _he_ did not, but did cross the sea, Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.