There is not in this life of ours One bliss unmixed with fears, The hope that wakes our deepest powers A face of sadness wears, And the dew that showers our dearest flowers Is the bitter dew of tears. Fame waiteth long, and lingereth Through weary nights and morns-- And evermore the shadow Death With mocking finger scorns That underneath the laurel wreath Should be a wreath of thorns. The laurel leaves are cool and green, But the thorns are hot and sharp, Lean Hunger grins and stares between The poet and his harp; Though of Love's sunny sheen his woof have been, Grim want thrusts in the warp. And if beyond this darksome clime Some fair star Hope may see, That keeps unjarred the blissful chime Of its golden infancy-- Where the harvest-time of faith sublime Not always is to be-- Yet would the true soul rather choose Its home where sorrow is, Than in a sated peace to lose Its life's supremest bliss-- The rainbow hues that bend profuse O'er cloudy spheres like this-- The want, the sorrow and the pain, That are Love's right to cure-- The sunshine bursting after rain-- The gladness insecure That makes us fain strong hearts to gain, To do and to endure. High natures must be thunder-scarred With many a searing wrong; From mother Sorrow's breasts the bard Sucks gifts of deepest song, Nor all unmarred with struggles hard Wax the Soul's sinews strong. Dear Patience, too, is born of woe, Patience that opes the gate Wherethrough the soul of man must go Up to each nobler state, Whose voice's flow so meek and low Smooths the bent brows of Fate. Though Fame be slow, yet Death is swift, And, o'er the spirit's eyes, Life after life doth change and shift With larger destinies: As on we drift, some wider rift Shows us serener skies. And though naught falleth to us here But gains the world counts loss, Though all we hope of wisdom clear When climbed to seems but dross, Yet all, though ne'er Christ's faith they wear, At least may share his cross. FAREWELL. Farewell! as the bee round the blossom Doth murmur drowsily, So murmureth round my bosom The memory of thee; Lingering, it seems to go, When the wind more full doth flow, Waving the flower to and fro, But still returneth, Marian! My hope no longer burneth, Which did so fiercely burn, My joy to sorrow turneth, Although loath, loath to turn-- I would forget-- And yet--and yet My heart to thee still yearneth, Marian!