There is a fairy skiff, plying on the sea of life, And charitably toiling still to save the shipwrecked crews; Within, kindly patient, sitteth a gentle mariner, Piloting, through surf and strait, the fragile barks of men: How cheering is her voice, how skilfully she guideth, How nobly leading onward yet, defying even death! To-morrow is that skiff, a wise and welcome rescue, And, full of gladdening words and looks, that mariner is Hope: Often, the painful present is comforted by flattering the future, And kind To-morrow beareth half the burdens of To-day. To-morrow, whispereth weakness: and To-morrow findeth him the weaker; To-morrow, promiseth conscience; and behold, no To-day for a fulfilment. O name of happy omen unto youth, O bitter word of terror to the dotard, Goal of folly's lazy wish, and sorrow's ever-coming friend; Fraud's loophole,--caution's hint,--and trap to catch the honest,-- Thou wealth to many poor, disgrace to many noble, Thou hope and fear, thou weal and woe, thou remedy, thou ruin, How thickly swarms of thought are clustering round To-morrow! The hive of memory increaseth, to every day its cell; There is the labour stored, the honey or corruption; Each morn the bees fly forth, to fill the growing comb, And levy golden tribute of the uncomplaining flowers: To-morrow is their care; they toil for rest to-morrow; But man deferreth duty's task, and loveth ease to-day. To-morrow, is that lamp upon the marsh, which a traveller never reacheth; To-morrow, the rainbow's cup, coveted prize of ignorance; To-morrow, the shifting anchorage, dangerous trust of mariners; To-morrow, the wrecker's beacon, wily snare of the destroyer. Reconcile convictions with delay, and To-morrow is a fatal lie; Frighten resolutions into action, To-morrow is a wholesome truth: I must, for I fear To-morrow; this is the Cassava's food; Why should I? let me trust To-morrow,--this is the Cassava's poison. Lo, it is the even of To-day,--a day so lately a To-morrow; Where are those high resolves, those hopes of yesternight? O faint fond heart, still shall thy whisper be, To-morrow, And must the growing avalanche of sin roll down that easy slope? Alas, it is ponderous, and moving on in might, that a Sisyphus may not stop it; But haste thee with the lever of a prayer, and stem its strength To-day: For its race may speedily be run, and this poor hut, thyself, Be whelmed in death and suffocating guilt, that dreary Alpine snow-wreath.