There, by the wintry moon, to spy Thee on the well-sweep mounted high,-- Mounting still, from the crafty foe Creeping and crawling up below; And, when thou canst no farther go, See thee crouch for the fearful leap Off the top of the old well-sweep, Then, with a swift and dizzy sweep, Plunge in the crusty snow knee-deep. Nor, for a lameness gotten so, Shall I nurse thee again,--all, no! Nevermore, from my willing hand Winning the all I can command, Shall be heard the pathetic tone, (Solvent sufficient for heart of stone,) Making thy simple wishes known; Nor shall the vibrating long-drawn "Mr--r" Of thy tranquil thunderous purr Breathe again, to my ear attent, Bliss o'erflowing and deep content. As I fondly muse on thee, I recall the spreading tree Of thy goodly pedigree, Which, of shapely branch or bough, Hath no fairer growth than thou; And my glance caressing now Sweeps Alas, and Och Oh-Ow, Chryssa, Christopher, What-Not, Zabdas, Bunch, Longinus, Dot, Tom, Zenobia, Nonesuch, Turvy, Topsy, Inasmuch, Zillah, Zillah Number Two, Fremont, Dayton, Tittattoo, Hiawatha, And, and If, Minnehaha, But, and Tiff, Kitty Clover, Kitty Gray, Flossy, Frolic, Fayaway, Quip, and Quirk, and Dearest Mae, Nippenicket, Dido, Puck, Minnesinger, Friar Tuck, Periwinkle, Winkle Less, Quiz, Albeit, Bonnie, Bess, Midget, Budget, Mayaret, Jocko, Sancho, Hans, Coquette, Daisy Du Da, Ditto, Pet, Pancks, and Peepy, Tilly, Tarn, Tattycoram, Zoe, Clam, Little Dorrit, Uncle Sam, Tomtit, Pug, Penelope, Ike, Ulysses, Rosalie, Punch, and Judy, Ferny Fan, Cowslip, Hecate, Caliban, Filibuster, Jonathan,-- Name them all who may, who can; For the half has not been told Of the branches I behold On the honored parent-stem, And the later growth from them. Lion Llewellyn, faithful friend, Brave and gentle to the end, Would that I once more might hail, Like a banner on the gale, Waving slow, thy jet-ringed tail! And thy furry coat of mail, Like the striped and spotted skin Of thy savage leopard kin, Would I might again caress With the old-time tenderness! Why do I talk of what may not be? For the pillow of him I fain would see Was changed long since from my motherly knee To the garden, under the willow-tree,-- Weeping-willow and flowering moss. Over it riseth nor pile nor cross; We, who only have felt his loss, Needing no sculptured stone to tell How he battled, and how he fell, Or where sleepeth who sleeps so well. What is the destiny of his race? Is there, I wonder, no other place Whence they come or whither they go? Earth-existence the all they know? Does the living intelligence Die in them with the dying sense? Or, from the body passing hence, Does it find in another sphere Being in higher form than here? For summers twain, the willow kept Its watch where low the warrior slept, But, on the third, a blight had crept Upon the vigor of its frame; Nor knew we how or whence it came.