Oh, what's the way to Arcady? Sir Poet, with the rusty coat, Quit mocking of the song-bird's note. How have you heart for any tune, You with the wayworn russet shoon? Your scrip, a-swinging by your side, Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide. I'll brim it well with pieces red, If you will tell the way to tread. _Oh, I am bound for Arcady,_ _And if you but keep pace with me_ _You tread the way to Arcady._ And where away lies Arcady, And how long yet may the journey be? _Ah, that_ (quoth he) _I do not know--_ _Across the clover and the snow--_ _Across the frost, across the flowers--_ _Through summer seconds and winter hours._ _I've trod the way my whole life long,_ _And know not now where it may be;_ _My guide is but the stir to song._ _That tells me I can not go wrong,_ _Or clear or dark the pathway be_ _Upon the road to Arcady._ But how shall I do who cannot sing? I was wont to sing, once on a time-- There is never an echo now to ring Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme. _'Tis strange you cannot sing_ (quoth he), _The folk all sing in Arcady._ But how may he find Arcady Who hath not youth nor melody? _What, know you not, old man_ (quoth he)-- _Your hair is white, your face is wise--_ _That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes_ _Who hopes to see fair Arcady?_ _No gold can buy you entrance there;_ _But beggared Love may go all bare--_ _No wisdom won with weariness;_ _But Love goes in with Folly's dress--_ _No fame that wit could ever win;_ _But only Love may lead Love in_ _To Arcady, to Arcady._ Ah, woe is me, through all my days Wisdom and wealth I both have got, And fame and name, and great men's praise; But Love, ah, Love! I have it not. There was a time, when life was new-- But far away, and half forgot-- I only know her eyes were blue; But Love--I fear I knew it not. We did not wed, for lack of gold, And she is dead, and I am old. All things have come since then to me, Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady. _Ah, then I fear we part_ (quoth he), _My way's for Love and Arcady_. But you, you fare alone, like me; The gray is likewise in your hair. What love have you to lead you there, To Arcady, to Arcady? _Ah, no, not lonely do I fare;_ _My true companion's Memory._ _With Love he fills the Spring-time air;_ _With Love he clothes the Winter tree._ _Oh, past this poor horizon's bound_ _My song goes straight to one who stands--_ _Her face all gladdening at the sound--_ _To lead me to the Spring-green lands,_ _To wander with enlacing hands._ _The songs within my breast that stir_ _Are all of her, are all of her._ _My maid is dead long years_ (quoth he), _She waits for me in Arcady._ _Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,_ _To Arcady, to Arcady;_ _Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,_ _Where all the leaves are merry._ H.C. BUNNER.