But not alone to share that large estate Of work and interchange of communings -- The little human paths to heavenly things Were also ours: the casual, intimate Vistas, which consecrate -- With laughter and quick tears -- the dusty noon Of days, and by moist beams irradiate Our plodding minds with courage, and attune The fellowship that bites its thumb at fate. IX Where art thou now, mine host Guffanti? -- where The iridescence of thy motley troop! Ah, where the merry, animated group That snuggled elbows for an extra chair, When space was none to spare, To pour the votive Chianti for a toast To dramas dark and lyrics debonair, The while, to `Bella Napoli', mine host Exhaled his Parmazan, Parnassan air! X Thy Parmazan, immortal laird of ease, Can never mold, thy caviare is blest, While still our glowing Uriel greets the rest Around thy royal board of memories, Where sit, the salt of these, He of the laughter of a Hundred Lights, Blithe Eldorado of high poesies, And he -- of enigmatic gentle knights The kindly keen -- who sings of `Calverly's'. XI Because he never wore his sentient heart For crows and jays to peck, ofttimes to such He seemed a silent fellow, who o'ermuch Held from the general gossip-ground apart, Or tersely spoke, and tart: How should they guess what eagle tore, within, His quick of sympathy for humblest smart Of human wretchedness, or probed his spleen Of scorn against the hypocritic mart! XII Sometimes insufferable seemed to come That wrath of sympathy: One windy night We watched through squalid panes, forlornly white, -- Amid immense machines' incessant hum -- Frail figures, gaunt and dumb, Of overlabored girls and children, bowed Above their slavish toil: "O God! -- A bomb, A bomb!" he cried, "and with one fiery cloud Expunge the horrible Caesars of this slum!" XIII Another night dreams on the Cornish hills: Trembling within the low moon's pallid fires, The tall corn-tassels lift their fragrant spires; From filmy spheres, a liquid starlight fills -- Like dew of daffodils -- The fragile dark, where multitudinous The rhythmic, intermittent silence thrills, Like song, the valleys. -- "Hark!" he murmurs, "Thus May bards from crickets learn their canticles!" XIV Now Morning, not less lavish of her sweets, Leads us along the woodpaths -- in whose hush The quivering alchemy of the pure thrush Cools from above the balsam-dripping heats -- To find, in green retreats, 'Mid men of clay, the great, quick-hearted man Whose subtle art our human age secretes, Or him whose brush, tinct with cerulean, Blooms with soft castle-towers and cloud-capped fleets. XV