Long hushed are the chords that my boyhood enchanted As when the smooth wave by the angel was stirred, Yet still with their music is memory haunted, And oft in my dreams are their melodies heard. I feel like the priest to his altar returning,-- The crowd that was kneeling no longer is there, The flame has died down, but the brands are still burning, And sandal and cinnamon sweeten the air. II. The veil for her bridal young Summer is weaving In her azure-domed hall with its tapestried floor, And Spring the last tear-drop of May-dew is leaving On the daisy of Burns and the shamrock of Moore. How like, how unlike, as we view them together, The song of the minstrels whose record we scan,-- One fresh as the breeze blowing over the heather, One sweet as the breath from an odalisque's fan! Ah, passion can glow mid a palace's splendor; The cage does not alter the song of the bird; And the curtain of silk has known whispers as tender As ever the blossoming hawthorn has heard. No fear lest the step of the soft-slippered Graces Should fright the young Loves from their warm little nest, For the heart of a queen, under jewels and laces, Beats time with the pulse in the peasant girl's breast! Thrice welcome each gift of kind Nature's bestowing! Her fountain heeds little the goblet we hold; Alike, when its musical waters are flowing, The shell from the seaside, the chalice of gold. The twins of the lyre to her voices had listened; Both laid their best gifts upon Liberty's shrine; For Coila's loved minstrel the holly-wreath glistened; For Erin's the rose and the myrtle entwine. And while the fresh blossoms of summer are braided For the sea-girdled, stream-silvered, lake-jewelled isle, While her mantle of verdure is woven unfaded, While Shannon and Liffey shall dimple and smile, The land where the staff of Saint Patrick was planted, Where the shamrock grows green from the cliffs to the shore, The land of fair maidens and heroes undaunted, Shall wreathe her bright harp with the garlands of Moore! TO JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE APRIL 4, 1880 I BRING the simplest pledge of love, Friend of my earlier days; Mine is the hand without the glove, The heart-beat, not the phrase. How few still breathe this mortal air We called by school-boy names! You still, whatever robe you wear, To me are always James. That name the kind apostle bore Who shames the sullen creeds, Not trusting less, but loving more, And showing faith by deeds. What blending thoughts our memories share! What visions yours and mine Of May-days in whose morning air The dews were golden wine, Of vistas bright with opening day, Whose all-awakening sun Showed in life's landscape, far away, The summits to be won! The heights are gained. Ah, say not so For him who smiles at time, Leaves his tired comrades down below, And only lives to climb! His labors,--will they ever cease,-- With hand and tongue and pen? Shall wearied Nature ask release At threescore years and ten?