BANKSIDE

I christened you in happier days, before

These gray forebodings on my brow were seen;

You are still lovely in your new-leaved green;

The brimming river soothes his grassy shore;

The bridge is there; the rock with lichens hoar;

And the same shadows on the water lean,

Outlasting us. How many graves between

That day and this! How many shadows more

Darken my heart, their substance from these eyes

Hidden forever! So our world is made

Of life and death commingled; and the sighs

Outweigh the smiles, in equal balance laid:

What compensation? None, save that the Allwise

So schools us to love things that cannot fade.

Thank God, he saw you last in pomp of May,

Ere any leaf had felt the year's regret;

Your latest image in his memory set

Was fair as when your landscape's peaceful sway

Charmed dearer eyes with his to make delay

On Hope's long prospect,— as if They forget

The happy, They, the unspeakable Three, whose debt,

Like the hawk's shadow, blots our brightest day:

Better it is that ye should look so fair.

Slopes that he loved, and ever-murmuring pines

That make a music out of silent air,

And bloom-heaped orchard-trees in prosperous lines;

In you the heart some sweeter hints divines,

And wiser, than in winter's dull despair.

Old Friend, farewell! Your kindly door again

I enter, but the master's hand in mine

No more clasps welcome, and the temperate wine,

That cheered our long nights, other lips must stain:

All is unchanged, but I expect in vain

The face alert, the manners free and fine,

The seventy years borne lightly as the pine

Wears its first down of snow in green disdain:

Much did he, and much well; yet most of all

I prized his skill in leisure and the ease

Of a life flowing full without a plan;

For most are idly busy; him I call

Thrice fortunate who knew himself to please,

Learned in those arts that make a gentleman.

Nor deem he lived unto himself alone;

His was the public spirit of his sire,

And in those eyes, soft with domestic fire,

A quenchless light of fiercer temper shone

What time about, the world our shame was blown

On every wind; his soul would not conspire

With selfish men to soothe the mob's desire,

Veiling with garlands Moloch's bloody stone;

The high-bred instincts of a better day

Ruled in his blood, when to be citizen

Rang Roman yet, and a Free People's sway

Was not the exchequer of impoverished men,

Nor statesmanship with loaded votes to play,

Nor public office a tramps’ boosing-ken.