TO GOVERNOR SWAIN

DEAR GOVERNOR, if my skiff might brave

The winds that lift the ocean wave,

The mountain stream that loops and swerves

Through my broad meadow's channelled curves

Should waft me on from bound to bound

To where the River weds the Sound,

The Sound should give me to the Sea,

That to the Bay, the Bay to thee.

It may not be; too long the track

To follow down or struggle back.

The sun has set on fair Naushon

Long ere my western blaze is gone;

The ocean disk is rolling dark

In shadows round your swinging bark,

While yet the yellow sunset fills

The stream that scarfs my spruce-clad hills;

The day-star wakes your island deer

Long ere my barnyard chanticleer;

Your mists are soaring in the blue

While mine are sparks of glittering dew.

It may not be; oh, would it might,

Could I live o'er that glowing night!

What golden hours would come to life,

What goodly feats of peaceful strife,—

Such jests, that, drained of every joke,

The very bank of language broke,—

Such deeds, that Laughter nearly died

With stitches in his belted side;

While Time, caught fast in pleasure's chain,

His double goblet snapped in twain,

And stood with half in either hand,—

Both brimming full,— but not of sand!