V

Peace — peace — and rest! Ah, how the lyre is loth,

Or powerless now, to give what all men seek!

Either it deadens with ignoble sloth

Or deafens with shrill tumult, loudly weak.

Where is the singer whose large notes and clear

Can heal and arm and plenish and sustain?

Lo, one with empty music floods the ear,

And one, the heart refreshing, tires the brain.

And idly tuneful, the loquacious throng

Flutter and twitter, prodigal of time,

And little masters make a toy of song

Till grave men weary of the sound of rhyme.

And some go prankt in faded antique dress,

Abhorring to be hale and glad and free;

And some parade a conscious naturalness,

The scholar's not the child's simplicity.

Enough;— and wisest who from words forbear.

The kindly river rails not as it glides;

And suave and charitable, the winning air

Chides not at all, or only him who chides.