A GOOD-BY. TO J. R. LOWELL. FAREWELL, for the bark has her breast to the tide, And the rough arms of Ocean are stretched for his bride; The winds from the mountain stream over the bay; I see the tall mast as it rocks by the shore; Alone, while the cloud pours its treacherous breath, With the blue lips all round her whose kisses are death; Ah, think not the breeze that is urging her sail Has left her unaided to strive with the gale. TO J. R. LOWELL. 219 There are hopes that play round her, like fires on the mast, That will light the dark hour till its danger has past; There are prayers that will plead with the storm when it raves, And whisper "Be still!" to the turbulent waves. Nay, think not that Friendship has called us in vain There is strength in its circle, you lose the bright star, But its sisters still chain it, though shining afar. I give you one health in the juice of the vine, April 29, 1855. AT A BIRTHDAY FESTIVAL. TO J. R. LOWELL. WE will not speak of years to-night, — But larger floods of love and light, We will not drown in wordy praise We need not waste our schoolboy art Has throbbed in artless rhyme. TO J. R. LOWELL. Enough for him the silent grasp And he the bracelet's radiant clasp Strength to his hours of manly toil! Who loves alike the furrowed soil, Sweet smiles to keep forever bright And faith that sees the ring of light February 22, 1859. 221 A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE. TO J. F. CLARKE. WHO is the shepherd sent to lead, Through pastures green, the Master's sheep? What guileless "Israelite indeed " The folded flock may watch and keep? He who with manliest spirit joins The heart of gentlest human mould, True to all Truth the world denies, Not tongue-tied for its gilded sin; Not always right in all men's eyes, But faithful to the light within; |