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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;
One clasp of the hand, then away and away!

I see the tall mast as it rocks by the shore;
The sun is declining, I see it once more;
To-day like the blade in a thick-waving field,
To-morrow the spike on a Highlander's shield.

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
To join the fair ring ere we break it again;

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,
The blood of the vineyard shall mingle with mine;
Thus, thus let us drain the last dew-drops of gold,
As we empty our hearts of the blessings they hold.

April 29, 1855.

AT A BIRTHDAY FESTIVAL.

TO J. R. LOWELL.

WE will not speak of years to-night, —
For what have years to bring

But larger floods of love and light,
And sweeter songs to sing?

We will not drown in wordy praise
The kindly thoughts that rise;
If Friendship own one tender phrase,
He reads it in our eyes.

We need not waste our schoolboy art
To gild this notch of Time;
Forgive me if my wayward heart

Has throbbed in artless rhyme.

TO J. R. LOWELL.

Enough for him the silent grasp
That knits us hand in hand,

And he the bracelet's radiant clasp
That locks our circling band.

Strength to his hours of manly toil!
Peace to his starlit dreams!

Who loves alike the furrowed soil,
The music-haunted streams!

Sweet smiles to keep forever bright
The sunshine on his lips,

And faith that sees the ring of light
Round nature's last eclipse!

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,
With burning light and girded loins,
To guide the flock, or watch the fold;

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;

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