XCI.

Ah, with the Grape my fading life provide,
And wash the Body whence the Life has died,
And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,
By some not unfrequented Garden-side.

XCII.

That e'en my buried Ashes such a snare
Of Vintage shall fling up into the Air,
As not a True-believer passing by
But shall be overtaken unaware.

XCIII.

Indeed, the Idols I have loved so long

Have done my credit in this World much wrong: Have drowned my Glory in a shallow Cup,

And sold my Reputation for a Song.

XCIV.

Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before,

I swore-but was I sober when I swore?

And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand My threadbare Penitence apieces tore.

XCV.

And much as Wine has played the Infidel,
And Robbed me of my Robe of Honor-Well,
I wonder often what the Vintners buy
One half so precious as the stuff they sell.

XCVI.

Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose !
That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the branches sang,
Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows!

XCVII.

Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield
One glimpse—if dimly, yet indeed revealed,

To which the fainting Traveller might spring,
As springs the trampled herbage of the field!

XCVIII.

Would but some wingèd Angel ere too late
Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate,

And make the stern Recorder otherwise
Enregister, or quite obliterate!

XCIX.

Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,

Would not we shatter it to bits—and then
Remould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!

C.

Yon rising Moon that looks for us again—
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;

How oft hereafter rising look for us

Through this same Garden-and for one in vain!

CI.

And when like her, O Sákí, you shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scattered on the Grass,
And in your joyous errand reach the spot
Where I made One-turn down an empty Glass!
From the Persian of OMAR KHAYYÁM.
Paraphrased version of EDWARD FITZGERALD.

TIME.

AN ENIGMA.

EVER eating, never cloying,
All-devouring, all-destroying,
Never finding full repast
Till I eat the world at last.

JONATHAN SWIFT.

II.

LIFE.

THIS LIFE.

THIS Life, which seems so fair,
Is like a bubble blown up in the air
By sporting children's breath,

Who chase it everywhere

And strive who can most motion it bequeath.

And though it sometimes seem of its own might
Like to an eye of gold to be fixed there,

And firm to hover in that empty height,
That only is because it is so light.

-But in that pomp it doth not long appear; For when 't is most admired, in a thought, Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.

How happy is he born and taught

That serveth not another's will;
Whose armor is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepared for death,

Not tied unto the world with care
Of public fame or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise,
Nor rules of state, but rules of good;
Who hath his life from rumors freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make accusers great;

Who God doth late and early pray

More of his grace than gifts to lend,
And entertains the harmless day

With a well-chosen book or friend,

This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And, having nothing, yet hath all.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

RETRIBUTION.

Ὀψὲ θεῶν ἀλέουσι μύλοι, ἀλέουσι δὲ λεπτά.

("The mills of the gods grind late, but they grind fine.") -Greek Poet.

THOUGH the mills of God grind slowly, yet they

grind exceeding small;

Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all.

From the German of F. VON LOGAU.

Translation of H. W. LONGFELLOW.