Groups of friends, so old and true,
That they seem our kinsmen
These all merry all together,
Charm away chill Winter weather!
What will kill this dull old fellow?
Ale that's bright, and wine that's mellow!
Dear old songs for ever new;
Some true love, and laughter too;
Pleasant wit, and harmless fun,
And a dance when day is done!
Music friends so true and tried —
Whispered love by warm fireside —
Mirth at all times all together-
Make sweet May of Winter weather!
WHEN chains are rent, God's work is done,
And God's avenged in Freedom won!
To Man that God his image gave,
'Tis wronged - 'tis outraged in a slave.
Therefore it was a righteous deed,
And worthiest of their Christian creed,
To raise upon the simplest sod
Where William Tell had fought or trod
A holy altar unto God!
THE MYSTIC speaks.
It must be that the light divine
That on your soul is pleased to shine
Is other than what falls on mine:
For you can fix and formalize
The Power on which you raise your eyes,
And trace him in his palace-skies;
You can perceive and almost touch
His attributes as such and such,
Almost familiar overmuch.
You can his thoughts and ends display,
In fair historical array,
From Adam to the judgment-day.
You can adjust to time and place
The sweet effusions of his grace,
And feel yourself before his face.
You walk as in some summer night,
With moon or stars serenely bright,
On which you gaze at ease - upright.
But I am like a flower sun-bent,
Exhaling all its life and scent
Beneath the heat omnipotent.
I have not comforts such as you,-
I rather suffer good than do, –
Yet God is my Deliverer too.
I cannot think Him here or there—
I think Him ever everywhere
Unfading light, unstifled air.
I lay a piteous mortal thing,
Yet shadowed by his spirit's wing,
A deathless life could in me spring:
And thence I am, and still must be ;
What matters whether I or He?
Little was there to love in me.
I know no beauty, bliss, or worth,
In that which we call Life on earth,
That we should mourn its loss or dearth:
That we should sorrow for its sake,
If God will the imperfect take
Unto Himself, and perfect make.
O Lord! our separate lives destroy!
Merge in thy gold our soul's alloy,
Pain is our own, and Thou art Joy!
My heart is freighted full of love,
As full as any argosy,
With gems below and gems above,
And ready for the open sea ;
For the wind is blowing summerly.
Full strings of nature's beaded pearl,
Sweet tears! composed in amorous ties
And turkis-lockets, that no churl
Hath fashioned out mechanic-wise,
But all made up of thy blue eyes.
And girdles wove of subtle sound,
And thoughts not trusted to the air,
Of antique mould, — the same as bound,
In Paradise, the primal pair,
Before Love's arts and niceness were.
And carcanets of living sighs;
Gums that have dropped from Love's own stem
And one small jewel most I prize —
The darling gaud of all of them—
I wot, so rare and fine a gem
Ne'er glowed on Eastern anadem.
I've cased the rubies of thy smiles,
In rich and triply-plated gold;
But this no other wealth defiles,
Itself itself can only hold
The stealthy kiss on Maple-wold.
BELIEVE not that your inner eye
Can ever in just measure try
The worth of Hours as they go by;
For every man's weak self, alas!
Makes him to see them, while they pass,
As through a dim or tinted glass;
But if in earnest care you would
Mete out to each its part of good,
Trust rather to your after-mood.
Those surely are not fairly spent,
That leave your spirit bowed and bent
In sad unrest and ill-content:
though free from seeming harm,
You rest from toil of mind or arm,
Or slow retire from Pleasure's charm,
If then a painful sense comes on
Of something wholly lost and gone,
Vainly enjoyed, or vainly done,-
Of something from your being's chain
Broke off, nor to be linked again
By all mere Memory can retain,
Upon your heart this truth may rise,
Nothing that altogether dies
Suffices man's just destinies;
So should we live, that every Hour
May die as dies the natural flower,
A self-reviving thing of power;
That every Thought and every Deed
May hold within itself the seed
Of future good, and future meed;
Esteeming Sorrow, whose employ
Is to develop not destroy,
Far better than a barren Joy.
I WANDERED by the brookside,
I wandered by the mill,
I could not hear the brook flow,
The noisy wheel was still;
There was no burr of grasshopper,
Nor chirp of any bird,
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