A PARTING HEALTH.

TO J. L. MOTLEY.

YES, we knew we must lose him, though friendship

may claim

To blend her green leaves with the laurels of fame;
Though fondly, at parting, we call him our own,
'Tis the whisper of love when the bugle has blown.

As the rider that rests with the spur on his heel,
As the guardsman that sleeps in his corselet of steel, ·
As the archer that stands with his shaft on the string,
He stoops from his toil to the garland we bring.

What pictures yet slumber unborn in his loom,

Till their warriors shall breathe and their beauties shall

bloom,

While the tapestry lengthens the life-glowing dyes

That caught from our sunsets the stain of their skies!

In the alcoves of death, in the charnels of time, Where flit the gaunt spectres of passion and crime, There are triumphs untold, there are martyrs unsung, There are heroes yet silent to speak with his tongue!

Let us hear the proud story which time has bequeathed! From lips that are warm with the freedom they

breathed!

Let him summon its tyrants, and tell us their doom, Though he sweep the black past like Van Tromp with

his broom!

*

The dream flashes by, for the west-winds awake
On pampas, on prairie, o'er mountain and lake,
To bathe the swift bark, like a sea-girdled shrine,
With incense they stole from the rose and the pine.

So fill a bright cup with the sunlight that gushed When the dead summer's jewels were trampled and crushed:

THE TRUE KNIGHT OF LEARNING, the world holds

him dear,

Love bless him, Joy crown him, God speed his career!

1857.

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.

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.