And nigh to where his bones abide,
The Thames with its unruffled tide
Seems like his genius typified,—­
    Its strength, its grace,
Its lucid gleam, its sober pride,
    Its tranquil pace.

But ah! not his the eventual fate
Which doth the journeying wave await—­
Doomed to resign its limpid state
    And quickly grow
Turbid as passion, dark as hate,
    And wide as woe.

Rather, it may be, over-much
He shunned the common stain and smutch,
From soilure of ignoble touch
    Too grandly free,
Too loftily secure in such
    Cold purity.

But he preserved from chance control
The fortress of his ’stablisht soul;
In all things sought to see the Whole;
    Brooked no disguise;
And set his heart upon the goal,
    Not on the prize.

With those Elect he shall survive
Who seem not to compete or strive,
Yet with the foremost still arrive,
    Prevailing still: 
Spirits with whom the stars connive
    To work their will.

And ye, the baffled many, who,
Dejected, from afar off view
The easily victorious few
    Of calm renown,—­
Have ye not your sad glory too,
    And mournful crown?

Great is the facile conqueror;
Yet haply he, who, wounded sore,
Breathless, unhorsed, all covered o’er
    With blood and sweat,
Sinks foiled, but fighting evermore,—­
    Is greater yet.

THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH

Youth! ere thou be flown away. 
Surely one last boon to-day
    Thou’lt bestow—­
One last light of rapture give,
Rich and lordly fugitive! 
    Ere thou go.

What, thou canst not?  What, all spent? 
All thy spells of ravishment
    Pow’rless now? 
Gone thy magic out of date? 
Gone, all gone that made thee great?—­
    Follow thou!

“Nay, bid me not my cares to leave”

Nay, bid me not my cares to leave,
  Who cannot from their shadow flee. 
I do but win a short reprieve,
  ’Scaping to pleasure and to thee.

I may, at best, a moment’s grace,
  And grant of liberty, obtain;
Respited for a little space,
  To go back into bonds again.

A CHILD’S HAIR

A letter from abroad.  I tear
Its sheathing open, unaware
What treasure gleams within; and there—­
    Like bird from cage—­
Flutters a curl of golden hair
    Out of the page.

From such a frolic head ’twas shorn! 
(’Tis but five years since he was born.)
Not sunlight scampering over corn
    Were merrier thing. 
A child?  A fragment of the morn,
    A piece of Spring!

Surely an ampler, fuller day
Than drapes our English skies with grey—­
A deeper light, a richer ray
    Than here we know—­
To this bright tress have given away
    Their living glow.