Well might he prize truth’s warranty and pledge
  In the grim outcrop of our granite edge,
  Or Hebrew fervor flashing forth at need
  In the gaunt sons of Calvin’s iron breed,
  As prompt to give as skilled to win and keep;
  But, though such intuitions might not cheer,
  Yet life was good to him, and, there or here,
With that sufficing joy, the day was never cheap;
  Thereto his mind was its own ample sphere,
  And, like those buildings great that through the year 400
  Carry one temperature, his nature large
  Made its own climate, nor could any marge
  Traced by convention stay him from his bent: 
  He had a habitude of mountain air;
  He brought wide outlook where he went,
    And could on sunny uplands dwell
  Of prospect sweeter than the pastures fair
    High-hung of viny Neufchatel;
       Nor, surely, did he miss
       Some pale, imaginary bliss
Of earlier sights whose inner landscape still was Swiss. 411

V

1.

  I cannot think he wished so soon to die
  With all his senses full of eager heat,
  And rosy years that stood expectant by
  To buckle the winged sandals on their feet,
  He that was friends with Earth, and all her sweet
  Took with both hands unsparingly: 
  Truly this life is precious to the root,
  And good the feel of grass beneath the foot;
  To lie in buttercups and clover-bloom, 420
    Tenants in common with the bees,
  And watch the white clouds drift through gulfs of trees,
  Is better than long waiting in the tomb;
  Only once more to feel the coming spring
  As the birds feel it, when it bids them sing,
    Only once more to see the moon
  Through leaf-fringed abbey-arches of the elms
    Curve her mild sickle in the West
  Sweet with the breath of haycocks, were a boon
  Worth any promise of soothsayer realms 430
  Or casual hope of being elsewhere blest;
    To take December by the beard
  And crush the creaking snow with springy foot,
  While overhead the North’s dumb streamers shoot,
  Till Winter fawn upon the cheek endeared,
    Then the long evening-ends
    Lingered by cosy chimney-nooks,
  With high companionship of books
    Or slippered talk of friends
    And sweet habitual looks,
Is better than to stop the ears with dust:  441 Too soon the spectre comes to say, ‘Thou must!’

2.

  When toil-crooked hands are crost upon the breast,
    They comfort us with sense of rest;
  They must be glad to lie forever still;
    Their work is ended with their day;
Another fills their room; ’t is the World’s ancient way,
    Whether for good or ill;
  But the deft spinners of the brain,
  Who love each added day and find it gain, 450
    Them overtakes the doom