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Ah! well away! Seasons flower and fade.

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.

Like Hezekiah's, backward runs The shadow of my days.

A smile abroad is often a scowl at home.

And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill.

An' I thowt 'twur the will o' the Lord, but Miss Annie she said it wur draains, For she hedn't naw coomfut in 'er, an' arn'd naw thanks fur 'er paains.

And lives to clutch the golden keys, To mould a mighty state's decrees, And shape the whisper of the throne.

And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet.

In after-dinner talk, Across the walnuts and the wine.

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear.

Some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs.

Well, well, be it so, thou strongest their of all, For thou hast stolen my will, and made it thine.

When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, And rarely pipes the mounted thrush.

First pledge our Queen this solemn night, Then drink to England, every guest; That man's the best Cosmopolite Who knows his native country best.

Their meetings made December June. Their every parting was to die.

Their meetings made December June. Their every parting was to die.

And rolling far along the gloomy shores The voice of days of old and days to be.

Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's pain-- Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain.

Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

All Life needs for life is possible to will.