The Quest

357

ALADDIN

WHEN I was a beggarly boy,
And lived in a cellar damp,
I had not a friend nor a toy,
But I had Aladdin's lamp;
When I could not sleep for the cold,
I had fire enough in my brain,
And builded, with roofs of gold,
My beautiful castles in Spain!

Since then I have toiled day and night,
I have money and power good store,
But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright
For the one that is mine no more.
Take, Fortune, whatever you choose;
You gave, and may snatch again;
I have nothing 'twould pain me to lose,
For I own no more castles in Spain!

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

THE QUEST

It was a heavenly time of life
When first I went to Spain,
The lovely land of silver mists,
The land of golden grain.

My little ship through unknown seas
Sailed many a changing day;
Sometimes the chilling winds came up
And blew across her way;

Sometimes the rain came down and hid
The shining shores of Spain,

The beauty of the silver mists
And of the golden grain.

But through the rains and through the winds,

Upon the untried sea,

My fairy ship sailed on and on,

With all my dreams and me.

And now, no more a child, I long
For that sweet time again,
When on the far horizon bar

Rose up the shores of Spain.

O lovely land of silver mists,
O land of golden grain,

I look for you with smiles, with tears,
But look for you in vain!

Ellen Mackey Hutchinson Cortissoz [18

MY BIRTH-DAY

"My birth-day”—what a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears!
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears!
When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as Youth counts the shining links
That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks

How hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man, and false as vain,

Who said "were he ordained to run His long career of life again,

He would do all that he had done."

Ah, 'tis not thus the voice, that dwells
In sober birth-days, speaks to me;
Far otherwise of time it tells

Lavished unwisely, carelessly;

Of counsel mocked; of talents, made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines;

Sonnet

Of nursing many a wrong desire;

Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor-fire

That crossed my pathway, for a star.
All this it tells, and, could I trace

The imperfect picture o'er again,
With power to add, retouch, efface

The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away-
All-but that Freedom of the Mind,

Which hath been more than wealth to me;
Those friendships, in my boyhood twined,
And kept till now unchangingly;
And that dear home, that saving-ark,

Where Love's true light at last I've found,

Cheering within, when all grows dark,
And comfortless, and stormy round!

359

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

SONNET

ON HIS HAVING ARRIVED TO THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,

But my late spring no bud or blossom shew 'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to manhood am arrived so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endu 'th.
Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow,

It shall be still in strictest measure even

To that same lot, however mean or high,

Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven: All is, if I have grace to use it so,

As ever in my great Task-master's eye.

John Milton [1608-1674]

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH

YEAR

'TIS time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it hath ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze-
A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus-and 'tis not here

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,

Where glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!)

Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood!―unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

Growing Gray

If thou regret 'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honorable death

Is here:-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,

And take thy rest.

361

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

GROWING GRAY

"On a l'age de son cœur."

A. D' HOUDETOT

A LITTLE more toward the light;—

Me miserable! Here's one that's white;
And one that's turning;

Adieu to song and "salad days;"

My Muse, let's go at once to Jay's,
And order mourning.

We must reform our rhymes, my Dear,-
Renounce the gay for the severe,-
Be grave, not witty;

We have, no more, the right to find
That Pyrrha's hair is neatly twined,-
That Chloe's pretty.

Young Love's for us a farce that's played;
Light canzonet and serenade

No more may tempt us;

Gray hairs but ill accord with dreams;
From aught but sour didactic themes
Our years exempt us.

Indeed! you really fancy so?

You think for one white streak we grow
At once satiric?

A fiddlestick! Each hair's a string

To which our ancient Muse shall sing
A younger lyric.