LXXXI.

DIP down upon the northern shore,
O sweet new-year delaying long ;

Thou doest expectant nature wrong, Delaying long, delay no more.

What stays thee from the clouded noons, Thy sweetness from its proper place?

Can trouble live with April days,

Or sadness in the summer moons?

Bring orchis, bring the fox-glove spire,
The little speedwell's darling blue,
Deep tulips dasht with fiery dew,
Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire.

O thou, new-year, delaying long,

Delayest the sorrow in

my blood,

That longs to burst a frozen bud,

And flood a fresher throat with song.

LXXXII.

WHEN I contemplate all alone,

The life that had been thine below,

And fix my thoughts on all the glo To which thy crescent would have grow

I see thee sitting crown'd with good,
A central warmth diffusing bliss

In glance and smile, and clasp and On all the branches of thy blood;

Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine; For now the day was drawing on,

When thou should'st link thy life wit Of mine own house, and boys of thine

Had babbled Uncle' on my knee;
But that remorseless iron hour

Made cypress of her orange flower, Despair of Hope, and earth of thee.

I seem to meet their least desire,

To clap their cheeks, to call them mine.

I see their unborn faces shine

Beside the never-lighted fire.

I see myself an honour'd guest,
Thy partner in the flowery walk
Of letters, genial table-talk,

Or deep dispute, and graceful jest :

While now thy prosperous labour fills

The lips of men with honest praise, And sun by sun the happy days Descend below the golden hills

With promise of a morn as fair;

And all the train of bounteous hours
Conduct by paths of growing powers,

To reverence and the silver hair;

Till slowly worn her earthly robe,

Her lavish mission richly wrought, Leaving great legacies of thought, Thyspirit should fail from off the globe;

What time mine own might also flee, As link'd with thine in love and fa

And, hovering o'er the dolorous st To the other shore, involved in thee,

What reed was that on which I leant?

Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wak The old bitterness again, and break The low beginnings of content.

me in word, and tried in deed, Demanding, so to bring relief

To this which is our common grief, t kind of life is that I lead;

whether trust in things above,

Be dimm'd of sorrow, or sustain'd;

And whether love for him have drain'd

apabilities of love;

words have virtue such as draws

A faithful answer from the breast, Thro' light reproaches, half exprest, oyal unto kindly laws.