Eros, graceless Wanton! thou
Wast mine earliest playfellow.
Well I knew thee, roguish Elf!
When an infant like thyself.
And thou still must needs abide
Clinging wilful to my side.

Every other frolic mate
Long has grown to man's estate —
Other childish sports have past,
Other toys aside are cast —
One alone could yet remain;
'Tis the vainest of the vain!

Still this fond and foolish heart
Must enact a childish part,
And in Beauty's Presence still
Feel its wonted boyish thrill.
Chide thee — shun thee as I may,

Last night, in sad and troubled dreams,
Again thy spirit crossed my sleep —
That strange, unquiet slumber seems
No other form to keep.

Methought I wandered forth once more,
Beneath the dying moon's pale face,
And stood, as I have stood before,
At the old trysting-place.

Long watching — but thou cam'st at last,
No longer proud — no longer cold —
And those dear arms were round me cast,
As kindly as of old.

And that dear lip sought gently mine,
In mild and tender accents breaking —
Ah, ! if that dream divine

Mohammed of Arabia, a wise man
Surnamed Kazwini, who was born and lived
And wrote and died in the seventh century
Of the Hegira, in his manuscripts
(As from the lips of the immortal Kidhz)
Tells this strange story of the work of time
And everlasting change, to show the might
Of Nature and the ages, and to mark
The littleness and brief estate of man,
Who calls himself the master of the earth,
And thinks all things therein were made for him.

I, Kidhz, who cannot die, walked forth one day
And saw a city, populous and grand,

Brother ! we left the port of our new birth
At different times; yet hath our coasting been
Along a lovely quarter of the earth,
Where the calm bays are blue, and sea-banks green.
Now, be it cloudy time or shining weather,
Our barks are anchored for a while together.
Somewhat in river mouths have I been taught
With inland winds for teachers, — somewhat too,
Belike less heeded, from old volumes brought
By angel hands to give me nature's clue.
By gentlest incantations round thee thrown,
Come, let me tinge thy spirit with mine own, —

The glow-worm scribblers, of a feeble age,
Pale twinklers of an hour, provoke my rage;
In each dark hedge, we start an insect fire,
Which lives by night , and must at dawn expire.
Yet, such their number , that their specks combine,
And the unthinking vulgar swear they shine .

Poets are prodigies , so greatly rare ,
They seem the tasks of heav'n , and built with care.
Like suns unquench'd, unrival'd, and sublime,
They roll immortal, o'er the wastes of time:
Ages, in vain, close round , and snatch in fame,

This world has many types of loneliness:
The last leaf, fluttering in November's gale;
A widowed bird, that sits and calls in vain;
The empty chair of one we used to love;
A lighthouse beacon on a stormy night;
A vacant bird-cage, whence the song has died;
An autumn rose upon its frosty brier;
A sea-gull, floating in the winter sky;
A sweetheart waiting for a recreant love;
A late star, twinkling faintly into day;
A ship alone upon the trackless sea;
A butterfly, belated in a frost;
A baby's grave upon a western trail;

Were those thine eyes, or lightnings from above
Whose glorious glances dazzled so my sight?
I took them to be lightnings sent from Jove
To threaten that his thunder-bolt would light.
Yet lightning could not be so long, so bright,—
They rather seem'd to be some suns, whose rays
Promov'd to the meridian of their height,
Yet e'en in that their number them betrays:
Suns were they not, the world endures but one;
Their force, their figure, and their colour says
That they were heav'ns—yet heav'ns on earth are none—

Why are your scents so faint, your stems so slight?
Why are your languid leaves outnumbered so
By wealth of bell and blossom? Would ye go
Back to Pacific lands or eastern light
From whence ye came, bringing your juicy powers
To heal and lull? But ailing man hath need
In his sad lot of a botanic creed;
So ye are summoned from your thousand bowers,
Unwilling Congress from the world of flowers!
And now the bard, wise idler, here may pore
O'er the wild learning and the uncouth store
Of studious boyhood's desultory hours,

If the Great Ruler of the worlds should be
Moved to descend from His eternal place,
To veil the awful splendor of His face
And lay aside invisibility,
So that our feeble eyes unblindedly
Might bear the softened glory, by His grace,
How gladly should we hasten to embrace
The privilege of worship at His knee!
From every corner of earth's peopled space,
From every island shouldered by the sea,
How would all souls, of every clime and race,
Gather to pour strong prayer and tremulous plea,
Unuttered now, because we cannot trace

Once more, old friend! — 'tis many a day
Since thus beside me thou didst stand —
For I have been a weary way
Since last I took thy hand;
And journeyed far, yet never known
A face more friendly than thine own.

By the tombstone of Memory
We'll sit, as we were wont to do,
And trace, like Old Mortality,
Each fading line anew.

Canst thou remember all our merry ways,
That now are dead and gone?
Methinks it was right pleasant in those days,
My dear old crony, John!

Once more together we will drink