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PESSIMOPTIMISM.

THE EYE'S TREASURY.

GOLD of the reddening sunset, backward thrown

In largess on my tall paternal trees, Thou with false hope or fear didst never

tease

His heart that hoards thee; nor is childhood flown

From him whose life no fairer boon hath known

Than that what pleased him earliest still should please.

And who hath incomes safe from chance as these,

Gone in a moment, yet for life his own? All other gold is slave of earthward laws;

This to the deeps of ether takes its flight, And on the topmost leaves makes glorious pause

Of parting pathos ere it yield to night: So linger, as from me earth's light withdraws, Dear touch of Nature, tremulously bright!

TO A LADY PLAYING ON THE CITHERN.

So dreamy-soft the notes, so far away They seem to fall, the horns of Oberon Blow their faint Hunt's-up from the good-time gone;

Or, on a morning of long-withered May, Larks tinkle unseen o'er Claudian arches

gray,

That Romeward crawl from Dreamland; and anon

My fancy flings her cloak of Darkness

on,

To vanish from the dungeon of To-day. In happier times and scenes I seem to be,

And, as her fingers flutter o'er the strings,

The days return when I was young as she,

And my fledged thoughts began to feel their wings

PESSIMOPTIMISM.

YE little think what toil it was to build A world of men imperfect even as this, Where we conceive of Good by what we miss,

Of Ill by that wherewith best days are filled;

A world whose every atom is self-willed, Whose corner-stone is propt on artifice, Whose joy is shorter-lived than woman's kiss,

Whose wisdom hoarded is but to be spilled.

Yet this is better than a life of caves, Whose highest art was scratching on a bone,

Or chipping toilsome arrowheads of flint; Better, though doomed to hear while Cleon raves,

To see wit's want eterned in paint or stone, wade the drain-drenched shoals of daily print.

And

THE BRAKES.

WHAT countless years and wealth of brain were spent

To bring us hither from our caves and huts,

And trace through pathless wilds the deep-worn ruts

Of faith and habit, by whose deep indent Prudence may guide if genius be not lent,

Genius, not always happy when it shuts Its ears against the plodder's ifs and buts,

Hoping in one rash leap to snatch the

event.

The coursers of the sun, whose hoofs of flame

Consume morn's misty threshold, are

exact

As bankers' clerks, and all this starpoised frame,

One swerve allowed, were with convulsion rackt;

This world were doomed, should Dulness

A FOREBODING.

WHAT were the whole void world, if thou wert dead,

Whose briefest absence can eclipse my day,

And make the hours that danced with Time away

Drag their funereal steps with muffled head?

Through thee, meseems, the very rose is red,

From thee the violet steals its breath in May,

From thee draw life all things that grow not gray,

And by thy force the happy stars are sped.

Thou near, the hope of thee to overflow Fills all my earth and heaven, as when in Spring,

Ere April come, the birds and blossoms know,

And grasses brighten round her feet to cling;

fail, to tame

UNDER THE OCTOBER MAPLES.

WHAT mean these banners spread,
These paths with royal red
So gaily carpeted?
Comes there a prince to-day?
Such footing were too fine
For feet less argentine
Than Dian's own or thine,
Queen whom my tides obey.

Surely for thee are meant
These hues so orient
That with a sultan's tent
Each tree invites the sun;
Our Earth such homage pays,
So decks her dusty ways,
And keeps such holidays,
For one, and only one.

My brain shapes form and face,
Throbs with the rhythmic grace
And cadence of her pace
To all fine instincts true;
Her footsteps, as they pass,
Than moonbeams over grass
Fall lighter, and, alas,
More insubstantial too!

ELEANOR MAKES MACAROONS.

LIGHT of triumph in her eyes,
Eleanor her apron ties;
As she pushes back her sleeves,
High resolve her bosom heaves.
Hasten, cook! impel the fire
To the pace of her desire;
As you hope to save your soul,
Bring a virgin casserole,

Brightest bring of silver spoons,
Eleanor makes macaroons!