Iii

1.

Poets, as their heads grow gray, Look from too far behind the eyes, Too long-experienced to be wise In guileless youth's diviner way; Life sings not now, but prophesies; Time's shadows they no more behold, But, under them, the riddle old That mocks, bewilders, and defies: In childhood's face the seed of shame, In the green tree an ambushed flame, In Phosphor a vaunt-guard of Night, They, though against their will, divine, And dread the care-dispelling wine Stored from the Muse's mintage bright, By age imbued with second-sight. From Faith's own eyelids there peeps out, Even as they look, the leer of doubt; The festal wreath their fancy loads With care that whispers and forebodes: Nor this our triumph-day can blunt Megæra's goads.

2.

Murmur of many voices in the air Denounces us degenerate, Unfaithful guardians of a noble fate, And prompts indifference or despair: Is this the country that we dreamed in youth, Where wisdom and not numbers should have weight, Seed-field of simpler manners, braver truth, Where shams should cease to dominate In household, church, and state? Is this Atlantis? This the unpoisoned soil, Sea-whelmed for ages and recovered late, Where parasitic greed no more should coil Bound Freedom's stem to bend awry and blight What grew so fair, sole plant of love and light? Who sit where once in crowned seclusion sate The long-proved athletes of debate Trained from their youth, as none thinks needful now? Is this debating club where boys dispute, And wrangle o'er their stolen fruit, The Senate, erewhile cloister of the few, Where Clay once flashed and Webster's cloudy brow Brooded those bolts of thought that all the horizon knew?

3.

Oh, as this pensive moonlight blurs my pines, Here while I sit and meditate these lines, To gray-green dreams of what they are by day, So would some light, not reason's sharp-edged ray, Trance me in moonshine as before the flight Of years had won me this unwelcome right To see things as they are, or shall he soon, In the frank prose of undissembling noon!

4.

Back to my breast, ungrateful sigh! Whoever fails, whoever errs, The penalty be ours, not hers! The present still seems vulgar, seen too nigh; The golden age is still the age that's past: I ask no drowsy opiate To dull my vision of that only state Founded on faith in man, and therefore sure to last. For, O my country, touched by thee, The gray hairs gather back their gold; Thy thought sets all my pulses free; The heart refuses to be old; The love is all that I can see. Not to thy natal-day belong Time's prudent doubt or age's wrong, But gifts of gratitude and song: Unsummoned crowd the thankful words, As sap in spring-time floods the tree. Foreboding the return of birds, For all that thou hast been to me!