Here's unto Our Neighbour's health!
O he plays the better part,—
Doing good, but not by stealth:
Is he not a noble heart?

Should you bid me tell his name,
Show wherein his virtues dwell:
'Faith (I speak it to my shame),

I should scarce know what to tell.

"Is he-?" Sir! he is a thing

Cast in common human clay,— 'Tween a beggar and a king,— Fit to order or obey.

"He is then a soldier brave?"
No! he doth not kill his kin,
Pampering the luxurious Grave
With the blood and bones of Sin.

"Or a judge?"

He doth not sit,

Making hucksters' bargains plain ;

Piercing cobwebs with his wit,

Cutting tangled knots in twain.

"He's an Abbot then at least?"

No! he is not proud and blithe, Leaving prayer to humble priest, Whilst he champs the golden tithe.

He is brave, but he is meek,—
Not as judge or soldier seems,
Not like Abbot proud and sleek:
Yet his dreams are starry dreams,—

Such as lit the World of old

Through the darkness of her way;

Such as might, if clearly told,
Guide blind Future into day.

Never hath he sought to rise

On a friend's or neighbour's fall;
Never slurr'd a foe with lies;

Never shrunk from Hunger's call:

But from morning until eve,

And through Autumn into Spring, He hath kept his course (believe !), Courting neither slave nor king.

He, whatever be his name

(For I know it not aright),

He deserves a wider fame.

Come! here's to his health to-night.

BACCHANALIAN.

Sing!-Who sings

To her who weareth a hundred rings?
Ah, who is this lady fine?

The Vine, boys! the Vine!
The mother of mighty Wine.
A roamer is she

O'er wall and tree,

And sometimes very good company.

Drink!-Who drinks

To her who blusheth and never thinks?

Ah, who is this maid of thine?

The Grape, boys! the Grape!
O never let her escape

Until she be turn'd to Wine!

For better is she

Than Vine can be,

And very very good company.

Dream!-Who dreams

Of the God who governs a thousand streams? Ah, who is this Spirit fine?

'Tis Wine, boys! 'tis Wine!

God Bacchus, a friend of mine.
O, better is he

Than Grape or Tree,

And the best of all good company.

SONG.

Let us sing and sigh!

Let us sigh and sing!

Sunny haunts have no such pleasures

As the shadows bring.

Who would seek the crowd,

Who would seek the noon,

That could woo the pale maid Silence
Underneath the moon?

Smiles are things for youth,

Things for a merry rhyme :
But the voice of Pity suiteth
Any mood or time.

I LOVE HIM.

I love him, I dream of him,

I sing of him by day,

And all the night I hear him talk,-
And yet, he's far away.

There's beauty in the morning;

There's sweetness in the May;

There's music in the running stream:
And yet, he's far away.

I love him, I trust in him;
He trusteth me alway:
And so the time flies hopefully,
Although he's far away.

IGNORANCE IS BLISS.

Rains fall, suns shine, winds flee,
Brooks run; yet few know how :
Do not thou too deeply search
Why thou lovest me now!

Perhaps, by some command

Sent earthward from above,

Thy heart was doom'd to lean on mine,
Mine to enjoy thy love.

Why ask when joy doth smile,

From what bright heaven it fell?
Men mar the beauty of their dreams,
Tracing their source too well.

SHE WAS NOT FAIR.

She was not fair, nor full of grace,

Nor crown'd with thought or aught beside, No wealth had she of mind or face, To win our love or raise our pride;

No lover's thought her cheek did touch, No poet's dream was round her thrown : And yet we miss her,―ah! too much, Now she hath flown.

We miss her when the morning calls,
As one that mingled in our mirth;
We miss her when the evening falls,—
A trifle wanted on the earth:

Some fancy small or subtle thought

Is check'd ere to its blossom grown, Some chain is broken that we wrought,Now she hath flown.

No solid good nor hope defined

Is marr'd now she hath sunk in night; And yet the strong immortal Mind

Is stopp'd in its triumphant flight. Stern friend! what power is in a tear, What strength in one poor thought alone, When all we know is-She was here And She hath flown!

THE POET TO HIS WIFE.

How many summers, Love!
Have I been thine?
How many days, thou Dove!

Hast thou been mine?
Time, like the winged wind

When it bends the flowers,

Hath left no mark behind

To count the hours.

Some weight of thought, though loath,

On thee he leaves;

Some lines of care round both

Perhaps he weaves;

Some fears, a soft regret

For joys scarce known;

Sweet looks we half forget:

All else is flown.

Ah! with what thankless heart

I mourn and sing!

Look, where our children start

Like sudden Spring!