Even-Song.

It may be, yes, it must be, Time that brings     An end to mortal things,     That sends the beggar Winter in the train     Of Autumn's burdened wain, -     Time, that is heir of all our earthly state,     And knoweth well to wait     Till sea hath turned to shore and shore to sea,     If so it need must be,     Ere he make good his claim and call his own     Old empires overthrown, -     Time, who can find no heavenly orb too large     To hold its fee in charge,     Nor any motes that fill its beam so small,     But he shall care for all, -     It may be, must be, - yes, he soon shall tire     This hand that holds the lyre.     Then ye who listened in that earlier day     When to my careless lay     I matched its chords and stole their first-born thrill,     With untaught rudest skill     Vexing a treble from the slender strings     Thin as the locust sings     When the shrill-crying child of summer's heat     Pipes from its leafy seat,     The dim pavilion of embowering green     Beneath whose shadowy screen     The small sopranist tries his single note     Against the song-bird's throat,     And all the echoes listen, but in vain;     They hear no answering strain, -     Then ye who listened in that earlier day     Shall sadly turn away,     Saying, "The fire burns low, the hearth is cold     That warmed our blood of old;     Cover its embers and its half-burnt brands,     And let us stretch our hands     Over a brighter and fresh-kindled flame;     Lo, this is not the same,     The joyous singer of our morning time,     Flushed high with lusty rhyme!     Speak kindly, for he bears a human heart,     But whisper him apart, -     Tell him the woods their autumn robes have shed     And all their birds have fled,     And shouting winds unbuild the naked nests     They warmed with patient breasts;     Tell him the sky is dark, the summer o'er,     And bid him sing no more!"     Ah, welladay! if words so cruel-kind     A listening ear might find!     But who that hears the music in his soul     Of rhythmic waves that roll     Crested with gleams of fire, and as they flow     Stir all the deeps below     Till the great pearls no calm might ever reach     Leap glistening on the beach, -     Who that has known the passion and the pain,     The rush through heart and brain,     The joy so like a pang his hand is pressed     Hard on his throbbing breast,     When thou, whose smile is life and bliss and fame     Hast set his pulse aflame,     Muse of the lyre! can say farewell to thee?     Alas! and must it be?     In many a clime, in many a stately tongue,     The mighty bards have sung;     To these the immemorial thrones belong     And purple robes of song;     Yet the slight minstrel loves the slender tone     His lips may call his own,     And finds the measure of the verse more sweet,     Timed by his pulse's beat,     Than all the hymnings of the laurelled throng.     Say not I do him wrong,     For Nature spoils her warblers, - them she feeds     In lotus-growing meads     And pours them subtle draughts from haunted streams     That fill their souls with dreams.     Full well I know the gracious mother's wiles     And dear delusive smiles!     No callow fledgling of her singing brood     But tastes that witching food,     And hearing overhead the eagle's wing,     And how the thrushes sing,     Vents his exiguous chirp, and from his nest     Flaps forth - we know the rest.     I own the weakness of the tuneful kind, -     Are not all harpers blind?     I sang too early, must I sing too late?     The lengthening shadows wait     The first pale stars of twilight, - yet how sweet     The flattering whisper's cheat, -     "Thou hast the fire no evening chill can tame,     Whose coals outlast its flame!"     Farewell, ye carols of the laughing morn,     Of earliest sunshine born!     The sower flings the seed and looks not back     Along his furrowed track;     The reaper leaves the stalks for other hands     To gird with circling bands;     The wind, earth's careless servant, truant-born,     Blows clean the beaten corn     And quits the thresher's floor, and goes his way     To sport with ocean's spray;     The headlong-stumbling rivulet scrambling down     To wash the sea-girt town,     Still babbling of the green and billowy waste     Whose salt he longs to taste,     Ere his warm wave its chilling clasp may feel     Has twirled the miller's wheel.     The song has done its task that makes us bold     With secrets else untold, -     And mine has run its errand; through the dews     I tracked the flying Muse;     The daughter of the morning touched my lips     With roseate finger-tips;     Whether I would or would not, I must sing     With the new choirs of spring;     Now, as I watch the fading autumn day     And trill my softened lay,     I think of all that listened, and of one     For whom a brighter sun     Dawned at high summer's noon. Ah, comrades dear,     Are not all gathered here?     Our hearts have answered. - Yes! they hear our call:     All gathered here! all! all!