Poor Love looked in my face and cried: "No thief were ever yet so bold To rob my quiver at my side. But Time, who rules, gave ear to Gold, And all my goodly shafts are sold."
This poem must be done to-day; Then, I 'll e'en to it. I must not dream my time away,-- I 'm sure to rue it. The day is rather bright, I know The Muse will pardon My half-defection, if I go Into the garden. It must be better working there,-- I 'm sure it's sweeter: And something in the balmy air May clear my metre.
Ah this is noble, what a sky! What breezes blowing! The very clouds, I know not why, Call one to rowing. The stream will be a paradise To-day, I 'll warrant. I know the tide that's on the rise Will seem a torrent; I know just how the leafy boughs Are all a-quiver; I know how many skiffs and scows Are on the river. I think I 'll just go out awhile Before I write it; When Nature shows us such a smile, We should n't slight it. For Nature always makes desire By giving pleasure; And so 't will help me put more fire Into my measure.
The river's fine, I 'm glad I came, That poem 's teasing; But health is better far than fame, Though cheques are pleasing. I don't know what I did it for,-- This air 's a poppy. I 'm sorry for my editor,-- He 'll get no copy!
Long since, in sore distress, I heard one pray, "Lord, who prevailest with resistless might, Ever from war and strife keep me away, My battles fight!"
I know not if I play the Pharisee, And if my brother after all be right; But mine shall be the warrior's plea to thee-- Strength for the fight.
I do not ask that thou shalt front the fray, And drive the warring foeman from my sight; I only ask, O Lord, by night, by day, Strength for the fight!
When foes upon me press, let me not quail Nor think to turn me into coward flight. I only ask, to make mine arms prevail, Strength for the fight!
Still let mine eyes look ever on the foe, Still let mine armor case me strong and bright; And grant me, as I deal each righteous blow, Strength for the fight!
And when, at eventide, the fray is done, My soul to Death's bedchamber do thou light, And give me, be the field or lost or won, Rest from the fight!
With sombre mien, the Evening gray Comes nagging at the heels of Day, And driven faster and still faster Before the dusky-mantled Master, The light fades from her fearful eyes, She hastens, stumbles, falls, and dies.