Old writers push'd the happy season back,—

The more fools they, we forward: dreamers both :

You most, that in an age, when every hour

Must sweat her sixty minutes to the death,

Live on, God love us, as if the seedsman, rapt
Upon the teeming harvest, should not dip

His hand into the bag: but well I know

That unto him who works, and feels he works,
This same grand year is ever at the doors."

He spoke; and, high above us, I heard them blast
The steep slate-quarry, and the great echo flap
And buffet round the hills from bluff to bluff.

ULYSSES.

Ir little profits that an idle king,

By this still hearth, among these barren c
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and do
Unequal laws unto a savage race,

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with th
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of me
And manners, climates, councils, governmen

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use !

As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me

Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge, like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil

This labour, by slow prudence to make mild

is ne,

Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay

Meet adoration to my household gods When I am gone. He works his work, I

There lies the port: the vessel puffs h There gloom the dark broad seas. My n Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and tho That ever with a frolic welcome took

The thunder and the sunshine, and oppos
Free hearts, free foreheads-you and I ar
Old age hath yet
his honour and his toil;

Death closes all but something ere the e
Some work of noble note, may yet be done
Not unbecoming men that strove with God
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks
The long day wanes: the slow moon climb
Moans round with many voices. Come, m
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite