Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of emperors ridiculous.
How rich am I to whom the Orient sends
Such gifts as yonder fair and liberal Day,
Whose argosy o'ersails the mist-bar gray,
And now its shining length of cable spends.
Upon its decks are signal-waving friends,
Who by their every jocund token say:
"Hence from thy spirit put distrust away,
This bountihood thy slackened fortune mends!
We've olives from the soft gray trees of Peace,
And damask apples heaped for thee in sport
By the blithe Hours of young Aurora's court,
And myrrh thy heart in worship to release;
Such freight is thine for Power's and Joy's increase;
Oh, be no longer doubtful,- Day 's in port!"