To Henry Robertson, John Gattie, and Vincent Novello, Not Keeping Their Appointed Hour

Harry, my friend, who full of tasteful glee,
Have music all about you, heart and lips ;
And, John, whose voice is like a rill that slips
Over the sunny pebbles breathingly ;
And, Vincent, you, who with like mastery
Can chase the notes with fluttering finger-tips,
Like fairies down a hill hurrying their trips.
Or sway the organ with firm royalty ;

Why stop ye on the road ? The day, 'tis true,
Shows us as in a diamond all things clear.
And makes the hill-surmounting eye rejoice,
Doubling the earthly green, the heavenly blue ;
But come, complete the charm of such a sphere,
And give the beauty of the day a voice.