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Adieu, Rydalian Laurels! That Have Grown

William Wordsworth

Adieu, Rydalian Laurels! that have grown And spread as if ye knew that days might come When ye would shelter in a happy home, On this fair Mount, a Poet of your own, One who ne'er ventured for a Delphic crown To sue the God; but, haunting your green shade All seasons through, is humbly pleased to braid Ground-flowers, beneath your guardianship, self-sown. Farewell! no Minstrels now with harp new-strung For summer wandering quit their household bowers; Yet not for this wants Poesy a tongue To cheer the Itinerant on whom she pours Her spirit, while he crosses lonely moors, Or musing sits forsaken halls among.

The Doom Of The Esquire Bedell.

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

Adown the torturing mile of street I mark him come and go, Thread in and out with tireless feet The crossings to and fro; A soul that treads without retreat A labyrinth of woe. Palsied with awe of such despair, All living things give room, They flit before his sightless glare As horrid shapes, that loom And shriek the curse that bids him bear The symbol of his doom. The very stones are coals that bake And scorch his fevered skin; A fire no hissing hail may slake Consumes his heart within. Still must he hasten on to rake The furnace of his sin. Still forward! forward!    For he feels Fierce claws that pluck his breast, And blindly beckon as he reels Upon his awful quest: For there is that behind his heels Knows neither ruth nor rest. The fiends in hell have flung the dice; The destinies depend On feet that run for fearful price, And fangs that gape to rend; And still the footsteps of his Vice Pursue him to the end:-- The feet of his incarnate Vice Shall dog him to the end.

Adua

Paul Cameron Brown

Adua had never regarded his life as a pantomime. He wanted so much to please. As a dandelion, he thought of himself as little brother to the sun catching her yellow butter in his eyes. It came as no small surprise, then, when Adua learned of the world's misgivings toward him. Other flowers, far less nobly constructed, seemed held in such greater esteem. The first shred of evidence of this that Adua was indeed not a bountiful plant came when cattle distained his presence. Later, a smelly herbicide was used in his presence and Adua knew all was not well. Most discomforting, however, was the manner in which other flowers measured up in comparison to Adua. Even flowers that Adua considered quite ordinary seemed, tongue in cheek, to fare much more prettily. "Adua, Adua as the wind blows so do the poppies grow." Somehow, Adua heard that refrain while nodding his head in the summer heat. He had grown accustomed to the red blotches that spilled their colour so near to his own colony. To him, their mauve crimsons were gaudy, a shrieking red quite unlike his gentle yellow nectar. He was feeling quite smug that, at least compared to that recluse, his kind were visibly better. But then, proximity to the poppy family started him thinking. Firstly, unlike his brothers, the poppies were well tended. A dutiful human watered and caressed the plants commenting on the fullness of the pod and the grandeur of their petals. Yet, all Adua could see was a lot of goitered looking droopy herbage. As time went on, it became painfully obvious that the big house and her attendants had established clearly a floral arrangement that did not include dandelions. Adua grudgingly admitted some of his cousins, in careful manicured garden beds, deserved their swooning praise. But not, not the poppies. Why, they were not even solid North Americans like himself. They had no native roots in the solid soil of his pastureland. The poppy was an Oriental import, too foreign to be assimilated. And what of its reputation for buccaneering. In some countries it was illegal even to grow them! Wasn't it worse than the demon weed since its seeds carried the substance necessary for narcotics? Surely, anything brewed of opium should be shunned in real life. Convinced of his moral superiority, Adua could at least comfort himself with the realization his breed was of a fine upstanding kind, even if reduced by circumstance to humble origins. His kind went about their business peacefully enough. As summer ripened into fall after all dandelions had long stopped blooming, Adua was content to pass his declining months as a stringy plant. It was then Adua came to learn more painful truths stalked the earth. Other flowers were plucked for corsages, arrayed in stately carriages for banquets, had toasts drunk to them and found themselves into the hair of pretty maidens. The most Adua had ever seen his dandelions construed for in the spring was a mere ringlet chain. True, hardy souls brewed a concoction of dandelion wine but what good was that if it was rebuked with taunts of "too bitter," or "how crass,"? As the cold winds licked about him, gone were the memories of his tussled gold headdress worn a season ago. He was about to commandeer the last of his strength before frost demanded his shop close for the winter. Through progeny produced months before, his kind would spend the cold in tolerable warmth as a seed. Germination was such a marvelous adventure. And what of poppy'? Instead of feeling that burst of speed and sense of the unknown flitting across creation as he had like a parachutist ages ago, her brood had to stay bundled up in a pod. How dull, thought Adua. Then, as Adua prepared to tuck himself in for the winter, life handed him but one more setback. It was nearing the eleventh of November, and a curious custom was presenting itself. To be sure, Adua had seen real flowers adorn lapels of both men and women as well as bridal wreathes of the most exquisite colours. Yet, never had he seen a poppy, living or otherwise, at the centre of adoration. He was mortified now to see imitation ones worn as a symbol of remembrance, John MacRae notwithstanding. How could she symbolize the dead of Canadian wars when he, Adua, was a native son? Why, if you wanted to get technical about it, even his name contained reference to a lion and to his mind that meant courage. He was perplexed to see how Britain, with all her reliance on that beast, had not seen fit to incorporate his kind as the founding race should have done into her coat of arms. The Scots had their order of the garter and a thistle, of all things, was emblematic to that northerly land. Why not a dandelion even if it were a bit of a dandy all dressed in that, shudder, colour of cowardice, yellow'? People were so emotional choosing a red flower simply because its colour reminded them of shed blood. Adua was hurt to the quick and could bring no comfort to himself either in hope of future aerial flights or the prospect of his greens being eaten next season as tasty helpings. There was nothing to do but sport a brown coat, suggestive of the treatment the world had seen to give him.

Workworn

Emily Pauline Johnson

Across the street, an humble woman lives; To her 'tis little fortune ever gives; Denied the wines of life, it puzzles me To know how she can laugh so cheerily. This morn I listened to her softly sing, And, marvelling what this effect could bring I looked: 'twas but the presence of a child Who passed her gate, and looking in, had smiled. But self-encrusted, I had failed to see The child had also looked and laughed to me. My lowly neighbour thought the smile God-sent, And singing, through the toilsome hours she went. O! weary singer, I have learned the wrong Of taking gifts, and giving naught of song; I thought my blessings scant, my mercies few, Till I contrasted them with yours, and you; To-day I counted much, yet wished it more - While but a child's bright smile was all your store, If I had thought of all the stormy days, That fill some lives that tread less favoured ways, How little sunshine through their shadows gleamed, My own dull life had much the brighter seemed; If I had thought of all the eyes that weep Through desolation, and still smiling keep, That see so little pleasure, so much woe, My own had laughed more often long ago; If I had thought how leaden was the weight Adversity lays at my kinsman's gate, Of that great cross my next door neighbour bears, My thanks had been more frequent in my prayers; If I had watched the woman o'er the way, Workworn and old, who labours day by day, Who has no rest, no joy to call her own, My tasks, my heart, had much the lighter grown.

The Ballad Of The Drover

Henry Lawson

Across the stony ridges, Across the rolling plain, Young Harry Dale, the drover, Comes riding home again. And well his stock-horse bears him, And light of heart is he, And stoutly his old pack-horse Is trotting by his knee. Up Queensland way with cattle He travelled regions vast; And many months have vanished Since home-folk saw him last. He hums a song of someone He hopes to marry soon; And hobble-chains and camp-ware Keep jingling to the tune. Beyond the hazy dado Against the lower skies And yon blue line of ranges The homestead station lies. And thitherward the drover Jogs through the lazy noon, While hobble-chains and camp-ware Are jingling to a tune. An hour has filled the heavens With storm-clouds inky black; At times the lightning trickles Around the drover's track; But Harry pushes onward, His horses' strength he tries, In hope to reach the river Before the flood shall rise. The thunder from above him Goes rolling o'er the plain; And down on thirsty pastures In torrents falls the rain. And every creek and gully Sends forth its little flood, Till the river runs a banker, All stained with yellow mud. Now Harry speaks to Rover, The best dog on the plains, And to his hardy horses, And strokes their shaggy manes; 'We've breasted bigger rivers When floods were at their height Nor shall this gutter stop us From getting home to-night!' The thunder growls a warning, The ghastly lightnings gleam, As the drover turns his horses To swim the fatal stream. But, oh! the flood runs stronger Than e'er it ran before; The saddle-horse is failing, And only half-way o'er! When flashes next the lightning, The flood's grey breast is blank, And a cattle dog and pack-horse Are struggling up the bank. But in the lonely homestead The girl will wait in vain, He'll never pass the stations In charge of stock again. The faithful dog a moment Sits panting on the bank, And then swims through the current To where his master sank. And round and round in circles He fights with failing strength, Till, borne down by the waters, The old dog sinks at length. Across the flooded lowlands And slopes of sodden loam The pack-horse struggles onward, To take dumb tidings home. And mud-stained, wet, and weary, Through ranges dark goes he; While hobble-chains and tinware Are sounding eerily. .        .        .        .        . The floods are in the ocean, The stream is clear again, And now a verdant carpet Is stretched across the plain. But someone's eyes are saddened, And someone's heart still bleeds In sorrow for the drover Who sleeps among the reeds.

Adieu To A Solider

Walt Whitman

Adieu, O soldier! You of the rude campaigning, (which we shared,) The rapid march, the life of the camp, The hot contention of opposing fronts--the long manoeuver, Red battles with their slaughter,--the stimulus--the strong, terrific game, Spell of all brave and manly hearts--the trains of Time through you, and like of you, all fill'd, With war, and war's expression. Adieu, dear comrade! Your mission is fulfill'd--but I, more warlike, Myself, and this contentious soul of mine, Still on our own campaigning bound, Through untried roads, with ambushes, opponents lined, Through many a sharp defeat and many a crisis--often baffled, Here marching, ever marching on, a war fight out--aye here, To fiercer, weightier battles give expression.

An Autumn Walk.

W. M. MacKeracher

Adown the track that skirts the shallow stream I wandered with blank mind; a bypath drew My aimless steps aside, and, ere I knew, The forest closed around me like a dream. The gold-strewn sward, the horizontal gleam Of the low sun, pouring its splendors through The far-withdrawing vistas, filled the view, And everlasting beauty was supreme. I knew not past or future; 'twas a mood Transcending time and taking in the whole. I was both young and old; my lost childhood, Years yet unlived, were gathered round one goal; And death was there familiar. Long I stood, And in eternity renewed my soul.

To O-, Of Her Dark Eyes

Alice Christiana Gertrude Thompson Meynell

Across what calm of tropic seas, 'Neath alien clusters of the nights, Looked, in the past, such eyes as these? Long-quenched, relumed, ancestral lights! The generations fostered them; And steadfast Nature, secretwise- Thou seedling child of that old stem- Kindled anew thy dark-bright eyes. Was it a century or two This lovely darkness rose and set, Occluded by grey eyes and blue, And Nature feigning to forget? Some grandam gave a hint of it- So cherished was it in thy race, So fine a treasure to transmit In its perfection to thy face. Some father to some mother's breast Entrusted it, unknowing.    Time Implied, or made it manifest, Bequest of a forgotten clime. Hereditary eyes!    But this Is single, singular, apart:- New-made thy love, new-made thy kiss, New-made thy errand to my heart.

The Christ-Child

Thomas O'Hagan

Across the waste, across the snow, O the pity!    O the pity! Past sentinel of friend and foe O the pity!    O the pity! Comes the Christ-Child clad in white Through the storm-clouds of the night. Bearing in His lily hands Gift of peace to warring lands, O the pity!    O the pity! "Adeste fideles!" sing the choirs O the pity!    O the pity! Lurid flame the battle fires O the pity!    O the pity! Shepherds hear the heavenly song, Mid the strife and piteous wrong; Peace on earth but not of men, Peace that knows not crime nor sin. O the pity!    O the pity! Lay your sceptres at His feet, O the pity!    O the pity! Christ, the Babe of Bethlehem, greet, O the pity!    O the pity! Legions stretched in battle line, Saw the star and knew the sign, Yet forgot that Christ was born Prince of Peace, on Christmas morn, O the pity!    O the pity! Christmas, 1914. For Mrs. George McIntyre.

T.Y.S.O.N.

Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Across the Queensland border line The mobs of cattle go; They travel down in sun and shine On dusty stage, and slow. The drovers, riding slowly on To let the cattle spread, Will say: "Here's one old landmark gone, For old man Tyson's dead." What tales there'll be in every camp By men that Tyson knew! The swagmen, meeting on the tramp, Will yarn the long day through, And tell of how he passed as "Brown", And fooled the local men: "But not for me, I struck the town, And passed the message further down; That's T.Y.S.O.N.!" There stands a little country town Beyond the border line, Where dusty roads go up and down, And banks with pubs combine. A stranger came to cash a cheque, Few were the words he said, A handkerchief about his neck, An old hat on his head. A long grey stranger, eagle-eyed, "Know me? Of course you do?" "It's not my work," the boss replied, "To know such tramps as you." "Well, look here, Mister, don't be flash," Replied the stranger then, "I never care to make a splash, I'm simple, but I've got the cash; I'm T.Y.S.O.N." But in that last great drafting-yard, Where Peter keeps the gate, And souls of sinners find it barred, And go to meet their fate, There's one who ought to enter in For good deeds done on earth, One who from Peter's self must win That meed of sterling worth. Not to the strait and narrow gate Reserved for wealthy men, But to the big gate, opened wide, The grizzled figure, eagle-eyed, Will saunter up, and then Old Peter'll say: "Let's pass him through; There's many a thing he used to do, Good-hearted things that no one knew; That's T.Y.S.O.N."

Ballad Of The Drover

Henry Lawson

Across the stony ridges, Across the rolling plain, Young Harry Dale, the drover, Comes riding home again. And well his stock-horse bears him, And light of heart is he, And stoutly his old pack-horse Is trotting by his knee. Up Queensland way with cattle He travelled regions vast; And many months have vanished Since home-folk saw him last. He hums a song of someone He hopes to marry soon; And hobble-chains and camp-ware Keep jingling to the tune. Beyond the hazy dado Against the lower skies And yon blue line of ranges The homestead station lies. And thitherward the drover Jogs through the lazy noon, While hobble-chains and camp-ware Are jingling to a tune. An hour has filled the heavens With storm-clouds inky black; At times the lightning trickles Around the drover's track; But Harry pushes onward, His horses' strength he tries, In hope to reach the river Before the flood shall rise. The thunder from above him Goes rolling o'er the plain; And down on thirsty pastures In torrents falls the rain. And every creek and gully Sends forth its little flood, Till the river runs a banker, All stained with yellow mud. Now Harry speaks to Rover, The best dog on the plains, And to his hardy horses, And strokes their shaggy manes; `We've breasted bigger rivers When floods were at their height Nor shall this gutter stop us From getting home to-night!' The thunder growls a warning, The ghastly lightnings gleam, As the drover turns his horses To swim the fatal stream. But, oh! the flood runs stronger Than e'er it ran before; The saddle-horse is failing, And only half-way o'er! When flashes next the lightning, The flood's grey breast is blank, And a cattle dog and pack-horse Are struggling up the bank. But in the lonely homestead The girl will wait in vain, He'll never pass the stations In charge of stock again. The faithful dog a moment Sits panting on the bank, And then swims through the current To where his master sank. And round and round in circles He fights with failing strength, Till, borne down by the waters, The old dog sinks at length. Across the flooded lowlands And slopes of sodden loam The pack-horse struggles onward, To take dumb tidings home. And mud-stained, wet, and weary, Through ranges dark goes he; While hobble-chains and tinware Are sounding eerily. The floods are in the ocean, The stream is clear again, And now a verdant carpet Is stretched across the plain. But someone's eyes are saddened, And someone's heart still bleeds In sorrow for the drover Who sleeps among the reeds.

A Memory

Abram Joseph Ryan

Adown the valley dripped a stream, White lilies drooped on either side; Our hearts, in spite of us, will dream In such a place at eventide. Bright wavelets wove the scarf of blue That well became the valley fair, And grassy fringe of greenest hue Hung round its borders everywhere. And where the stream, in wayward whirls, Went winding in and winding out, Lay shells, that wore the look of pearls Without their pride, all strewn about. And here and there along the strand, Where some ambitious wave had strayed, Rose little monuments of sand As frail as those by mortals made. And many a flower was blooming there In beauty, yet without a name, Like humble hearts that often bear The gifts, but not the palm of fame. The rainbow's tints could never vie With all the colors that they wore; While bluer than the bluest sky The stream flowed on 'tween shore and shore. And on the height, and down the side Of either hill that hid the place, Rose elms in all the stately pride Of youthful strength and ancient race. While here and there the trees between -- Bearing the scars of battle-shocks, And frowning wrathful -- might be seen The moss-veiled faces of the rocks. And round the rocks crept flowered vines, And clomb the trees that towered high -- The type of a lofty thought that twines Around a truth -- to touch the sky. And to that vale, from first of May Until the last of August went, Beauty, the exile, came each day In all her charms, to cast her tent. 'Twas there, one long-gone August day, I wandered down the valley fair: The spell has never passed away That fell upon my spirit there. The summer sunset glorified The clouded face of dying day, Which flung a smile upon the tide And lilies, ere he passed away. And o'er the valley's grassy slopes There fell an evanescent sheen, That flashed and faded, like the hopes That haunt us of what might have been. And rock and tree flung back the light Of all the sunset's golden gems, As if it were beneath their right To wear such borrowed diadems. Low in the west gleam after gleam Glowed faint and fainter, till the last Made the dying day a living dream, To last as long as life shall last. And in the arches of the trees The wild birds slept with folded wing; And e'en the lips of the summer breeze That sang all day, had ceased to sing. And all was silent, save the rill That rippled round the lilies' feet, And sang, while stillness grew more still To listen to the murmur sweet. And now and then it surely seemed The little stream was laughing low, As if its sleepy wavelets dreamed Such dreams as only children know. So still that not the faintest breath Did stir the shadows in the air; It would have seemed the home of Death, Had I not felt Life sleeping there. And slow and soft, and soft and slow, From darkling earth and darkened sky Wide wings of gloom waved to and fro, And spectral shadows flitted by. And then, methought, upon the sward I saw -- or was it starlight's ray? Or angels come to watch and guard The valley till the dawn of day? Is every lower life the ward Of spirits more divinely wrought? 'Tis sweet to believe 'tis God's, and hard To think 'tis but a poet's thought. But God's or poet's thought, I ween, My senses did not fail me when I saw veiled angels watch that scene And guard its sleep, as they guard men. Sweet sang the stream as on it pressed, As sorrow sings a heart to sleep; As a mother sings one child to rest, And for the dead one still will weep. I walked adown the singing stream, The lilies slept on either side; My heart -- it could not help but dream At eve, and after eventide. Ah! dreams of such a lofty reach With more than earthly fancies fraught, That not the strongest wings of speech Could ever touch their lowest thought. Dreams of the Bright, the Fair, the Far -- Heart-fancies flashing Heaven's hue -- That swept around, as sweeps a star The boundless orbit of the True. Yea! dreams all free from earthly taint, Where human passion played no part, As pure as thoughts that thrill a saint, Or hunt an archangelic heart. Ah! dreams that did not rise from sense, And rose too high to stoop to it, And framed aloft like frankincense In censers round the infinite. Yea! dreams that vied with angels' flight! And, soaring, bore my heart away Beyond the far star-bounds of night, Unto the everlasting day. How long I strolled beside the stream I do not know, nor may I say; But when the poet ceased to dream The priest went on his knees to pray. I felt as sure a seraph feels When in some golden hour of grace God smiles, and suddenly reveals A new, strange glory in His face. Ah! starlit valley!    Lilies white! The poet dreamed -- ye slumbered deep! But when the priest knelt down that night And prayed, why woke ye from your sleep? *        *        *        *        * The stream sang down the valley fair, I saw the wakened lilies nod, I knew they heard me whisper there, "How beautiful art Thou, my God!"

The Thrush

Fay Inchfawn

Across the land came a magic word When the earth was bare and lonely, And I sit and sing of the joyous spring, For 'twas I who heard, I only! Then dreams came by, of the gladsome days, Of many a wayside posy; For a crocus peeps where the wild rose sleeps, And the willow wands are rosy! Oh! the time to be! When the paths are green, When the primrose-gold is lying 'Neath the hazel spray, where the catkins sway, And the dear south wind comes sighing. My mate and I, we shall build a nest, So snug and warm and cosy, When the kingcups gleam on the meadow stream, Where the willow wands are rosy!

The Patchwork Bonnet

Robert von Ranke Graves

Across the room my silent love I throw, Where you sit sewing in bed by candlelight, Your young stern profile and industrious fingers Displayed against the blind in a shadow-show, To Dinda's grave delight. The needle dips and pokes, the cheerful thread Runs after, follow-my-leader down the seam: The patchwork pieces cry for joy together, O soon to sit as a crown on Dinda's head, Fulfilment of their dream. Snippets and odd ends folded by, forgotten, With camphor on a top shelf, hard to find, Now wake to this most happy resurrection, To Dinda playing toss with a reel of cotton And staring at the blind. Dinda in sing-song stretching out one hand Calls for the playthings; mother does not hear: Her mind sails far away on a patchwork Ocean, And all the world must wait till she touches land; So Dinda cries in fear, Then Mother turns, laughing like a young fairy, And Dinda smiles to see her look so kind, Calls out again for playthings, playthings, playthings; And now the shadows make an Umbrian Mary Adoring, on the blind.

Adown Winding Nith.

Robert Burns

I. Adown winding Nith I did wander, To mark the sweet flowers as they spring; Adown winding Nith I did wander, Of Phillis to muse and to sing. Awa wi' your belles and your beauties, They never wi' her can compare: Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. II. The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, So artless, so simple, so wild; Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, For she is simplicity's child. III. The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer, Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest: How fair and how pure is the lily, But fairer and purer her breast. IV. Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie: Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine, Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. V. Her voice is the song of the morning, That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove, When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, On music, and pleasure, and love. VI. But beauty how frail and how fleeting, The bloom of a fine summer's day! While worth in the mind o' my Phillis Will flourish without a decay. Awa wi' your belles and your beauties, They never wi' her can compare: Whaever has met wi' my Phillis Has met wi' the queen o' the fair.

To My Valentine.

Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)

Adieu! Adieu! may angels guard thee, Hovering near thee night and day, For all thy good deeds God reward thee, The rest forgive and blot away. May no gift nor grace be missing, May He all on thee confer, And add a heartfelt prayer and blessing From the distant wanderer. O'er the trackless, foaming ocean, In weal or woe, ever shall be Mingled in my heart's devotion Many a prayer for thine and thee. What tho' across thy memory never Shall flit my once familiar name, Hallowed by distance, thine for ever, Memory shall conjure up again. All thy follies ever hidden, All thy virtues raised above, Thy name, so long, so much forbidden, Strangers shall learn from me to love. Adieu! and may we meet in heaven, Through Him, the Lord, who guides our ways; And he to whom much was forgiven, Shall swell the highest notes of praise.

The Farewell Of Clarimonde.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

(Suggested by the "Clarimonde" OF Th'ophile Gautier.) Adieu, Romauld! But thou canst not forget me. Although no more I haunt thy dreams at night, Thy hungering heart forever must regret me, And starve for those lost moments of delight. Naught shall avail thy priestly rites and duties, Nor fears of Hell, nor hopes of Heaven beyond: Before the Cross shall rise my fair form's beauties - - The lips, the limbs, the eyes of Clarimonde. Like gall the wine sipped from the sacred chalice Shall taste to one who knew my red mouth's bliss, When Youth and Beauty dwelt in Love's own palace, And life flowed on in one eternal kiss. Through what strange ways I come, dear heart, to reach thee, From viewless lands, by paths no man e'er trod! I braved all fears, all dangers dared, to teach thee A love more mighty than thy love of God. Think not in all His Kingdom to discover Such joys, Romauld, as ours, when fierce yet fond I clasped thee - kissed thee - crowned thee my one lover: Thou canst not find another Clarimonde. I knew all arts of love: he who possessed me Possessed all women, and could never tire; A new life dawned for him who once caressed me; Satiety itself I set on fire. Inconstancy I chained: men died to win me; Kings cast by crowns for one hour on my breast: And all the passionate tide of love within me I gave to thee, Romauld. Wert thou not blest? Yet, for the love of God, thy hand hath riven Our welded souls. But not in prayer well conned, Not in thy dearly-purchased peace of Heaven, Canst thou forget those hours with Clarimonde.

Horatian Ode On The Tercentenary Of "Don Quixote"

Henry Austin Dobson

(Published at Madrid, by Francisco de Robles, January 1605) "Para mi sola nacio don Quixote, y yo para el."--CERVANTES. Advents we greet of great and small; Much we extol that may not live; Yet to the new-born Type we give No care at all! This year,[1]--three centuries past,--by age More maimed than by LEPANTO'S fight,-- This year CERVANTES gave to light His matchless page, Whence first outrode th' immortal Pair,-- The half-crazed Hero and his hind,-- To make sad laughter for mankind; And whence they fare Throughout all Fiction still, where chance Allies Life's dulness with its dreams-- Allies what is, with what but seems,-- Fact and Romance:-- O Knight of fire and Squire of earth!-- O changing give-and-take between The aim too high, the aim too mean, I hail your birth,-- Three centuries past,--in sunburned SPAIN, And hang, on Time's PANTHEON wall, My votive tablet to recall That lasting gain!

Adieu To Belshanny

William Allingham

Adieu to Belashanny! where I was bred and born; Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn. The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known, And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own; There's not a house or window, there's not a field or hill, But, east or west, in foreign lands, I recollect them still. I leave my warm heart with you, tho' my back I'm forced to turn Adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne! No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter down the Mall, When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon to the fall. The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily she creeps, Cast off, cast off, she feels the oars, and to her berth she sweeps; Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gathering up the clew. Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew. Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit, and many a joke and 'yarn' Adieu to Belashanny; and the winding banks of Erne! The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the tide, When all the green-hill'd harbour is full from side to side, From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round the Abbey Bay, From rocky inis saimer to Coolnargit sand-hills gray; While far upon the southern line, to guard it like a wall, The Leitrim mountains clothed in blue gaze calmly over all, And watch the ship sail up or down, the red flag at her stern Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding banks of Erne! Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them that pull on oar, A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mullaghmore; From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League, that ocean-Mountain steep, Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred in the deep, From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by Tullen Strand, Level and long, and white with waves, where gull and Curlew stand; Head out to sea when on your lee the breakers you Discern! Adieu to all the billowy coast, and winding banks ofErne! Farewell, Coolmore, Bundoran! And your summercrowds that run From inland homes to see with joy th'Atlantic-setting sun; To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the waves; To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the gloomy caves; To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the crabs, The fish; Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a tender wish; The sick and old in search of health, for all things have their turn And I must quit my native shore, and the winding banks of Erne! Farewell to every white cascade from the Harbour to Belleek And every pool where fins may rest, and ivy-shaded creek; The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash and holly grow, The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving flood below; The Lough, that winds through islands under Turaw mountain green; And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods, with tranquil bays between; And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among the heath and fern For I must say adieu-adieu to the winding banks of Erne! The thrush will call through Camlin groves the live- long summer day; The waters run by mossy cliff, and banks with wild flowers gay; The girls will bring their work and sing beneath a twisted thorn, Or stray with sweethearts down the path among growing corn; Along the river-side they go, where I have often been, O never shall I see again the days that I have seen! A thousand chances are to one I never may return Adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne! Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbours meet, And the fiddle says to boys and girls, "Get up shake your feet!" To 'shanachus' and wise old talk of Erin's gone by, Who trench'd the rath on such a hill, and where the bones may lie Of saint, or king, or warrior chief; with tales of fairy power, And tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the twilight hour. The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn Adieu, my dear companions on the winding banks of Erne! Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Purt, Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather, I wish no one any hurt; The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane, the Mall,and Portnasun, If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one. I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me; For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the sea. My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often fondly turn To think of Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne. If ever I'm a money'd man, I mean, please God, to cast My golden anchor in the place where youthful years were pass'd; Though heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather gray, New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop away Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside; It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waters wide. And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return To my native Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne.

A Memory

Barcroft Boake

Adown the grass-grown paths we strayed, The evening cowslips ope'd Their yellow eyes to look at her, The love-sick lilies moped With envy that she rather chose To take a creamy-petalled rose And lean it 'gainst her ebon hair, All in that garden fair. A languid breeze, with stolen scent Of box-bloom in his grasp, Sighed out his longing in her ear, And with his dying gasp Scattered the perfume at her feet To blend with others not less sweet; He loved her, but she did not care, All in that garden fair. The rose she honoured nodded down, His comrades burst with spite: Poor fool! he knew not he was doomed To barely last the night; Are hearts to her but as that flower, The plaything of a careless hour, To lacerate and never spare All in that garden fair. I held her hand that I might trace Her fortune in its palm; A bolder moonbeam than the rest Crept up and kissed her arm, And, kissing once, was loth to leave, So hid himself within the sleeve That clasped the lithe arm, white and bare, All in that garden fair. I traced her fortune: love and wealth, Tho' life, alas! was short, But will that wealth be bought with love? Or love with wealth be bought? I know not, knowing only this Her hand seemed waiting for a kiss, I longed to, but I did not dare All in that garden fair. But she, alas! is not for me, And I am not for her; Yet ever deep within my thoughts A faint regret must stir A thrill of longing that among Those moonlit paths with lover's tongue I might return, and woo her there All in that garden fair.

Adieu!

John Clare

"Adieu, my love, adieu! Be constant and be true As the daisies gemmed with dew, Bonny maid." The cows their thirst were slaking, Trees the playful winds were shaking; Sweet songs the birds were making In the shade. The moss upon the tree Was as green as green could be, The clover on the lea Ruddy glowed; Leaves were silver with the dew, Where the tall sowthistles grew, And I bade the maid adieu On the road. Then I took myself to sea, While the little chiming bee Sung his ballad on the lea, Humming sweet; And the red-winged butterfly Was sailing through the sky, Skimming up and bouncing by Near my feet. I left the little birds, And sweet lowing of the herds, And couldn't find out words, Do you see, To say to them good bye, Where the yellow cups do lie; So heaving a deep sigh, Took to sea.

Adrift! A Little Boat Adrift!

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Adrift! A little boat adrift! And night is coming down! Will no one guide a little boat Unto the nearest town? So sailors say, on yesterday, Just as the dusk was brown, One little boat gave up its strife, And gurgled down and down. But angels say, on yesterday, Just as the dawn was red, One little boat o'erspent with gales Retrimmed its masts, redecked its sails Exultant, onward sped!

Epistle

Henry John Newbolt, Sir

TO COLONEL FRANCIS EDWARD YOUNGHUSBAND Across the Western World, the Arabian Sea, The Hundred Kingdoms and the Rivers Three, Beyond the rampart of Himalayan snows, And up the road that only Rumour knows, Unchecked, old friend, from Devon to Thibet, Friendship and Memory dog your footsteps yet. Let not the scornful ask me what avails So small a pack to follow mighty trails: Long since I saw what difference must be Between a stream like you, a ditch like me. This drains a garden and a homely field Which scarce at times a living current yield; The other from the high lands of his birth Plunges through rocks and spurns the pastoral earth, Then settling silent to his deeper course Draws in his fellows to augment his force, Becomes a name, and broadening as he goes, Gives power and purity where'er he flows, Till, great enough for any commerce grown, He links all nations while he serves his own. Soldier, explorer, statesman, what in truth Have you in common with homekeeping youth? "Youth" comes your answer like an echo faint; And youth it was that made us first acquaint. Do you remember when the Downs were white With the March dust from highways glaring bright, How you and I, like yachts that toss the foam, From Penpole Fields came stride and stride for home? One grimly leading, one intent to pass, Mile after mile we measured road and grass, Twin silent shadows, till the hour was done, The shadows parted and the stouter won. Since then I know one thing beyond appeal-- How runs from stem to stern a trimbuilt keel. Another day--but that's not mine to tell, The man in front does not observe so well; Though, spite of all these five-and-twenty years, As clear as life our schoolday scene appears. The guarded course, the barriers and the rope; The runners, stripped of all but shivering hope; The starter's good grey head; the sudden hush; The stern white line; the half-unconscious rush; The deadly bend, the pivot of our fate; The rope again; the long green level straight; The lane of heads, the cheering half unheard; The dying spurt, the tape, the judge's word. You, too, I doubt not, from your Lama's hall Can see the Stand above the worn old wall, Where then they clamoured as our race we sped, Where now they number our heroic dead.* As clear as life you, too, can hear the sound Of voices once for all by "lock-up" bound, And see the flash of eyes still nobly bright But in the "Bigside scrimmage" lost to sight. Old loves, old rivalries, old happy times, These well may move your memory and my rhymes; These are the Past; but there is that, my friend, Between us two, that has nor time nor end. Though wide apart the lines our fate has traced Since those far shadows of our boyhood raced, In the dim region all men must explore-- The mind's Thibet, where none has gone before-- Rounding some shoulder of the lonely trail We met once more, and raised a lusty hail. "Forward!" cried one, "for us no beaten track, No city continuing, no turning back: The past we love not for its being past, But for its hope and ardour forward cast: The victories of our youth we count for gain Only because they steeled our hearts to pain, And hold no longer even Clifton great Save as she schooled our wills to serve the State. Nay, England's self, whose thousand-year-old name Burns in our blood like ever-smouldering flame, Whose Titan shoulders as the world are wide And her great pulses like the Ocean tide, Lives but to bear the hopes we shall not see-- Dear mortal Mother of the race to be." Thereto you answered, "Forward! in God's name; I own no lesser law, no narrower claim. A freeman's Reason well might think it scorn To toil for those who may be never born, But for some Cause not wholly out of ken, Some all-directing Will that works with men, Some Universal under which may fall The minor premiss of our effort small; In Whose unending purpose, though we cease, We find our impulse and our only peace." So passed our greeting, till we turned once more, I to my desk and you to rule Indore. To meet again--ah! when?    Yet once we met, And to one dawn our faces still are set. EXETER, September 10, 1904.

Italy

John Greenleaf Whittier

Across the sea I heard the groans Of nations in the intervals Of wind and wave. Their blood and bones Cried out in torture, crushed by thrones, And sucked by priestly cannibals. I dreamed of Freedom slowly gained By martyr meekness, patience, faith, And lo! an athlete grimly stained, With corded muscles battle-strained, Shouting it from the fields of death! I turn me, awe-struck, from the sight, Among the clamoring thousands mute, I only know that God is right, And that the children of the light Shall tread the darkness under foot. I know the pent fire heaves its crust, That sultry skies the bolt will form To smite them clear; that Nature must The balance of her powers adjust, Though with the earthquake and the storm. God reigns, and let the earth rejoice! I bow before His sterner plan. Dumb are the organs of my choice; He speaks in battle's stormy voice, His praise is in the wrath of man! Yet, surely as He lives, the day Of peace He promised shall be ours, To fold the flags of war, and lay Its sword and spear to rust away, And sow its ghastly fields with flowers!

To My Sister

Adam Lindsay Gordon

Lines written by the late A. L. Gordon On 4th August, 1853, Being three days before he sailed for Australia. Across the trackless seas I go, No matter when or where, And few my future lot will know, And fewer still will care. My hopes are gone, my time is spent, I little heed their loss, And if I cannot feel content, I cannot feel remorse. My parents bid me cross the flood, My kindred frowned at me; They say I have belied my blood, And stained my pedigree. But I must turn from those who chide, And laugh at those who frown; I cannot quench my stubborn pride, Nor keep my spirits down. I once had talents fit to win Success in life's career, And if I chose a part of sin, My choice has cost me dear. But those who brand me with disgrace Will scarcely dare to say They spoke the taunt before my face, And went unscathed away. My friends will miss a comrade's face, And pledge me on the seas, Who shared the wine-cup or the chase, Or follies worse than these. A careless smile, a parting glass, A hand that waves adieu, And from my sight they soon will pass, And from my memory too. I loved a girl not long ago, And, till my suit was told, I thought her breast as fair as snow, 'Twas very near as cold; And yet I spoke, with feelings more Of recklessness than pain, Those words I never spoke before, Nor never shall again. Her cheek grew pale, in her dark eye I saw the tear-drop shine; Her red lips faltered in reply, And then were pressed to mine. A quick pulsation of the heart! A flutter of the breath! A smothered sob'and thus we part, To meet no more till death. And yet I may at times recall Her memory with a sigh; At times for me the tears may fall And dim her sparkling eye. But absent friends are soon forgot, And in a year or less 'Twill doubtless be another's lot Those very lips to press! With adverse fate we best can cope When all we prize has fled; And where there's little left to hope, There's little left to dread! Oh, time glides ever quickly by! Destroying all that's dear; On earth there's little worth a sigh, And nothing worth a tear! What fears have I? What hopes in life? What joys can I command? A few short years of toil and strife In a strange and distant land! When green grass sprouts above this clay (And that might be ere long), Some friends may read these lines and say, The world has judged him wrong. There is a spot not far away Where my young sister sleeps, Who seems alive but yesterday, So fresh her memory keeps; For we have played in childhood there Beneath the hawthorn's bough, And bent our knee in childish prayer I cannot utter now! Of late so reckless and so wild, That spot recalls to me That I was once a laughing child, As innocent as she; And there, while August's wild flow'rs wave, I wandered all alone, Strewed blossoms on her little grave, And knelt beside the stone. I seem to have a load to bear, A heavy, choking grief; Could I have forced a single tear I might have felt relief. I think my hot and restless heart Has scorched the channels dry, From which those sighs of sorrow start To moisten cheek and eye. Sister, farewell! farewell once more To every youthful tie! Friends! parents! kinsmen! native shore! To each and all good-bye! And thoughts which for the moment seem To bind me with a spell, Ambitious hope! love's boyish dream! To you a last farewell!

Advance - Come Forth From Thy Tyrolean Ground

William Wordsworth

Advance, come forth from thy Tyrolean ground, Dear Liberty! stern Nymph of soul untamed; Sweet Nymph, O rightly of the mountains named! Through the long chain of Alps from mound to mound And o'er the eternal snows, like Echo, bound; Like Echo, when the hunter train at dawn Have roused her from her sleep: and forest-lawn, Cliffs, woods and caves, her viewless steps resound And babble of her pastime! On, dread Power! With such invisible motion speed thy flight, Through hanging clouds, from craggy height to height, Through the green vales and through the herdsman's bower That all the Alps may gladden in thy might, Here, there, and in all places at one hour.

Adversity.

Robert Herrick

Adversity hurts none, but only such Whom whitest fortune dandled has too much.

Lord Maxwell's Last Goodnight

Frank Sidgwick

The Text is from the Glenriddell MSS., and is the one on which Sir Walter Scott based the version given in the Border Minstrelsy. Byron notes in the preface to Childe Harold that 'the good-night in the beginning of the first canto was suggested by Lord Maxwell's Goodnight in the Border Minstrelsy.' The Story.--John, ninth Lord Maxwell, killed Sir James Johnstone in 1608; the feud between the families was of long standing (see 3.4), beginning in 1585. Lord Maxwell fled the country, and was sentenced to death in his absence. On his return in 1612 he was betrayed by a kinsman, and beheaded at Edinburgh on May 21, 1613. This was the end of the feud, which contained cases of treachery and perfidy on both sides. 'Robert of Oarchyardtoun' was Sir Robert Maxwell of Orchardton, Lord Maxwell's cousin. 'Drumlanrig,' 'Cloesburn,' and 'the laird of Lagg' were respectively named Douglas, Kirkpatrick, and Grierson. The Maxwells had houses, or custody of houses at Dumfries, Lochmaben, Langholm, and Thrieve; and Carlaverock Castle is still theirs. As for Lord Maxwell's 'lady and only joy,' the ballad neglects the fact that he instituted a process of divorce against her, and that she died, while it was pending, in 1608, five years before the date of the 'Goodnight.' LORD MAXWELL'S LAST GOODNIGHT 1. 'Adiew, madam my mother dear, But and my sisters two! Adiew, fair Robert of Oarchyardtoun For thee my heart is woe. 2. 'Adiew, the lilly and the rose, The primrose, sweet to see! Adiew, my lady and only joy! For I manna stay with thee. 3. 'Tho' I have killed the laird Johnston, What care I for his feed? My noble mind dis still incline; He was my father's dead. 4. 'Both night and day I laboured oft Of him revenged to be, And now I've got what I long sought; But I manna stay with thee. 5. 'Adiew, Drumlanrig! false was ay, And Cloesburn! in a band, Where the laird of Lagg fra my father fled When the Johnston struck off his hand. 6. 'They were three brethren in a band; Joy may they never see! But now I've got what I long sought, And I maunna stay with thee. 7. 'Adiew, Dumfries, my proper place, But and Carlaverock fair! Adiew, the castle of the Thrieve, And all my buildings there! 8. 'Adiew, Lochmaben's gates so fair, The Langholm shank, where birks they be! Adiew, my lady and only joy! And, trust me, I maunna stay with thee. 9. 'Adiew, fair Eskdale, up and down, Where my poor friends do dwell! The bangisters will ding them down, And will them sore compel. 10. 'But I'll revenge that feed mysell When I come ou'r the sea; Adiew, my lady and only joy! For I maunna stay with thee.' 11. 'Lord of the land, will you go then Unto my father's place, And walk into their gardens green, And I will you embrace. 12. 'Ten thousand times I'll kiss your face, And sport, and make you merry.' 'I thank thee, my lady, for thy kindness, But, trust me, I maunna stay with thee.' 13. Then he took off a great gold ring, Whereat hang signets three; 'Hae, take thee that, my ain dear thing, And still hae mind of me; 14. 'But if thow marry another lord Ere I come ou'r the sea; Adiew, my lady and only joy! For I maunna stay with thee.' 15. The wind was fair, the ship was close, That good lord went away, And most part of his friends were there, To give him a fair convay. 16. They drank thair wine, they did not spare, Even in the good lord's sight; Now he is o'er the floods so gray, And Lord Maxwell has ta'en his goodnight.

The Adieu. Written Under The Impression That The Author Would Soon Die.

George Gordon Byron

1. Adieu, thou Hill! [1] where early joy Spread roses o'er my brow; Where Science seeks each loitering boy With knowledge to endow. Adieu, my youthful friends or foes, Partners of former bliss or woes; No more through Ida's paths we stray; Soon must I share the gloomy cell, Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell Unconscious of the day. 2. Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, Ye spires of Granta's vale, Where Learning robed in sable reigns. And Melancholy pale. Ye comrades of the jovial hour, Ye tenants of the classic bower, On Cama's verdant margin plac'd, Adieu! while memory still is mine, For offerings on Oblivion's shrine, These scenes must be effac'd. 3 Adieu, ye mountains of the clime Where grew my youthful years; Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime His giant summit rears. Why did my childhood wander forth From you, ye regions of the North, With sons of Pride to roam? Why did I quit my Highland cave, Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave, To seek a Sotheron home? 4 Hall of my Sires! a long farewell - Yet why to thee adieu? Thy vaults will echo back my knell, Thy towers my tomb will view: The faltering tongue which sung thy fall, And former glories of thy Hall, Forgets its wonted simple note - But yet the Lyre retains the strings, And sometimes, on 'olian wings, In dying strains may float. 5. Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, [2] While yet I linger here, Adieu! you are not now forgot, To retrospection dear. Streamlet! [3] along whose rippling surge My youthful limbs were wont to urge, At noontide heat, their pliant course; Plunging with ardour from the shore, Thy springs will lave these limbs no more, Deprived of active force. 6. And shall I here forget the scene, Still nearest to my breast? Rocks rise and rivers roll between The spot which passion blest; Yet Mary, [4] all thy beauties seem Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream, To me in smiles display'd; Till slow disease resigns his prey To Death, the parent of decay, Thine image cannot fade. 7. And thou, my Friend! whose gentle love Yet thrills my bosom's chords, How much thy friendship was above Description's power of words! Still near my breast thy gift [5] I wear Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear, Of Love the pure, the sacred gem: Our souls were equal, and our lot In that dear moment quite forgot; Let Pride alone condemn! 8. All, all is dark and cheerless now! No smile of Love's deceit Can warm my veins with wonted glow, Can bid Life's pulses beat: Not e'en the hope of future fame Can wake my faint, exhausted frame, Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. Mine is a short inglorious race, - To humble in the dust my face, And mingle with the dead. 9. Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart; On him who gains thy praise, Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart, Consumed in Glory's blaze; But me she beckons from the earth, My name obscure, unmark'd my birth, My life a short and vulgar dream: Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd, My hopes recline within a shroud, My fate is Lethe's stream. 10. When I repose beneath the sod, Unheeded in the clay, Where once my playful footsteps trod, Where now my head must lay, [6] The meed of Pity will be shed In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed, By nightly skies, and storms alone; No mortal eye will deign to steep With tears the dark sepulchral deep Which hides a name unknown. 11. Forget this world, my restless sprite, Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven: There must thou soon direct thy flight, If errors are forgiven. To bigots and to sects unknown, Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne; To Him address thy trembling prayer: He, who is merciful and just, Will not reject a child of dust, Although His meanest care. 12. Father of Light! to Thee I call; My soul is dark within: Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall, Avert the death of sin. Thou, who canst guide the wandering star Who calm'st the elemental war, Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive; And, since I soon must cease to live, Instruct me how to die.

Adam

Frank Sidgwick

The Text of this half-carol, half-ballad is taken from the Sloane MS. 2593, whence we get Saint Stephen and King Herod and other charming pieces like the well-known carol, 'I syng of a mayden.' It is written in eight long lines in the MS. The Story.--Wright, who printed the above MS. for the Warton Club in 1856, remarks that Adam was supposed to have remained bound in the limbus patrum from the time of his death until the Crucifixion. In the romance of Owain Miles (Cotton MS. Calig. A. ii.) the bishops told Owain that Adam was 'yn helle with Lucyfere' for four thousand six hundred and four years. On account of this tradition incorporated in the carol, I have ventured to include it as a ballad, although it does not find a place in Professor Child's collection. ADAM 1. Adam lay i-bowndyn, bowndyn in a bond, Fowre thowsand wynter thowt he not to long; 2. And al was for an appil, an appil that he tok, As clerkes fyndyn wretyn in here book. 3. Ne hadde the appil take ben, the appil taken ben, Ne hadde never our lady a ben hevene qwen. 4. Blyssid be the tyme that appil take was! Therfore we mown syngyn Deo gracias.

Lines Addressed To A Young Lady In Germany, Who, Until Her Sister, Honoured The Author By Walking With Him In The Evening.

John Carr (Sir)

Adieu! dear girl! if we are doom'd to part, Take with thee, take, the blessing of this heart, Due to thy gentle mind, and cultur'd sense; Perhaps 'twill please, but, sure, can't give offence. Tho', when we met, the solar ray was gone, And on our steps the moon-beam only shone, Yet well I mark'd thy form and native grace, And all the sweet expression of thy face; And pleas'd I listen'd as thy accents fell, Accents that spoke a feeling mind so well Lo, when the birds repose at ev'ning hour, The sweetest of them carols from her bow'r! So, when the dews the garden's fragrance close, The night-flow'r[A] blooms, the rival of the rose!

The Harp

Virna Sheard

Across the wind-swept spaces of the sky The harp of all the world is hung on high, And through its shining strings the swallows fly. The little silver fingers of the rain Oft touch it softly to a low refrain, That all day long comes o'er and o'er again. And when the storms of God above it roll, The mighty wind awakes its sleeping soul To songs of wild delight or bitter dole. And through the quiet night, as faint and far As melody down-drifted from a star, Trembles strange music where those harp-strings are. But only flying words of joy and woe, Caught from the restless earth-bound souls below, Over the vibrant wires ebb and flow. And in the cities that men call their own, And in the unnamed places, waste and lone, This harp forever sounds Life's undertone.

All Things Run Well For The Righteous.

Robert Herrick

Adverse and prosperous fortunes both work on Here, for the righteous man's salvation; Be he oppos'd, or be he not withstood, All serve to th' augmentation of his good.

What went ye out for to see?

Arthur Hugh Clough

Across the sea, along the shore, In numbers more and ever more, From lonely hut and busy town, The valley through, the mountain down, What was it ye went out to see, Ye silly folk of Galilee? The reed that in the wind doth shake? The weed that washes in the lake? The reeds that waver, the weeds that float? A young man preaching in a boat. What was it ye went out to hear By sea and land, from far and near? A teacher? Rather seek the feet Of those who sit in Moses' seat. Go humbly seek, and bow to them, Far off in great Jerusalem. From them that in her courts ye saw, Her perfect doctors of the law, What is it came ye here to note? A young man preaching in a boat. A prophet! Boys and women weak! Declare, or cease to rave; Whence is it he hath learned to speak? Say, who his doctrine gave? A prophet? Prophet wherefore he Of all in Israel tribes? He teacheth with authority, And not as do the Scrib's.

Cadet Grey

Bret Harte (Francis)

Canto I I Act first, scene first. A study. Of a kind Half cell, half salon, opulent yet grave; Rare books, low-shelved, yet far above the mind Of common man to compass or to crave; Some slight relief of pamphlets that inclined The soul at first to trifling, till, dismayed By text and title, it drew back resigned, Nor cared with levity to vex a shade That to itself such perfect concord made. II Some thoughts like these perplexed the patriot brain Of Jones, Lawgiver to the Commonwealth, As on the threshold of this chaste domain He paused expectant, and looked up in stealth To darkened canvases that frowned amain, With stern-eyed Puritans, who first began To spread their roots in Georgius Primus' reign, Nor dropped till now, obedient to some plan, Their century fruit,    the perfect Boston man. III Somewhere within that Russia-scented gloom A voice catarrhal thrilled the Member's ear: 'Brief is our business, Jones. Look round this room! Regard yon portraits! Read their meaning clear! These much proclaim my station. I presume You are our Congressman, before whose wit And sober judgment shall the youth appear Who for West Point is deemed most just and fit To serve his country and to honor it. IV 'Such is my son! Elsewhere perhaps 'twere wise Trial competitive should guide your choice. There are some people I can well surmise Themselves must show their merits. History's voice Spares me that trouble: all desert that lies In yonder ancestor of Queen Anne's day, Or yon grave Governor, is all my boy's, Reverts to him; entailed, as one might say; In brief, result in Winthrop Adams Grey!' V He turned and laid his well-bred hand, and smiled, On the cropped head of one who stood beside. Ah me! in sooth it was no ruddy child Nor brawny youth that thrilled the father's pride; 'Twas but a Mind that somehow had beguiled From soulless Matter processes that served For speech and motion and digestion mild, Content if all one moral purpose nerved, Nor recked thereby its spine were somewhat curved. VI He was scarce eighteen. Yet ere he was eight He had despoiled the classics; much he knew Of Sanskrit; not that he placed undue weight On this, but that it helped him with Hebrew, His favorite tongue. He learned, alas! too late, One can't begin too early,    would regret That boyish whim to ascertain the state Of Venus' atmosphere made him forget That philologic goal on which his soul was set. VII He too had traveled; at the age of ten Found Paris empty, dull except for art And accent. 'Mabille' with its glories then Less than Egyptian 'Almees' touched a heart Nothing if not pure classic. If some men Thought him a prig, it vexed not his conceit, But moved his pity, and ofttimes his pen, The better to instruct them, through some sheet Published in Boston, and signed 'Beacon Street.' VIII From premises so plain the blind could see But one deduction, and it came next day. 'In times like these, the very name of G. Speaks volumes,' wrote the Honorable J. 'Inclosed please find appointment.' Presently Came a reception to which Harvard lent Fourteen professors, and, to give esprit, The Liberal Club some eighteen ladies sent, Five that spoke Greek, and thirteen sentiment. IX Four poets came who loved each other's song, And two philosophers, who thought that they Were in most things impractical and wrong; And two reformers, each in his own way Peculiar,    one who had waxed strong On herbs and water, and such simple fare; Two foreign lions, 'Ram See' and 'Chy Long,' And several artists claimed attention there, Based on the fact they had been snubbed elsewhere. X With this indorsement nothing now remained But counsel, Godspeed, and some calm adieux; No foolish tear the father's eyelash stained, And Winthrop's cheek as guiltless shone of dew. A slight publicity, such as obtained In classic Rome, these few last hours attended. The day arrived, the train and depot gained, The mayor's own presence this last act commended The train moved off and here the first act ended. CANTO II I Where West Point crouches, and with lifted shield Turns the whole river eastward through the pass; Whose jutting crags, half silver, stand revealed Like bossy bucklers of Leonidas; Where buttressed low against the storms that wield Their summer lightnings where her eaglets swarm, By Freedom's cradle Nature's self has steeled Her heart, like Winkelried, and to that storm Of leveled lances bares her bosom warm. II But not to-night. The air and woods are still, The faintest rustle in the trees below, The lowest tremor from the mountain rill, Come to the ear as but the trailing flow Of spirit robes that walk unseen the hill; The moon low sailing o'er the upland farm, The moon low sailing where the waters fill The lozenge lake, beside the banks of balm, Gleams like a chevron on the river's arm. III All space breathes languor: from the hilltop high, Where Putnam's bastion crumbles in the past, To swooning depths where drowsy cannon lie And wide-mouthed mortars gape in slumbers vast; Stroke upon stroke, the far oars glance and die On the hushed bosom of the sleeping stream; Bright for one moment drifts a white sail by, Bright for one moment shows a bayonet gleam Far on the level plain, then passes as a dream. IV Soft down the line of darkened battlements, Bright on each lattice of the barrack walls, Where the low arching sallyport indents, Seen through its gloom beyond, the moonbeam falls. All is repose save where the camping tents Mock the white gravestones farther on, where sound No morning guns for reveille, nor whence No drum-beat calls retreat, but still is ever found Waiting and present on each sentry's round. V Within the camp they lie, the young, the brave, Half knight, half schoolboy, acolytes of fame, Pledged to one altar, and perchance one grave; Bred to fear nothing but reproach and blame, Ascetic dandies o'er whom vestals rave, Clean-limbed young Spartans, disciplined young elves, Taught to destroy, that they may live to save, Students embattled, soldiers at their shelves, Heroes whose conquests are at first themselves. VI Within the camp they lie, in dreams are freed From the grim discipline they learn to love; In dreams no more the sentry's challenge heed, In dreams afar beyond their pickets rove; One treads once more the piny paths that lead To his green mountain home, and pausing hears The cattle call; one treads the tangled weed Of slippery rocks beside Atlantic piers; One smiles in sleep, one wakens wet with tears. VII One scents the breath of jasmine flowers that twine The pillared porches of his Southern home; One hears the coo of pigeons in the pine Of Western woods where he was wont to roam; One sees the sunset fire the distant line Where the long prairie sweeps its levels down; One treads the snow-peaks; one by lamps that shine Down the broad highways of the sea-girt town; And two are missing,    Cadets Grey and Brown! VIII Much as I grieve to chronicle the fact, That selfsame truant known as 'Cadet Grey' Was the young hero of our moral tract, Shorn of his twofold names on entrance-day. 'Winthrop' and 'Adams' dropped in that one act Of martial curtness, and the roll-call thinned Of his ancestors, he with youthful tact Indulgence claimed, since Winthrop no more sinned, Nor sainted Adams winced when he, plain Grey, was 'skinned.' IX He had known trials since we saw him last, By sheer good luck had just escaped rejection, Not for his learning, but that it was cast In a spare frame scarce fit for drill inspection; But when he ope'd his lips a stream so vast Of information flooded each professor, They quite forgot his eyeglass,    something past All precedent,    accepting the transgressor, Weak eyes and all of which he was possessor. X E'en the first day he touched a blackboard's space So the tradition of his glory lingers Two wise professors fainted, each with face White as the chalk within his rapid fingers: All day he ciphered, at such frantic pace, His form was hid in chalk precipitation Of every problem, till they said his case Could meet from them no fair examination Till Congress made a new appropriation. XI Famous in molecules, he demonstrated From the mess hash to many a listening classful; Great as a botanist, he separated Three kinds of 'Mentha' in one julep's glassful; High in astronomy, it has been stated He was the first at West Point to discover Mars' missing satellites, and calculated Their true positions, not the heavens over, But 'neath the window of Miss Kitty Rover. XII Indeed, I fear this novelty celestial That very night was visible and clear; At least two youths of aspect most terrestrial, And clad in uniform, were loitering near A villa's casement, where a gentle vestal Took their impatience somewhat patiently, Knowing the youths were somewhat green and 'bestial' (A certain slang of the Academy, I beg the reader won't refer to me). XIII For when they ceased their ardent strain, Miss Kitty Glowed not with anger nor a kindred flame, But rather flushed with an odd sort of pity, Half matron's kindness, and half coquette's shame; Proud yet quite blameful, when she heard their ditty She gave her soul poetical expression, And being clever too, as she was pretty, From her high casement warbled this confession, Half provocation and one half repression: Not Yet Not yet, O friend, not yet! the patient stars Lean from their lattices, content to wait. All is illusion till the morning bars Slip from the levels of the Eastern gate. Night is too young, O friend! day is too near; Wait for the day that maketh all things clear. Not yet, O friend, not yet! Not yet, O love, not yet! all is not true, All is not ever as it seemeth now. Soon shall the river take another blue, Soon dies yon light upon the mountain brow. What lieth dark, O love, bright day will fill; Wait for thy morning, be it good or ill. Not yet, O love, not yet! XIV The strain was finished; softly as the night Her voice died from the window, yet e'en then Fluttered and fell likewise a kerchief white; But that no doubt was accident, for when She sought her couch she deemed her conduct quite Beyond the reach of scandalous commenter, Washing her hands of either gallant wight, Knowing the moralist might compliment her, Thus voicing Siren with the words of Mentor. XV She little knew the youths below, who straight Dived for her kerchief, and quite overlooked The pregnant moral she would inculcate; Nor dreamed the less how little Winthrop brooked Her right to doubt his soul's maturer state. Brown    who was Western, amiable, and new Might take the moral and accept his fate; The which he did, but, being stronger too, Took the white kerchief, also, as his due. XVI They did not quarrel, which no doubt seemed queer To those who knew not how their friendship blended; Each was opposed, and each the other's peer, Yet each the other in some things transcended. Where Brown lacked culture, brains,    and oft, I fear, Cash in his pocket,    Grey of course supplied him; Where Grey lacked frankness, force, and faith sincere, Brown of his manhood suffered none to chide him, But in his faults stood manfully beside him. XVII In academic walks and studies grave, In the camp drill and martial occupation, They helped each other: but just here I crave Space for the reader's full imagination, The fact is patent, Grey became a slave! A tool, a fag, a 'pleb'! To state it plainer, All that blue blood and ancestry e'er gave Cleaned guns, brought water!    was, in fact, retainer To Jones, whose uncle was a paper-stainer! XVIII How they bore this at home I cannot say: I only know so runs the gossip's tale. It chanced one day that the paternal Grey Came to West Point that he himself might hail The future hero in some proper way Consistent with his lineage. With him came A judge, a poet, and a brave array Of aunts and uncles, bearing each a name, Eyeglass and respirator with the same. XIX 'Observe!' quoth Grey the elder to his friends, 'Not in these giddy youths at baseball playing You'll notice Winthrop Adams! Greater ends Than these absorb his leisure. No doubt straying With Caesar's Commentaries, he attends Some Roman council. Let us ask, however, Yon grimy urchin, who my soul offends By wheeling offal, if he will endeavor To find    What! heaven! Winthrop! Oh! no! never!' XX Alas! too true! The last of all the Greys Was 'doing police detail,'    it had come To this; in vain the rare historic bays That crowned the pictured Puritans at home! And yet 'twas certain that in grosser ways Of health and physique he was quite improving. Straighter he stood, and had achieved some praise In other exercise, much more behooving A soldier's taste than merely dirt removing. XXI But to resume: we left the youthful pair, Some stanzas back, before a lady's bower; 'Tis to be hoped they were no longer there, For stars were pointing to the morning hour. Their escapade discovered, ill 'twould fare With our two heroes, derelict of orders; But, like the ghost, they 'scent the morning air,' And back again they steal across the borders, Unseen, unheeded, by their martial warders. XXII They got to bed with speed: young Grey to dream Of some vague future with a general's star, And Mistress Kitty basking in its gleam; While Brown, content to worship her afar, Dreamed himself dying by some lonely stream, Having snatched Kitty from eighteen Nez Perces, Till a far bugle, with the morning beam, In his dull ear its fateful song rehearses, Which Winthrop Adams after put to verses. XXIII So passed three years of their novitiate, The first real boyhood Grey had ever known. His youth ran clear,    not choked like his Cochituate, In civic pipes, but free and pure alone; Yet knew repression, could himself habituate To having mind and body well rubbed down, Could read himself in others, and could situate Themselves in him,    except, I grieve to own, He couldn't see what Kitty saw in Brown! XXIV At last came graduation; Brown received In the One Hundredth Cavalry commission; Then frolic, flirting, parting,    when none grieved Save Brown, who loved our young Academician. And Grey, who felt his friend was still deceived By Mistress Kitty, who with other beauties Graced the occasion, and it was believed Had promised Brown that when he could recruit his Promised command, she'd share with him those duties. XXV Howe'er this was I know not; all I know, The night was June's, the moon rode high and clear; ''Twas such a night as this,' three years ago, Miss Kitty sang the song that two might hear. There is a walk where trees o'erarching grow, Too wide for one, not wide enough for three (A fact precluding any plural beau), Which quite explained Miss Kitty's company, But not why Grey that favored one should be. XXVI There is a spring, whose limpid waters hide Somewhere within the shadows of that path Called Kosciusko's. There two figures bide, Grey and Miss Kitty. Surely Nature hath No fairer mirror for a might-be bride Than this same pool that caught our gentle belle To its dark heart one moment. At her side Grey bent. A something trembled o'er the well, Bright, spherical    a tear? Ah no! a button fell! XXVII 'Material minds might think that gravitation,' Quoth Grey, 'drew yon metallic spheroid down. The soul poetic views the situation Fraught with more meaning. When thy girlish crown Was mirrored there, there was disintegration Of me, and all my spirit moved to you, Taking the form of slow precipitation!' But here came 'Taps,' a start, a smile, adieu! A blush, a sigh, and end of Canto II. Bugle Song Fades the light, And afar Goeth day, cometh night; And a star Leadeth all, Speedeth all To their rest! Love, good-night! Must thou go When the day And the light Need thee so, Needeth all, Heedeth all, That is best? Canto III I Where the sun sinks through leagues of arid sky, Where the sun dies o'er leagues of arid plain, Where the dead bones of wasted rivers lie, Trailed from their channels in yon mountain chain; Where day by day naught takes the wearied eye But the low-rimming mountains, sharply based On the dead levels, moving far or nigh, As the sick vision wanders o'er the waste, But ever day by day against the sunset traced: II There moving through a poisonous cloud that stings With dust of alkali the trampling band Of Indian ponies, ride on dusky wings The red marauders of the Western land; Heavy with spoil, they seek the trail that brings Their flaunting lances to that sheltered bank Where lie their lodges; and the river sings Forgetful of the plain beyond, that drank Its life blood, where the wasted caravan sank. III They brought with them the thief's ignoble spoil, The beggar's dole, the greed of chiffonnier, The scum of camps, the implements of toil Snatched from dead hands, to rust as useless here; All they could rake or glean from hut or soil Piled their lean ponies, with the jackdaw's greed For vacant glitter. It were scarce a foil To all this tinsel that one feathered reed Bore on its barb two scalps that freshly bleed! IV They brought with them, alas! a wounded foe, Bound hand and foot, yet nursed with cruel care, Lest that in death he might escape one throe They had decreed his living flesh should bear: A youthful officer, by one foul blow Of treachery surprised, yet fighting still Amid his ambushed train, calm as the snow Above him; hopeless, yet content to spill His blood with theirs, and fighting but to kill. V He had fought nobly, and in that brief spell Had won the awe of those rude border men Who gathered round him, and beside him fell In loyal faith and silence, save that when By smoke embarrassed, and near sight as well, He paused to wipe his eyeglass, and decide Its nearer focus, there arose a yell Of approbation, and Bob Barker cried, 'Wade in, Dundreary!' tossed his cap and    died. VI Their sole survivor now! his captors bear Him all unconscious, and beside the stream Leave him to rest; meantime the squaws prepare The stake for sacrifice: nor wakes a gleam Of pity in those Furies' eyes that glare Expectant of the torture; yet alway His steadfast spirit shines and mocks them there With peace they know not, till at close of day On his dull ear there thrills a whispered 'Grey!' VII He starts! Was it a trick? Had angels kind Touched with compassion some weak woman's breast? Such things he'd read of! Faintly to his mind Came Pocahontas pleading for her guest. But then, this voice, though soft, was still inclined To baritone! A squaw in ragged gown Stood near him, frowning hatred. Was he blind? Whose eye was this beneath that beetling frown? The frown was painted, but that wink meant    Brown! VIII 'Hush! for your life and mine! the thongs are cut,' He whispers; 'in yon thicket stands my horse. One dash!    I follow close, as if to glut My own revenge, yet bar the others' course. Now!' And 'tis done. Grey speeds, Brown follows; but Ere yet they reach the shade, Grey, fainting, reels, Yet not before Brown's circling arms close shut His in, uplifting him! Anon he feels A horse beneath him bound, and hears the rattling heels. IX Then rose a yell of baffled hate, and sprang Headlong the savages in swift pursuit; Though speed the fugitives, they hope to hang Hot on their heels, like wolves, with tireless foot. Long is the chase; Brown hears with inward pang The short, hard panting of his gallant steed Beneath its double burden; vainly rang Both voice and spur. The heaving flanks may bleed, Yet comes the sequel that they still must heed! X Brown saw it    reined his steed; dismounting, stood Calm and inflexible. 'Old chap! you see There is but one escape. You know it? Good! There is one man to take it. You are he. The horse won't carry double. If he could, 'Twould but protract this bother. I shall stay: I've business with these devils, they with me; I will occupy them till you get away. Hush! quick time, forward. There! God bless you, Grey!' XI But as he finished, Grey slipped to his feet, Calm as his ancestors in voice and eye: 'You do forget yourself when you compete With him whose right it is to stay and die: That's not your duty. Please regain your seat; And take my orders    since I rank you here! Mount and rejoin your men, and my defeat Report at quarters. Take this letter; ne'er Give it to aught but her, nor let aught interfere.' XII And, shamed and blushing, Brown the letter took Obediently and placed it in his pocket; Then, drawing forth another, said, 'I look For death as you do, wherefore take this locket And letter.' Here his comrade's hand he shook In silence. 'Should we both together fall, Some other man'    but here all speech forsook His lips, as ringing cheerily o'er all He heard afar his own dear bugle-call! XIII 'Twas his command and succor, but e'en then Grey fainted, with poor Brown, who had forgot He likewise had been wounded, and both men Were picked up quite unconscious of their lot. Long lay they in extremity, and when They both grew stronger, and once more exchanged Old vows and memories, one common 'den' In hospital was theirs, and free they ranged, Awaiting orders, but no more estranged. XIV And yet 'twas strange    nor can I end my tale Without this moral, to be fair and just: They never sought to know why each did fail The prompt fulfillment of the other's trust. It was suggested they could not avail Themselves of either letter, since they were Duly dispatched to their address by mail By Captain X., who knew Miss Rover fair Now meant stout Mistress Bloggs of Blank Blank Square.

Allurement

Madison Julius Cawein

Across the world she sends me word, From gardens fair as Falerina's, Now by a blossom, now a bird, To come to her, who long has lured With magic sweeter than Alcina's. I know not what her word may mean, I know not what may mean the voices She sends as messengers serene, That through the silvery silence lean, To tell me where her heart rejoices. But I must go! I must away! Must take the path that is appointed! God grant I find her realm some day! Where, by her love, as by a ray, My soul shall be anointed.

The Play

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Act first, this Earth, a stage so gloom'd with woe You all but sicken at the shifting scenes. And yet be patient. Our Playwright may show In some fifth Act what this wild Drama means.

Marshal Ney's Farewell.

A. H. Laidlaw

Adieu to France! Land of the Brave, farewell! Sleep sweetly there, thy sons will watch by thee, High as thy hills their burning blood will swell, To leave thee as they find thee, fair and free. The nations gaze and tremble at thy spell, A vision of eternal Liberty, Emerging from a swift and bloody birth, The terror, wonder, glory of the earth. Yet, France, farewell! One son may find his grave Beneath thy soil, and leave thee marching still, Napoleon with his millions of the brave, Along the paths of glory, at thy will. Soldiers, farewell! And when your banners wave Above my bones beside some nameless hill, Stop not the thunder of your glorious tread, To mark me sleeping with th' inglorious dead. And farewell, Foes! Brave hearts and grand of soul; We fought in fierceness, now in peace we part. My luckless heart hath ever been the goal Sought by your sabres, but in vain, O Heart! Welcome to death amid the drum's far roll, Great souls, where I no more will dare your dart. 'Tis best to die where war's bluff banners wave, Swathed in your guerdon, "Bravest of the brave." Farewell, the storm-voiced Steed! the hero Horse That snuffs the battle's sulphury breath afar; The proudest form, the best compacted force, That hurls the earthquake on the field of war. No more I'll ride, on his terrific course, That meteor maddened through the lines ajar, While the foe, blanching at the onset, reels Before his breath and thunder of his heels. Farewell, volcanic din, Olympian brattle, The bursting bomb, the thousand-throated cheer Tartarean roar, the volleyed rifle rattle, The rocket's lightning line of fire and fear. I sought my fate 'mid foes in brilliant battle, Gorging with souls the hungry atmosphere; I find my fate from one cold coward's command, A dozen bullets, and a friendly hand. Thus I, once Michael Ney, Marshal of France, And soon a heap of dust, dishonored, sink; - I, who have vanned the Empire's fierce advance In triple continents of fame to drink, And bore its backward but still levelled lance From Borodino to the icy brink Of Beresina; thence defiance hurled To the linked thunders of th' embattled world. No bandage bring. Stark-eyed the hero dies. Do you not know that thus for twenty years I've faced both ball and bullet! - for no prize But weal of France, my country? In man's ears, Yea and before God's all-beholding eyes, I swear I never wronged her. But Death nears. Marshal no more, behold a man expire! So now, make ready! Aim! Dear comrades, fire!

A Girl's Faith.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Across the miles that stretch between, Through days of gloom or glad sunlight, There shines a face I have not seen Which yet doth make my world more bright. He may be near, he may be far, Or near or far I cannot see, But faithful as the morning star He yet shall rise and come to me. What though fate leads us separate ways, The world is round, and time is fleet. A journey of a few brief days, And face to face we two shall meet. Shall meet beneath God's arching skies, While suns shall blaze, or stars shall gleam, And looking in each other's eyes Shall hold the past but as a dream. But round and perfect and complete, Life like a star shall climb the height, As we two press with willing feet Together toward the Infinite. And still behind the space between, As back of dawns the sunbeams play, There shines the face I have not seen, Whose smile shall wake my world to Day.

Written With A Pencil, Over The Chimney-Piece, In The Parlour Of The Inn At Kenmore, Taymouth.

Robert Burns

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, My savage journey, curious I pursue, 'Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view. The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides; Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills, The eye with wonder and amazement fills; The Tay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride, The palace, rising on its verdant side; The lawns, wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste; The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste; The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream; The village, glittering in the noontide beam. *            *            *            *            * Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell: The sweeping theatre of hanging woods; Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods. *            *            *            *            * Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, And look through Nature with creative fire; Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd, Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild; And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds: Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her scan, And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. *            *            *            *            *

At Sunset Time

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Adown the west a golden glow Sinks burning in the sea, And all the dreams of long ago Come flooding back to me. The past has writ a story strange Upon my aching heart, But time has wrought a subtle change, My wounds have ceased to smart. No more the quick delight of youth, No more the sudden pain, I look no more for trust or truth Where greed may compass gain. What, was it I who bared my heart Through unrelenting years, And knew the sting of misery's dart, The tang of sorrow's tears? 'Tis better now, I do not weep, I do not laugh nor care; My soul and spirit half asleep Drift aimless everywhere. We float upon a sluggish stream, We ride no rapids mad, While life is all a tempered dream And every joy half sad.

The Dark River.

Walter R. Cassels

Across the mountains and the hills, Across the valleys and the swelling seas, By lakes and rivers whose deep murmur fills Earth's dreams with sweet prophetic melodies, Together have we come unto this place, And here we say farewell a little space: You, backward turning through the land, To tarry 'mid its beauty yet awhile-- I, o'er the River, to another strand With cheerful heart, so part we with a smile. Shall space have any power o'er god-like souls? Love shall bridge o'er the stream that 'twixt us rolls! Together wend we to the tide, And as the first wave wets my foot, we part;-- E'en now methinks I see the other side; And, though the stream be swift, a steady heart And stalwart arm shall quell its cold dark waves. Faith falters not e'en when the tempest raves. Dark stream flowing so blackly on, Thy turbid billows roll o'er golden sands; Beneath the surface all thy fear is gone, And precious gems fill full the diver's hands. Yet how the heart lists breathless for the roar Of billows plashing on the other shore! _The other shore!_--Oh thou dim Land! Hid by faint mists from the spent swimmer's eyes, Until upon the sloping bank he stand, Mute in the light of Eden-mysteries; Thou golden Ophir of Youth's spirit-dream, Shall I then reach thee through this turbid stream? Friend! quail not! This same gloomy tide Rolling its fearful breakers to the shore, Shall be transform'd, upon the other side, Into the crystal Life-stream, shaded o'er By Paradisal groves, whose mellow fruit Shall heal the sorrows of the destitute. These ghostly vapours, brooding low, Shall melt to sunny glories o'er my head, And through them shall the golden city glow, Whither I hasten singing, angel-led; Friend! there is but a cloud-veil 'twixt us and the light, One step beyond, and Heaven is in our sight. Now the stream laps my vesture hem; Back thou from my sad bosom to the world, Leaving me here this current cold to stem; Soon from thy sight shall I be swiftly whirl'd Into the mystic darkness--never fear! God's hand shall guide me unto vision clear. Already thou art growing dim, And distant on the fast receding shore; The tide is strong, but still I trust in Him, And know that I shall safely struggle o'er, For now the plash on yonder shore I hear, Amid sweet angel voices calm and clear.

Early Adieux

Adam Lindsay Gordon

Adieu to kindred hearts and home, To pleasure, joy, and mirth, A fitter foot than mine to roam Could scarcely tread the earth; For they are now so few indeed (Not more than three in all), Who e'er will think of me or heed What fate may me befall. For I through pleasure's paths have run My headlong goal to win, Nor pleasure's snares have cared to shun When pleasure sweetened sin. Let those who will their failings mask, To mine I frankly own; But for them pardon will I ask Of none, save Heaven alone. From carping friends I turn aside; At foes defiance frown; Yet time may tame my stubborn pride, And break my spirit down. Still, if to error I incline, Truth whispers comfort strong, That never reckless act of mine E'er worked a comrade wrong. My mother is a stately dame, Who oft would chide with me; She saith my riot bringeth shame, And stains my pedigree. I'd reck not what my friends might know, Or what the world might say, Did I but think some tears would flow When I am far away. Perchance my mother will recall My mem'ry with a sigh; My gentle sister's tears may fall, And dim her laughing eye; Perhaps a loving thought may gleam, And fringe its saddened ray, When, like a nightmare's troubled dream, I, outcast, pass away. Then once again farewell to those Whoe'er for me have sighed; For pleasures melt away like snows, And hopes like shadows glide. Adieu, my mother! if no more Thy son's face thou may'st see, At least those many cares are o'er So ofttimes caused by me. My lot is fixed! The die is cast! For me home hath no joy! Oh, pardon then all follies past, And bless your wayward boy! And thou, from whom for aye to part Grieves more than tongue can tell, May Heaven preserve thy guileless heart, Sweet sister, fare thee well! Thou, too, whose loving-kindness makes My resolution less, While from the bitter past it takes One half its bitterness, If e'er you held my mem'ry dear, Grant this request, I pray, Give to that mem'ry one bright tear, And let it pass away.

The Winding Banks Of Erne

William Allingham

Adieu to Belashanny! where I was bred and born; Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn. The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known, And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own; There's not a house or window, there's not a field or hill, But, east or west, in foreign lands, I'll recollect them still. I leave my warm heart with you, tho' my back I'm forced to turn, Adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne! No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter down the Mall, When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon to the fall. The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily she creeps, Cast off, cast off,she feels the oars, and to her berth she sweeps; Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gathering up the clew, Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew. Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit, and many a joke and 'yarn';, Adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne! The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the tide, When all the green-hill'd harbour is full from side to side, From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round the Abbey Bay, From rocky Inis Saimer to Coolnargit sandhills gray; While far upon the southern line, to guard it like a wall, The Leitrim mountains clothed in blue gaze calmly over all, And watch the ship sail up or down, the red flag at her stern;, Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding banks of Erne! Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them that pull an oar, A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mullaghmore; From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League, that ocean-mountain steep, Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred in the deep, From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by Tullen strand, Level and long, and white with waves, where gull and curlew stand; Head out to sea when on your lee the breakers you discern!, Adieu to all the billowy coast, and winding banks of Erne! Farewell, Coolmore,,Bundoran! and your summer crowds that run From inland homes to see with joy th' Atlantic-setting sun; To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the waves; To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the gloomy caves; To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the crabs, the fish; Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a tender wish; The sick and old in search of health, for all things have their turn, And I must quit my native shore, and the winding banks of Erne! Farewell to every white cascade from the Harbour to Belleek, And every pool where fins may rest, and ivy-shaded creek; The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash and holly grow, The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving flood below; The Lough, that winds through islands under Turaw mountain green; And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods, with tranquil bays between; And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among the heath and fern,, For I must say adieu,adieu to the winding banks of Erne! The thrush will call through Camlin groves the live-long summer day; The waters run by mossy cliff, and banks with wild flowers gay; The girls will bring their work and sing beneath a twisted thorn, Or stray with sweethearts down the path among the growing corn; Along the river-side they go, where I have often been, Oh, never shall I see again the happy days I've seen! A thousand chances are to one I never may return,, Adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne! Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbours meet, And the fiddle says to boys and girls, 'Get up and shake your feet!' To 'seanachas' and wise old talk of Erin's days gone by, Who trench'd the rath on such a hill, and where the bones may lie Of saint, or king, or warrior chief; with tales of fairy power, And tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the twilight hour. The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn, Adieu, my dear companions on the winding banks of Erne! Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Purt, Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather, I wish no one any hurt; The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane, the Mall, and Portnasun, If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one. I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me; For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the sea. My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often fondly turn To think of Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne. If ever I'm a money'd man, I mean, please God, to cast My golden anchor in the place where youthful years were pass'd; Though heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather gray, New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop away, Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside; It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam through lands and waters wide. And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return To my native Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne.

Vulcans

Paul Cameron Brown

Adder toothed flowers snake the broken ground where molten tongues cremated the twisted, bunker forms - a Latin cross of green jubilation lies matted atop a sweating road, calligraphy in broken stone. As trembling shale collapses into thin hills, light fuels to cross the Pale. A little exploratory weeding droops this lava rain. A long, dove fence comprised of stones & rattled by ancient slaves winds its distance along the gully borne in fire, percussion caps, cretin growth lobbed under creeping wire. Shafts of pioneer light delight in coral baskets, empty twilight darts the agave swords' mauve pitcher plants. The 1692 Tremens decimated Port Royal[1] - moved a ravine from florid to mossy shadow where antler shoots today announce temperate plants, eclipse by-gone tropic flowers. [1] An earthquake destroyed in the seventeenth century not only the stronghold of Jamaica's pirates but also changed the topography of the North Shore creating Fern Gully.

The Crisis

John Greenleaf Whittier

Across the Stony Mountains, o'er the desert's drouth and sand, The circles of our empire touch the western ocean's strand; From slumberous Timpanogos, to Gila, wild and free, Flowing down from Nuevo-Leon to California's sea; And from the mountains of the east, to Santa Rosa's shore, The eagles of Mexitli shall beat the air no more. O Vale of Rio Bravo! Let thy simple children weep; Close watch about their holy fire let maids of Pecos keep; Let Taos send her cry across Sierra Madre's pines, And Santa Barbara toll her bells amidst her corn and vines; For lo! the pale land-seekers come, with eager eyes of gain, Wide scattering, like the bison herds on broad Salada's plain. Let Sacramento's herdsmen heed what sound the winds bring down Of footsteps on the crisping snow, from cold Nevada's crown! Full hot and fast the Saxon rides, with rein of travel slack, And, bending o'er his saddle, leaves the sunrise at his back; By many a lonely river, and gorge of fir and pine, On many a wintry hill-top, his nightly camp-fires shine. O countrymen and brothers! that land of lake and plain, Of salt wastes alternating with valleys fat with grain; Of mountains white with winter, looking downward, cold, serene, On their feet with spring-vines tangled and lapped in softest green; Swift through whose black volcanic gates, o'er many a sunny vale, Wind-like the Arapahoe sweeps the bison's dusty trail! Great spaces yet untravelled, great lakes whose mystic shores The Saxon rifle never heard, nor dip of Saxon oars; Great herds that wander all unwatched, wild steeds that none have tamed, Strange fish in unknown streams, and birds the Saxon never named; Deep mines, dark mountain crucibles, where Nature's chemic powers Work out the Great Designer's will; all these ye say are ours! Forever ours! for good or ill, on us the burden lies; God's balance, watched by angels, is hung across the skies. Shall Justice, Truth, and Freedom turn the poised and trembling scale? Or shall the Evil triumph, and robber Wrong prevail? Shall the broad land o'er which our flag in starry splendor waves, Forego through us its freedom, and bear the tread of slaves? The day is breaking in the East of which the prophets told, And brightens up the sky of Time the Christian Age of Gold; Old Might to Right is yielding, battle blade to clerkly pen, Earth's monarchs are her peoples, and her serfs stand up as men; The isles rejoice together, in a day are nations born, And the slave walks free in Tunis, and by Stamboul's Golden Horn! Is this, O countrymen of mine! a day for us to sow The soil of new-gained empire with slavery's seeds of woe? To feed with our fresh life-blood the Old World's cast-off crime, Dropped, like some monstrous early birth, from the tired lap of Time? To run anew the evil race the old lost nations ran, And die like them of unbelief of God, and wrong of man? Great Heaven! Is this our mission? End in this the prayers and tears, The toil, the strife, the watchings of our younger, better years? Still as the Old World rolls in light, shall ours in shadow turn, A beamless Chaos, cursed of God, through outer darkness borne? Where the far nations looked for light, a blackness in the air? Where for words of hope they listened, the long wail of despair? The Crisis presses on us; face to face with us it stands, With solemn lips of question, like the Sphinx in Egypt's sands! This day we fashion Destiny, our web of Fate we spin; This day for all hereafter choose we holiness or sin, Even now from starry Gerizim, or Ebal's cloudy crown We call the dews of blessing or the bolts of cursing down! By all for which the martyrs bore their agony and shame; By all the warning words of truth with which the prophets came; By the Future which awaits us; by all the hopes which cast Their faint and trembling beams across the blackness of the Past; And by the blessed thought of Him who for Earth's freedom died, O my people! O my brothers! let us choose the righteous side. So shall the Northern pioneer go joyful on his way; To wed Penobscot's waters to San Francisco's bay; To make the rugged places smooth, and sow the vales with grain; And bear, with Liberty and Law, the Bible in his train: The mighty West shall bless the East, and sea shall answer sea, And mountain unto mountain call, Praise God for we are free

Across The Sea Along The Shore

Arthur Hugh Clough

Across the sea, along the shore, In numbers more and ever more, From lonely hut and busy town, The valley through, the mountain down, What was it ye went out to see, Ye silly folk Galilee? The reed that in the wind doth shake? The weed that washes in the lake? The reeds that waver, the weeds that float? A young man preaching in a boat. What was it ye went out to hear By sea and land from far and near? A teacher? Rather seek the feet Of those who sit in Moses' seat. Go humbly seek, and bow to them, Far off in great Jerusalem. From them that in her courts ye saw, Her perfect doctors of the law, What is it came ye here to note? A young man preaching in a boat. A prophet! Boys and women weak! Declare, or cease to rave; Whence is it he hath learned to speak? Say, who his doctrine gave? A prophet? Prophet wherefore he Of all in Israel tribes? He teacheth with authority, And not as do the Scribes.

The Farewell To The Brethren Of St. James's Lodge, Tarbolton.

Robert Burns

Tune - "Good-night, and joy be wi' you a'." I. Adieu! a heart-warm, fond adieu! Dear brothers of the mystic tie! Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few, Companions of my social joy! Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba', With melting heart, and brimful eye, I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'. II. Oft have I met your social band, And spent the cheerful, festive night; Oft honour'd with supreme command, Presided o'er the sons of light: And by that hieroglyphic bright, Which none but craftsmen ever saw! Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write Those happy scenes when far awa'. III. May freedom, harmony, and love Unite you in the grand design, Beneath th' Omniscient Eye above, The glorious architect divine! That you may keep th' unerring line, Still rising by the plummet's law, Till order bright completely shine, Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. IV. And you farewell! whose merits claim, Justly, that highest badge to wear! Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name, To masonry and Scotia dear! A last request permit me here, When yearly ye assemble a', One round, I ask it with a tear, To him, the Bard that's far awa'.

The House-Mother

Fay Inchfawn

Across the town the evening bell is ringing; Clear comes the call, through kitchen windows winging! Lord, knowing Thou art kind, I heed Thy call to prayer. I have a soul to save; A heart which needs, I think, a double share Of sweetnesses which noble ladies crave. Hope, faith and diligence, and patient care, With meekness, grace, and lowliness of mind. Lord, wilt Thou grant all these To one who prays, but cannot sit at ease? They do not know, The passers-by, who go Up to Thy house, with saintly faces set; Who throng about Thy seat, And sing Thy praises sweet, Till vials full of odours cloud Thy feet; They do not know . . . And, if they knew, then would they greatly care That Thy tired handmaid washed the children's hair; Or, with red roughened hands, scoured dishes well, While through the window called the evening bell? And that her seeking soul looks upward yet, THEY do not know . . . but THOU wilt not forget

A Girl's Faith

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Across the miles that stretch between, Through days of gloom or glad sunlight, There shines a face I have not seen Which yet doth make my world more bright. He may be near, he may be far, Or near or far I cannot see, But faithful as the morning star He yet shall rise and come to me. What though fate leads us separate ways, The world is round, and time is fleet. A journey of a few brief days, And face to face we two shall meet. Shall meet beneath God's arching skies, While suns shall blaze, or stars shall gleam, And looking in each other's eyes Shall hold the past but as a dream. But round and perfect and complete, Life like a star shall climb the height, As we two press with willing feet Together toward the Infinite. And still behind the space between, As back of dawns the sunbeams play, There shines the face I have not seen, Whose smile shall wake my world to-day.

Oberon's Palace.

Robert Herrick

After the feast, my Shapcot, see The fairy court I give to thee; Where we'll present our Oberon, led Half-tipsy to the fairy bed, Where Mab he finds, who there doth lie, Not without mickle majesty. Which done, and thence remov'd the light, We'll wish both them and thee good-night. Full as a bee with thyme, and red As cherry harvest, now high fed For lust and action, on he'll go To lie with Mab, though all say no. Lust has no ears; he's sharp as thorn, And fretful, carries hay in's horn, And lightning in his eyes; and flings Among the elves, if moved, the stings Of peltish wasps; well know his guard - Kings, though they're hated, will be fear'd. Wine lead[s] him on. Thus to a grove, Sometimes devoted unto love, Tinselled with twilight, he and they, Led by the shine of snails, a way Beat with their num'rous feet, which, by Many a neat perplexity, Many a turn and many a cross- Track they redeem a bank of moss, Spongy and swelling, and far more Soft than the finest Lemster ore, Mildly disparkling like those fires Which break from the enjewell'd tyres Of curious brides; or like those mites Of candi'd dew in moony nights. Upon this convex all the flowers Nature begets by th' sun and showers, Are to a wild digestion brought, As if love's sampler here was wrought: Or Citherea's ceston, which All with temptation doth bewitch. Sweet airs move here, and more divine Made by the breath of great-eyed kine, Who, as they low, impearl with milk The four-leaved grass or moss like silk. The breath of monkeys met to mix With musk-flies are th' aromatics Which 'cense this arch; and here and there And farther off, and everywhere Throughout that brave mosaic yard, Those picks or diamonds in the card With peeps of hearts, of club, and spade Are here most neatly inter-laid Many a counter, many a die, Half-rotten and without an eye Lies hereabouts; and, for to pave The excellency of this cave, Squirrels' and children's teeth late shed Are neatly here enchequered With brownest toadstones, and the gum That shines upon the bluer plum. The nails fallen off by whitflaws: art's Wise hand enchasing here those warts Which we to others, from ourselves, Sell, and brought hither by the elves. The tempting mole, stolen from the neck Of the shy virgin, seems to deck The holy entrance, where within The room is hung with the blue skin Of shifted snake: enfriez'd throughout With eyes of peacocks' trains and trout- Flies' curious wings; and these among Those silver pence that cut the tongue Of the red infant, neatly hung. The glow-worm's eyes; the shining scales Of silv'ry fish; wheat straws, the snail's Soft candle light; the kitling's eyne; Corrupted wood; serve here for shine. No glaring light of bold-fac'd day, Or other over-radiant ray, Ransacks this room; but what weak beams Can make reflected from these gems And multiply; such is the light, But ever doubtful day or night. By this quaint taper light he winds His errors up; and now he finds His moon-tann'd Mab, as somewhat sick, And (love knows) tender as a chick. Upon six plump dandillions, high- Rear'd, lies her elvish majesty: Whose woolly bubbles seem'd to drown Her Mabship in obedient down. For either sheet was spread the caul That doth the infant's face enthral, When it is born (by some enstyl'd The lucky omen of the child), And next to these two blankets o'er- Cast of the finest gossamore. And then a rug of carded wool, Which, sponge-like drinking in the dull Light of the moon, seemed to comply, Cloud-like, the dainty deity. Thus soft she lies: and overhead A spinner's circle is bespread With cob-web curtains, from the roof So neatly sunk as that no proof Of any tackling can declare What gives it hanging in the air. The fringe about this are those threads Broke at the loss of maidenheads: And, all behung with these, pure pearls, Dropp'd from the eyes of ravish'd girls Or writhing brides; when (panting) they Give unto love the straiter way. For music now, he has the cries Of feigned-lost virginities; The which the elves make to excite A more unconquered appetite. The king's undrest; and now upon The gnat's watchword the elves are gone. And now the bed, and Mab possess'd Of this great little kingly guest; We'll nobly think, what's to be done, He'll do no doubt; this flax is spun.

Ae Fond Kiss.

Robert Burns

Tune - "Rory Dall's Port." I. Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, and then for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that fortune grieves him While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. II. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her, was to love her; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never lov'd sae kindly, Had we never lov'd sae blindly, Never met, or never parted, We had ne'er been broken hearted. III. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae farewell, alas! for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!

After The Battles Are Over.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

[Read at Re-union of the G. A. T., Madison, Wis., July 4, 1872.] After the battles are over, And the war drums cease to beat, And no more is heard on the hillside The sound of hurrying feet, Full many a noble action, That was done in the days of strife, By the soldier is half forgotten, In the peaceful walks of life. Just as the tangled grasses, In Summer's warmth and light, Grow over the graves of the fallen And hide them away from sight, So many an act of valor, And many a deed sublime, Fade from the mind of the soldier, O'ergrown by the grass of time. Not so should they be rewarded, Those noble deeds of old; They should live forever and ever, When the heroes' hearts are cold. Then rally, ye brave old comrades, Old veterans, re-unite! Uproot Time's tangled grasses - Live over the march, and the fight. Let Grant come up from the White House, And clasp each brother's hand, First chieftain of the army, Last chieftain of the land. Let him rest from a nation's burdens, And go, in thought, with his men, Through the fire and smoke of Shiloh, And save the day again. This silent hero of battles Knew no such word as defeat. It was left for the rebels' learning, Along with the word - retreat. He was not given to talking, But he found that guns would preach In a way that was more convincing Than fine and flowery speech. Three cheers for the grave commander Of the grand old Tennessee! Who won the first great battle - Gained the first great victory. His motto was always "Conquer," "Success" was his countersign, And "though it took all Summer," He kept fighting upon "that line." Let Sherman, the stern old General, Come rallying with his men; Let them march once more through Georgia And down to the sea again. Oh! that grand old tramp to Savannah, Three hundred miles to the coast, It will live in the heart of the nation, Forever its pride and boast. As Sheridan went to the battle, When a score of miles away, He has come to the feast and banquet, By the iron horse, to-day. Its pace is not much swifter Than the pace of that famous steed Which bore him down to the contest And saved the day by his speed. Then go over the ground to-day, boys, Tread each remembered spot. It will be a gleesome journey, On the swift-shod feet of thought; You can fight a bloodless battle, You can skirmish along the route, But it's not worth while to forage, There are rations enough without. Don't start if you hear the cannon, It is not the sound of doom, It does not call to the contest - To the battle's smoke and gloom. "Let us have peace," was spoken, And lo! peace ruled again; And now the nation is shouting, Through the cannon's voice, "Amen." O boys who besieged old Vicksburg, Can time e'er wash away The triumph of her surrender, Nine years ago to-day? Can you ever forget the moment, When you saw the flag of white, That told how the grim old city Had fallen in her might? Ah, 'twas a bold brave army, When the boys, with a right good will, Went gayly marching and singing To the fight at Champion Hill. They met with a warm reception, But the soul of "Old John Brown" Was abroad on that field of battle, And our flag did NOT go down. Come, heroes of Look Out Mountain, Of Corinth and Donelson, Of Kenesaw and Atlanta, And tell how the day was won! Hush! bow the head for a moment - There are those who cannot come. No bugle-call can arouse them - No sound of fife or drum. Oh, boys who died for the country, Oh, dear and sainted dead! What can we say about you That has not once been said? Whether you fell in the contest, Struck down by shot and shell, Or pined 'neath the hand of sickness Or starved in the prison cell, We know that you died for Freedom, To save our land from shame, To rescue a periled Nation, And we give you deathless fame. 'T was the cause of Truth and Justice That you fought and perished for, And we say it, oh, so gently, "Our boys who died in the war." Saviors of our Republic, Heroes who wore the blue, We owe the peace that surrounds us - And our Nation's strength to you. We owe it to you that our banner, The fairest flag in the world, Is to-day unstained, unsullied, On the Summer air unfurled. We look on its stripes and spangles, And our hearts are filled the while With love for the brave commanders, And the boys of the rank and file. The grandest deeds of valor Were never written out, The noblest acts of virtue The world knows nothing about. And many a private soldier, Who walks his humble way, With no sounding name or title, Unknown to the world to-day, In the eyes of God is a hero As worthy of the bays, As any mighty General To whom the world gives praise. Brave men of a mighty army, We extend you friendship's hand! I speak for the "Loyal Women," Those pillars of our land. We wish you a hearty welcome, We are proud that you gather here To talk of old times together On this brightest day in the year. And if Peace, whose snow-white pinions, Brood over our land to-day, Should ever again go from us, (God grant she may ever stay!) Should our Nation call in her peril For "Six hundred thousand more," The loyal women would hear her, And send you out as before. We would bring out the treasured knapsack, We would take the sword from the wall, And hushing our own hearts' pleadings, Hear only the country's call. For next to our God, is our Nation; And we cherish the honored name, Of the bravest of all brave armies Who fought for that Nation's fame.

Anticipated Meeting Of The British Association In The Year 1836.

Thomas Moore

After some observations from Dr. M'Grig On that fossil reliquium called Petrified Wig, Or Perruquolithus--a specimen rare Of those wigs made for antediluvian wear, Which, it seems, stood the Flood without turning a hair-- Mr. Tomkins rose up, and requested attention To facts no less wondrous which he had to mention. Some large fossil creatures had lately been found, Of a species no longer now seen above ground, But the same (as to Tomkins most clearly appears) With those animals, lost now for hundreds of years, Which our ancestors used to call "Bishops" and "Peers," But which Tomkins more erudite names has bestowed on, Having called the Peer fossil the Aris-tocratodon,[1] And, finding much food under t'other one's thorax, Has christened that creature the Episcopus Vorax. Lest the savantes and dandies should think this all fable, Mr. Tomkins most kindly produced, on the table, A sample of each of these species of creatures, Both tolerably human, in structure and features, Except that the Episcopus seems, Lord deliver us! To've been carnivorous as well as granivorous; And Tomkins, on searching its stomach, found there Large lumps, such as no modern stomach could bear, Of a substance called Tithe, upon which, as 'tis said, The whole Genus Clericum formerly fed; And which having lately himself decompounded, Just to see what 'twas made of, he actually found it Composed of all possible cookable things That e'er tript upon trotters or soared upon wings-- All products of earth, both gramineous, herbaceous, Hordeaceous, fabaceous and eke farinaceous, All clubbing their quotas, to glut the oesophagus Of this ever greedy and grasping Tithophagus.[2] "Admire," exclaimed Tomkins. "the kind dispensation "By Providence shed on this much-favored nation, "In sweeping so ravenous a race from the earth, "That might else have occasioned a general dearth-- "And thus burying 'em, deep as even Joe Hume would sink 'em, "With the Ichthyosaurus and Paloeorynchum, "And other queer ci-devant things, under ground-- "Not forgetting that fossilized youth,[3] so renowned, "Who lived just to witness the Deluge--was gratified "Much by the sight, and has since been found stratified!" This picturesque touch--quite in Tomkins's way-- Called forth from the savantes a general hurrah; While inquiries among them, went rapidly round, As to where this young stratified man could be found. The "learned Theban's" discourse next as livelily flowed on, To sketch t'other wonder, the Aristocratodon-- An animal, differing from most human creatures Not so much in speech, inward structure or features, As in having a certain excrescence, T. said, Which in form of a coronet grew from its head, And devolved to its heirs, when the creature was dead; Nor mattered it, while this heirloom was transmitted, How unfit were the heads, so the coronet fitted. He then mentioned a strange zo'logical fact, Whose announcement appeared much applause to attract. In France, said the learned professor, this race Had so noxious become, in some centuries' space, From their numbers and strength, that the land was o'errun with 'em, Every one's question being, "What's to be done with em?" When, lo! certain knowing ones--savans, mayhap, Who, like Buckland's deep followers, understood trap,[4] Slyly hinted that naught upon earth was so good For Aristocratodons, when rampant and rude, As to stop or curtail their allowance of food. This expedient was tried and a proof it affords Of the effect that short commons will have upon lords; For this whole race of bipeds, one fine summer's morn, Shed their coronets, just as a deer sheds his horn, And the moment these gewgaws fell off, they became Quite a new sort of creature--so harmless and tame, That zo'logists might, for the first time, maintain 'em To be near akin to the genius humanum, And the experiment, tried so successfully then, Should be kept in remembrance when wanted again.

Constantinople - Retour En Songe

Victoria Mary Sackville-West

After a dream-dim voyage We came with sails all set Towards the city of the sea, And it was wonderful to me To find her reigning yet. Oh beauty that my eyes and heart Had feasted on before! The evening mosques were brushed with gold, The water lapped a lazy fold Upon that lovely shore; The gardens of her terraced hills Rose up above the port, And little houses half concealed The presence of a light revealed, And here my journey's end was sealed, And I reached the home I sought. Those windows I had opened wide To welcome in the sun! Those stairs that only happy feet Had measured with their running beat! That well-remembered winding street! Twelve months that were as one! Should others with their sordid cares And troubles enter here? Love hung about the rooms like smoke, And peace descended as a cloak, Should I allow the vulgar folk To desecrate that year? I laid the fuse with steady hand; We sailed into the night, From deck I watched the flames arise Remorseless as my tearless eyes That, with the waves and reddened skies, Flung back the angry light.

Persecutions Profitable.

Robert Herrick

Afflictions they most profitable are To the beholder and the sufferer: Bettering them both, but by a double strain, The first by patience, and the last by pain.

On the Men of Maine killed in the Victory of Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

Herman Melville

Afar they fell. It was the zone Of fig and orange, cane and lime (A land how all unlike their own, With the cold pine-grove overgrown), But still their Country's clime. And there in youth they died for her - The Volunteers, For her went up their dying prayers: So vast the Nation, yet so strong the tie. What doubt shall come, then, to deter The Republic's earnest faith and courage high.

The Divine Comedy by Dante: The Vision Of Paradise: Canto IX

Dante Alighieri

After solution of my doubt, thy Charles, O fair Clemenza, of the treachery spake That must befall his seed: but, "Tell it not," Said he, "and let the destin'd years come round." Nor may I tell thee more, save that the meed Of sorrow well-deserv'd shall quit your wrongs. And now the visage of that saintly light Was to the sun, that fills it, turn'd again, As to the good, whose plenitude of bliss Sufficeth all. O ye misguided souls! Infatuate, who from such a good estrange Your hearts, and bend your gaze on vanity, Alas for you!--And lo! toward me, next, Another of those splendent forms approach'd, That, by its outward bright'ning, testified The will it had to pleasure me. The eyes Of Beatrice, resting, as before, Firmly upon me, manifested forth Approval of my wish. "And O," I cried, "Blest spirit! quickly be my will perform'd; And prove thou to me, that my inmost thoughts I can reflect on thee." Thereat the light, That yet was new to me, from the recess, Where it before was singing, thus began, As one who joys in kindness: "In that part Of the deprav'd Italian land, which lies Between Rialto, and the fountain-springs Of Brenta and of Piava, there doth rise, But to no lofty eminence, a hill, From whence erewhile a firebrand did descend, That sorely sheet the region. From one root I and it sprang; my name on earth Cunizza: And here I glitter, for that by its light This star o'ercame me. Yet I naught repine, Nor grudge myself the cause of this my lot, Which haply vulgar hearts can scarce conceive. "This jewel, that is next me in our heaven, Lustrous and costly, great renown hath left, And not to perish, ere these hundred years Five times absolve their round. Consider thou, If to excel be worthy man's endeavour, When such life may attend the first. Yet they Care not for this, the crowd that now are girt By Adice and Tagliamento, still Impenitent, tho' scourg'd. The hour is near, When for their stubbornness at Padua's marsh The water shall be chang'd, that laves Vicena And where Cagnano meets with Sile, one Lords it, and bears his head aloft, for whom The web is now a-warping. Feltro too Shall sorrow for its godless shepherd's fault, Of so deep stain, that never, for the like, Was Malta's bar unclos'd. Too large should be The skillet, that would hold Ferrara's blood, And wearied he, who ounce by ounce would weight it, The which this priest, in show of party-zeal, Courteous will give; nor will the gift ill suit The country's custom. We descry above, Mirrors, ye call them thrones, from which to us Reflected shine the judgments of our God: Whence these our sayings we avouch for good." She ended, and appear'd on other thoughts Intent, re-ent'ring on the wheel she late Had left. That other joyance meanwhile wax'd A thing to marvel at, in splendour glowing, Like choicest ruby stricken by the sun, For, in that upper clime, effulgence comes Of gladness, as here laughter: and below, As the mind saddens, murkier grows the shade. "God seeth all: and in him is thy sight," Said I, "blest Spirit! Therefore will of his Cannot to thee be dark. Why then delays Thy voice to satisfy my wish untold, That voice which joins the inexpressive song, Pastime of heav'n, the which those ardours sing, That cowl them with six shadowing wings outspread? I would not wait thy asking, wert thou known To me, as thoroughly I to thee am known." He forthwith answ'ring, thus his words began: "The valley' of waters, widest next to that Which doth the earth engarland, shapes its course, Between discordant shores, against the sun Inward so far, it makes meridian there, Where was before th' horizon. Of that vale Dwelt I upon the shore, 'twixt Ebro's stream And Macra's, that divides with passage brief Genoan bounds from Tuscan. East and west Are nearly one to Begga and my land, Whose haven erst was with its own blood warm. Who knew my name were wont to call me Folco: And I did bear impression of this heav'n, That now bears mine: for not with fiercer flame Glow'd Belus' daughter, injuring alike Sichaeus and Creusa, than did I, Long as it suited the unripen'd down That fledg'd my cheek: nor she of Rhodope, That was beguiled of Demophoon; Nor Jove's son, when the charms of Iole Were shrin'd within his heart. And yet there hides No sorrowful repentance here, but mirth, Not for the fault (that doth not come to mind), But for the virtue, whose o'erruling sway And providence have wrought thus quaintly. Here The skill is look'd into, that fashioneth With such effectual working, and the good Discern'd, accruing to this upper world From that below. But fully to content Thy wishes, all that in this sphere have birth, Demands my further parle. Inquire thou wouldst, Who of this light is denizen, that here Beside me sparkles, as the sun-beam doth On the clear wave. Know then, the soul of Rahab Is in that gladsome harbour, to our tribe United, and the foremost rank assign'd. He to that heav'n, at which the shadow ends Of your sublunar world, was taken up, First, in Christ's triumph, of all souls redeem'd: For well behoov'd, that, in some part of heav'n, She should remain a trophy, to declare The mighty contest won with either palm; For that she favour'd first the high exploit Of Joshua on the holy land, whereof The Pope recks little now. Thy city, plant Of him, that on his Maker turn'd the back, And of whose envying so much woe hath sprung, Engenders and expands the cursed flower, That hath made wander both the sheep and lambs, Turning the shepherd to a wolf. For this, The gospel and great teachers laid aside, The decretals, as their stuft margins show, Are the sole study. Pope and Cardinals, Intent on these, ne'er journey but in thought To Nazareth, where Gabriel op'd his wings. Yet it may chance, erelong, the Vatican, And other most selected parts of Rome, That were the grave of Peter's soldiery, Shall be deliver'd from the adult'rous bond."

The King And The Sea

Rudyard Kipling

After His Realms and States were moved To bare their hearts to the King they loved, Tendering themselves in homage and devotion, The Tide Wave up the Channel spoke To all those eager, exultant folk: "Hear now what Man was given you by the Ocean! "There was no thought of Orb or Crown When the single wooden chest went down To the steering-flat, and the careless Gunroom haled him To learn by ancient and bitter use, How neither Favour nor Excuse, Nor aught save his sheer self henceforth availed him. "There was no talk of birth or rank By the slung hammock or scrubbed plank In the steel-grated prisons where 1 cast him; But niggard hours and a narrow space For rest-and the naked light on his face While the ship's traffic flowed, unceasing, past him. "Thus I schooled him to go and come To speak at the word-at a sign be dumb; To stand to his task, not seeking others to aid him; To share in honour what praise might fall For the task accomplished, and-over all To swallow rebuke in silence. Thus I made him. "I loosened every mood of the deep On him, a child and sick for sleep, Through the long watches that no time can measure, When I drove him, deafened and choked and blind, At the wave-tops cut and spun by the wind; Lashing him, face and eyes, with my displeasure. "I opened him all the guile of the seas, Their sullen, swift-sprung treacheries, To be fought, or forestalled, or dared, or dismissed with laughter. I showed him Worth by Folly concealed, And the flaw in the soul that a chance revealed (Lessons remembered-to bear fruit thereafter). "I dealt him Power beneath his hand, For trial and proof, with his first Command, Himself alone, and no man to gainsay him. On him the End, the Means, and the Word, And the harsher judgment if he erred, And-outboard-Ocean waiting to betray him. "Wherefore, when he came to be crowned, Strength in Duty held him bound, So that not Power misled nor ease ensnared him Who had spared himself no more than his seas had spared him!" .    .    .    .    .    .    .    . After His Lieges, in all His Lands, Had laid their hands between His hands, And His ships thundered service and devotion, The Tide Wave, ranging the Planet, spoke On all Our foreshores as it broke: "Know now what Man 1 gave you-I, the Ocean!"

At General Grant's Tomb.

Hattie Howard

Afar my loyal spirit stirred At mention of his name; Afar in ringing notes I heard The clarion voice of fame; So to his tomb, hope long deferred, With reverent step I came. The pilgrim muse revivified A half-forgotten day: A slow procession, tearful-eyed, In funeral array, And from MacGregor's lonely side A hero borne away. Here sleeps he now, where long ago Hath nature raised his mound: A mighty channel far below, Divided hills around, Where countless thousands come and go As to a shrine renowned. With awe do strangers' eyes discern A casket mid the green Luxuriance of flower and fern; Airy and cool and clean, Unchanged from spring to spring's return, This charnel chamber scene. His country's weal his care and thought, Beloved in peace was he; Magnanimous in war - shall not The nation grateful be, And render at his burial spot A testimonial free? Oh, let us, ere the days come on When energy is spent, To him, the silent soldier gone, Statesman and President, On Riverside's majestic lawn Uprear a monument.

The Convert

Gilbert Keith Chesterton

After one moment when I bowed my head And the whole world turned over and came upright, And I came out where the old road shone white, I walked the ways and heard what all men said, Forests of tongues, like autumn leaves unshed, Being not unlovable but strange and light; Old riddles and new creeds, not in despite But softly, as men smile about the dead. The sages have a hundred maps to give That trace their crawling cosmos like a tree, They rattle reason out through many a sieve That stores the sand and lets the gold go free: And all these things are less than dust to me Because my name is Lazarus and I live.

Song Of The Open Road

Walt Whitman

Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me, The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose. Henceforth I ask not good-fortune I myself am good fortune; Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, Strong and content, I travel the open road. The earth that is sufficient; I do not want the constellations any nearer; I know they are very well where they are; I know they suffice for those who belong to them. (Still here I carry my old delicious burdens; I carry them, men and women I carry them with me wherever I go; I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them; I am fill'd with them, and I will fill them in return.) You road I enter upon and look around! I believe you are not all that is here; I believe that much unseen is also here. Here the profound lesson of reception, neither preference or denial; The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseas'd, the illiterate person, are not denied; The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar's tramp, the drunkard's stagger, the laughing party of mechanics, The escaped youth, the rich person's carriage, the fop, the eloping couple, The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the town, the return back from the town, They pass I also pass anything passes none can be interdicted; None but are accepted none but are dear to me. You air that serves me with breath to speak! You objects that call from diffusion my meanings, and give them shape! You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers! You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadsides! I think you are latent with unseen existences you are so dear to me. You flagg'd walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges! You ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined sides! you distant ships! You rows of houses! you window-pierc'd fa'ades! you roofs! You porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards! You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much! You doors and ascending steps! you arches! You gray stones of interminable pavements! you trodden crossings! From all that has been near you, I believe you have imparted to yourselves, and now would impart the same secretly to me; From the living and the dead I think you have peopled your impassive surfaces, and the spirits thereof would be evident and amicable with me. The earth expanding right hand and left hand, The picture alive, every part in its best light, The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted, The cheerful voice of the public road the gay fresh sentiment of the road. O highway I travel! O public road! do you say to me, Do not leave me? Do you say, Venture not? If you leave me, you are lost? Do you say, I am already prepared I am well-beaten and undenied adhere to me? O public road! I say back, I am not afraid to leave you yet I love you; You express me better than I can express myself; You shall be more to me than my poem. I think heroic deeds were all conceiv'd in the open air, and all great poems also; I think I could stop here myself, and do miracles; (My judgments, thoughts, I henceforth try by the open air, the road;) I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me; I think whoever I see must be happy. From this hour, freedom! From this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary lines, Going where I list, my own master, total and absolute, Listening to others, and considering well what they say, Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating, Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me. I inhale great draughts of space; The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine. I am larger, better than I thought; I did not know I held so much goodness. All seems beautiful to me; I can repeat over to men and women, You have done such good to me, I would do the same to you. I will recruit for myself and you as I go; I will scatter myself among men and women as I go; I will toss the new gladness and roughness among them; Whoever denies me, it shall not trouble me; Whoever accepts me, he or she shall be blessed, and shall bless me. Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear, it would not amaze me; Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear'd, it would not astonish me. Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons, It is to grow in the open air, and to eat and sleep with the earth. Here a great personal deed has room; A great deed seizes upon the hearts of the whole race of men, Its effusion of strength and will overwhelms law, and mocks all authority and all argument against it. Here is the test of wisdom; Wisdom is not finally tested in schools; Wisdom cannot be pass'd from one having it, to another not having it; Wisdom is of the Soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof, Applies to all stages and objects and qualities, and is content, Is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and the excellence of things; Something there is in the float of the sight of things that provokes it out of the Soul. Now I re'xamine philosophies and religions, They may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet not prove at all under the spacious clouds, and along the landscape and flowing currents. Here is realization; Here is a man tallied he realizes here what he has in him; The past, the future, majesty, love if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them. Only the kernel of every object nourishes; Where is he who tears off the husks for you and me? Where is he that undoes stratagems and envelopes for you and me? Here is adhesiveness it is not previously fashion'd it is apropos; Do you know what it is, as you pass, to be loved by strangers? Do you know the talk of those turning eye-balls? Here is the efflux of the Soul; The efflux of the Soul comes from within, through embower'd gates, ever provoking questions: These yearnings, why are they? These thoughts in the darkness, why are they? Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me, the sun-light expands my blood? Why, when they leave me, do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank? Why are there trees I never walk under, but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me? (I think they hang there winter and summer on those trees, and always drop fruit as I pass;) What is it I interchange so suddenly with strangers? What with some driver, as I ride on the seat by his side? What with some fisherman, drawing his seine by the shore, as I walk by, and pause? What gives me to be free to a woman's or man's good-will? What gives them to be free to mine? The efflux of the Soul is happiness here is happiness; I think it pervades the open air, waiting at all times; Now it flows unto us we are rightly charged. Here rises the fluid and attaching character; The fluid and attaching character is the freshness and sweetness of man and woman; (The herbs of the morning sprout no fresher and sweeter every day out of the roots of themselves, than it sprouts fresh and sweet continually out of itself.) Toward the fluid and attaching character exudes the sweat of the love of young and old; From it falls distill'd the charm that mocks beauty and attainments; Toward it heaves the shuddering longing ache of contact. Allons! whoever you are, come travel with me! Traveling with me, you find what never tires. The earth never tires; The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first; Be not discouraged keep on there are divine things, well envelop'd; I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell. Allons! we must not stop here! However sweet these laid-up stores however convenient this dwelling, we cannot remain here; However shelter'd this port, and however calm these waters, we must not anchor here; However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us, we are permitted to receive it but a little while. Allons! the inducements shall be greater; We will sail pathless and wild seas; We will go where winds blow, waves dash, and the Yankee clipper speeds by under full sail. Allons! with power, liberty, the earth, the elements! Health, defiance, gayety, self-esteem, curiosity; Allons! from all formules! From your formules, O bat-eyed and materialistic priests! The stale cadaver blocks up the passage the burial waits no longer. Allons! yet take warning! He traveling with me needs the best blood, thews, endurance; None may come to the trial, till he or she bring courage and health. Come not here if you have already spent the best of yourself; Only those may come, who come in sweet and determin'd bodies; No diseas'd person no rum-drinker or venereal taint is permitted here. I and mine do not convince by arguments, similes, rhymes; We convince by our presence. Listen! I will be honest with you; I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes; These are the days that must happen to you: You shall not heap up what is call'd riches, You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve, You but arrive at the city to which you were destin'd you hardly settle yourself to satisfaction, before you are call'd by an irresistible call to depart, You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you; What beckonings of love you receive, you shall only answer with passionate kisses of parting, You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach'd hands toward you. Allons! after the great companions! and to belong to them! They too are on the road! they are the swift and majestic men; they are the greatest women. Over that which hinder'd them over that which retarded passing impediments large or small, Committers of crimes, committers of many beautiful virtues, Enjoyers of calms of seas, and storms of seas, Sailors of many a ship, walkers of many a mile of land, Habitu's of many distant countries, habitu's of far-distant dwellings, Trusters of men and women, observers of cities, solitary toilers, Pausers and contemplators of tufts, blossoms, shells of the shore, Dancers at wedding-dances, kissers of brides, tender helpers of children, bearers of children, Soldiers of revolts, standers by gaping graves, lowerers down of coffins, Journeyers over consecutive seasons, over the years the curious years, each emerging from that which preceded it, Journeyers as with companions, namely, their own diverse phases, Forth-steppers from the latent unrealized baby-days, Journeyers gayly with their own youth Journeyers with their bearded and well-grain'd manhood, Journeyers with their womanhood, ample, unsurpass'd, content, Journeyers with their own sublime old age of manhood or womanhood, Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe, Old age, flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death. Allons! to that which is endless, as it was beginningless, To undergo much, tramps of days, rests of nights, To merge all in the travel they tend to, and the days and nights they tend to, Again to merge them in the start of superior journeys; To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it, To conceive no time, however distant, but what you may reach it and pass it, To look up or down no road but it stretches and waits for you however long, but it stretches and waits for you; To see no being, not God's or any, but you also go thither, To see no possession but you may possess it enjoying all without labor or purchase abstracting the feast, yet not abstracting one particle of it; To take the best of the farmer's farm and the rich man's elegant villa, and the chaste blessings of the well-married couple, an the fruits of orchards and flowers of gardens, To take to your use out of the compact cities as you pass through, To carry buildings and streets with you afterward wherever you go, To gather the minds of men out of their brains as you encounter them to gather the love out of their hearts, To take your lovers on the road with you, for all that you leave them behind you, To know the universe itself as a road as many roads as roads for traveling souls. The Soul travels; The body does not travel as much as the soul; The body has just as great a work as the soul, and parts away at last for the journeys of the soul. All parts away for the progress of souls; All religion, all solid things, arts, governments, all that was or is apparent upon this globe or any globe, falls into niches and corners before the procession of Souls along the grand roads of the universe. Of the progress of the souls of men and women along the grand roads of the universe, all other progress is the needed emblem and sustenance. Forever alive, forever forward, Stately, solemn, sad, withdrawn, baffled, mad, turbulent, feeble, dissatisfied, Desperate, proud, fond, sick, accepted by men, rejected by men, They go! they go! I know that they go, but I know not where they go; But I know that they go toward the best toward something great. Allons! whoever you are! come forth! You must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house, though you built it, or though it has been built for you. Allons! out of the dark confinement! It is useless to protest I know all, and expose it. Behold, through you as bad as the rest, Through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping, of people, Inside of dresses and ornaments, inside of those wash'd and trimm'd faces, Behold a secret silent loathing and despair. No husband, no wife, no friend, trusted to hear the confession; Another self, a duplicate of every one, skulking and hiding it goes, Formless and wordless through the streets of the cities, polite and bland in the parlors, In the cars of rail-roads, in steamboats, in the public assembly, Home to the houses of men and women, at the table, in the bed-room, everywhere, Smartly attired, countenance smiling, form upright, death under the breast-bones, hell under the skull-bones, Under the broadcloth and gloves, under the ribbons and artificial flowers, Keeping fair with the customs, speaking not a syllable of itself, Speaking of anything else, but never of itself. Allons! through struggles and wars! The goal that was named cannot be countermanded. Have the past struggles succeeded? What has succeeded? yourself? your nation? nature? Now understand me well It is provided in the essence of things, that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary. My call is the call of battle I nourish active rebellion; He going with me must go well arm'd; He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions. Allons! the road is before us! It is safe I have tried it my own feet have tried it well. Allons! be not detain'd! Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen'd! Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn'd! Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher! Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law. Mon enfant! I give you my hand! I give you my love, more precious than money, I give you myself, before preaching or law; Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me? Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

The Forgotten Grave.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

After a hundred years Nobody knows the place, -- Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace. Weeds triumphant ranged, Strangers strolled and spelled At the lone orthography Of the elder dead. Winds of summer fields Recollect the way, -- Instinct picking up the key Dropped by memory.

Gustav Richter

Edgar Lee Masters

After a long day of work in my hot - houses Sleep was sweet, but if you sleep on your left side Your dreams may be abruptly ended. I was among my flowers where some one Seemed to be raising them on trial, As if after-while to be transplanted To a larger garden of freer air. And I was disembodied vision Amid a light, as it were the sun Had floated in and touched the roof of glass Like a toy balloon and softly bursted, And etherealized in golden air. And all was silence, except the splendor Was immanent with thought as clear As a speaking voice, and I, as thought, Could hear a Presence think as he walked Between the boxes pinching off leaves, Looking for bugs and noting values, With an eye that saw it all: "Homer, oh yes! Pericles, good. Caesar Borgia, what shall be done with it? Dante, too much manure, perhaps. Napoleon, leave him awhile as yet. Shelley, more soil.    Shakespeare, needs spraying - " Clouds, eh! -

Herba Santa

Herman Melville

I After long wars when comes release Not olive wands proclaiming peace Can import dearer share Than stems of Herba Santa hazed In autumn's Indian air. Of moods they breathe that care disarm, They pledge us lenitive and calm. II Shall code or creed a lure afford To win all selves to Love's accord? When Love ordained a supper divine For the wide world of man, What bickerings o'er his gracious wine! Then strange new feuds began. Effectual more in lowlier way, Pacific Herb, thy sensuous plea The bristling clans of Adam sway At least to fellowship in thee! Before thine altar tribal flags are furled, Fain wouldst thou make one hearthstone of the world. III To scythe, to sceptre, pen and hod-- Yea, sodden laborers dumb; To brains overplied, to feet that plod, In solace of the Truce of God The Calumet has come! IV Ah for the world ere Raleigh's find Never that knew this suasive balm That helps when Gilead's fails to heal, Helps by an interserted charm. Insinuous thou that through the nerve Windest the soul, and so canst win Some from repinings, some from sin, The Church's aim thou dost subserve. The ruffled fag fordone with care And brooding, God would ease this pain: Him soothest thou and smoothest down Till some content return again. Even ruffians feel thy influence breed Saint Martin's summer in the mind, They feel this last evangel plead, As did the first, apart from creed, Be peaceful, man--be kind! V Rejected once on higher plain, O Love supreme, to come again Can this be thine? Again to come, and win us too In likeness of a weed That as a god didst vainly woo, As man more vainly bleed? VI Forbear, my soul! and in thine Eastern chamber Rehearse the dream that brings the long release: Through jasmine sweet and talismanic amber Inhaling Herba Santa in the passive Pipe of Peace.

Sea-Born

Virna Sheard

Afar in the turbulent city, In a hive where men make gold, He stood at his loom from dawn to dark, While the passing years were told. And when he knew it was summer-time By the grey dust on the street, By the lingering hours of daylight, And the sultry noon-tide heat - Oh! he longed as a captive sea-bird To leave his cage and be free, For his heart like a shell kept singing The old, old song of the sea. And amid the noise and confusion Of wheels that were never still, He heard the wind through the scented pines On a rough, storm-beaten hill; While, beyond a maze of painted threads, Where his tireless shuttle flew, In fancy he saw the sunlit waves Beckon him out to the blue.

Afraid? Of Whom Am I Afraid?

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Afraid? Of whom am I afraid? Not death; for who is he? The porter of my father's lodge As much abasheth me. Of life? 'T were odd I fear a thing That comprehendeth me In one or more existences At Deity's decree. Of resurrection? Is the east Afraid to trust the morn With her fastidious forehead? As soon impeach my crown!

Songs Without Sense

Bret Harte (Francis)

I. THE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENTAL Affection's charm no longer gilds The idol of the shrine; But cold Oblivion seeks to fill Regret's ambrosial wine. Though Friendship's offering buried lies 'Neath cold Aversion's snow, Regard and Faith will ever bloom Perpetually below. I see thee whirl in marble halls, In Pleasure's giddy train; Remorse is never on that brow, Nor Sorrow's mark of pain. Deceit has marked thee for her own; Inconstancy the same; And Ruin wildly sheds its gleam Athwart thy path of shame. II. THE HOMELY PATHETIC The dews are heavy on my brow; My breath comes hard and low; Yet, mother dear, grant one request, Before your boy must go. Oh! lift me ere my spirit sinks, And ere my senses fail, Place me once more, O mother dear, Astride the old fence-rail. The old fence-rail, the old fence-rail! How oft these youthful legs, With Alice' and Ben Bolt's, were hung Across those wooden pegs! 'Twas there the nauseating smoke Of my first pipe arose: O mother dear, these agonies Are far less keen than those. I know where lies the hazel dell, Where simple Nellie sleeps; I know the cot of Nettie Moore, And where the willow weeps. I know the brookside and the mill, But all their pathos fails Beside the days when once I sat Astride the old fence-rails. III. SWISS AIR I'm a gay tra, la, la, With my fal, lal, la, la, And my bright And my light Tra, la, le. [Repeat.] Then laugh, ha, ha, ha, And ring, ting, ling, ling, And sing fal, la, la, La, la, le. [Repeat.]

Homeward Bound

Henry John Newbolt, Sir

After long labouring in the windy ways, On smooth and shining tides Swiftly the great ship glides, Her storms forgot, her weary watches past; Northward she glides, and through the enchanted haze Faint on the verge her far hope dawns at last. The phantom sky-line of a shadowy down, Whose pale white cliffs below Through sunny mist aglow, Like noon-day ghosts of summer moonshine gleam--- Soft as old sorrow, bright as old renown, There lies the home, of all our mortal dream.

The Hyaenas

Rudyard Kipling

After the burial-parties leave And the baffled kites have fled; The wise hyaenas come out at eve To take account of our dead. How he died and why he died Troubles them not a whit. They snout the bushes and stones aside And dig till they come to it. They are only resolute they shall eat That they and their mates may thrive, And they know that the dead are safer meat Than the weakest thing alive. (For a goat may butt, and a worm may sting, And a child will sometimes stand; But a poor dead soldier of the King Can never lift a hand.) They whoop and halloo and scatter the dirt Until their tushes white Take good hold of the army shirt, And tug the corpse to light, And the pitiful face is shewn again For an instant ere they close; But it is not discovered to living men, Only to God and to those Who, being soulless, are free from shame, Whatever meat they may find. Nor do they defile the dead man's name, That is reserved for his kind.

In A Subway Station

Sara Teasdale

After a year I came again to the place; The tireless lights and the reverberation, The angry thunder of trains that burrow the ground, The hunted, hurrying people were still the same But oh, another man beside me and not you! Another voice and other eyes in mine! And suddenly I turned and saw again The gleaming curve of tracks, the bridge above They were burned deep into my heart before, The night I watched them to avoid your eyes, When you were saying, "Oh, look up at me!" When you were saying, "Will you never love me?" And when I answered with a lie. Oh then You dropped your eyes. I felt your utter pain. I would have died to say the truth to you. After a year I came again to the place The hunted hurrying people were still the same...

The End

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen

After the blast of lightning from the east, The flourish of loud clouds, the Chariot throne, After the drums of time have rolled and ceased And from the bronze west long retreat is blown, Shall Life renew these bodies? Of a truth All death will he annul, all tears assuage? Or fill these void veins full again with youth And wash with an immortal water age? When I do ask white Age, he saith not so,-- "My head hangs weighed with snow." And when I hearken to the Earth she saith My fiery heart sinks aching. It is death. Mine ancient scars shall not be glorified Nor my titanic tears the seas be dried."

Scientific (Prose)

John Hartley

After the annual excursion of the Lowly Dale Scientific Society, the members were addressed by Mr. Evertrot Gagthorp. New specimens, the product of their recent journey, now enrich the Museum: viz. In Geology - Limestone, pumice stone, soft stone, white stone, plum stone, and cherry stone. Conchology - Egg shell Tortoise shell nut shell and satchel. Botany - Corn flour, grog blossom, and many leaves from the book of nature. Entomology - a swallow tail had been obtained, but the president going to a dress party, had got the loan of it.

Readjustment.

Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

After the earthquake shock or lightning dart Comes a recoil of silence o'er the lands, And then, with pulses hot and quivering hands, Earth calls up courage to her mighty heart, Plies every tender, compensating art, Draws her green, flowery veil above the scar, Fills the shrunk hollow, smooths the riven plain, And with a century's tendance heals again The seams and gashes which her fairness mar. So we, when sudden woe like lightning sped, Finds us and smites us in our guarded place, After one brief, bewildered moment's space, By the same heavenly instinct taught and led, Adjust our lives to loss, make friends with pain, Bind all our shattered hopes and bid them bloom again.

His Praise Of The Little Hill And The Plains Of Mayo

Isabella Augusta, Lady Gregory

After the Christmas, with the help of Christ, I will never stop if I am alive; I will go to the sharp-edged little hill; for it is a fine place without fog falling; a blessed place    that    the sun shines on, and the wind doesn't rise there or anything of the sort. And if you were a year there you would get no rest, only sitting up at night and forever drinking.    The lamb and the sheep are there; the cow and the calf are there, fine lands are there without    heath and without bog. Ploughing & seed-sowing in the right month, plough and harrow prepared and ready; the rent that is called for there, they have means to pay it. There is oats and flax & large eared barley. There are beautiful    valleys with good growth in them and hay. Rods grow there, and bushes and tufts, white fields are there and respect for trees; shade and shelter from wind and rain; priests and friars reading their book; spending and getting is there, and nothing scarce. I leave it in my will that my heart rises as the wind rises, and as the fog scatters, when I think upon Carra and the two towns below it, on the two-mile bush and on the plains of Mayo. And if I were standing in the middle of my people, age would go from me and I would be young again.

For The Window In St. Margaret's In Memory Of A Son Of Archdeacon Farrar

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Afar he sleeps whose name is graven here, Where loving hearts his early doom deplore; Youth, promise, virtue, all that made him dear Heaven lent, earth borrowed, sorrowing to restore. BOSTON, April 12, 1891.

Pain Ends In Pleasure.

Robert Herrick

Afflictions bring us joy in times to come, When sins, by stripes, to us grow wearisome.

The English Way

Rudyard Kipling

After the fight at Otterburn, Before the ravens came, The Witch-wife rode across the fern And spoke Earl Percy's name. "Stand up-stand up, Northumberland! I bid you answer true, If England's King has under his hand A Captain as good as you?" Then up and spake the dead Percy, Oh, but his wound was sore! "Five hundred Captains as good," said he, "And I trow five hundred more. "But I pray you by the lifting skies, And the young wind over the grass, That you take your eyes from off my eyes, And let my spirit pass." "Stand up-stand up, Northumberland! I charge you answer true, If ever you dealt in steel and brand, How went the fray with you?" "Hither and yon," the Percy said; "As every fight must go; For some they fought and some they fled, And some struck ne'er a blow. "But I pray you by the breaking skies, And the first call from the nest, That you turn your eyes away from my eyes, And let me to my rest." "Stand up-stand up, Northumberland! I will that you answer true, If you and your men were quick again, How would it be with you?" "Oh, we would speak of hawk and hound, And the red deer where they rove, And the merry foxes the country round, And the maidens that we love. "We would not speak of steel or steed, Except to grudge the cost; And he that had done the doughtiest deed Would mock himself the most. "But I pray you by my keep and tower, And the tables in my hall, And I pray you by my lady's bower (Ah, bitterest of all!) "That you lift your eyes from outen my eyes, Your hand from off my breast, And cover my face from the red sun-rise, And loose me to my rest!" She has taken her eyes from out of his eyes, Her palm from off his breast, And covered his face from the red sun-rise, And loosed him to his rest. "Sleep you, or wake, Northumberland, You shall not speak again, And the word you have said 'twixt quick and dead I lay on Englishmen. "So long as Severn runs to West Or Humber to the East, That they who bore themselves the best Shall count themselves the least. "While there is fighting at the ford, Or flood along the Tweed, That they shall choose the lesser word To cloke the greater deed. "After the quarry and the kill, The fair fight and the fame, With an ill face and an ill grace Shall they rehearse the same. "Greater the deed, greater the need Lightly to laugh it away, Shall be the mark of the English breed Until the Judgment Day!"

The Crambo-Clink.

David Rorie M.D.

Afore there was law to fleg us a', An' schedule richt frae wrang, The man o' the cave had got the crave For the lichtsome lilt o' sang. Wife an' strife an' the pride o' life, Woman an' war an' drink; He sang o' them a' at e'enin's fa' By aid o' the crambo-clink. When the sharpest flint made the deepest dint, An' the strongest worked his will, He drew his tune frae the burnie's croon An' the whistlin' win' o' the hill. At the mou' o's cave to pleesure the lave, He was singin' afore he could think, An' the wife in bye hush'd the bairnie's cry Wi' a swatch o' the crambo-clink. Nae creetic was there wi' superior air For the singer wha daur decry When they saw the sheen o' the makar's een, An' his han' on his axe forbye? But the nicht grew auld an' he never devaul'd While ane by ane they would slink, Awa' at a rin to their beds o' skin Frae the soun' o' the crambo-clink.

Song Of The Exposition

Walt Whitman

After all, not to create only, or found only, But to bring, perhaps from afar, what is already founded, To give it our own identity, average, limitless, free; To fill the gross, the torpid bulk with vital religious fire; Not to repel or destroy, so much as accept, fuse, rehabilitate; To obey, as well as command to follow, more than to lead; These also are the lessons of our New World; While how little the New, after all how much the Old, Old World! Long, long, long, has the grass been growing, Long and long has the rain been falling, Long has the globe been rolling round. Come, Muse, migrate from Greece and Ionia; Cross out, please, those immensely overpaid accounts, That matter of Troy, and Achilles' wrath, and Eneas', Odysseus' wanderings; Placard "Removed" and "To Let" on the rocks of your snowy Parnassus; Repeat at Jerusalem place the notice high on Jaffa's gate, and on Mount Moriah; The same on the walls of your Gothic European Cathedrals, and German, French and Spanish Castles; For know a better, fresher, busier sphere a wide, untried domain awaits, demands you. Responsive to our summons, Or rather to her long-nurs'd inclination, Join'd with an irresistible, natural gravitation, She comes! this famous Female as was indeed to be expected; (For who, so-ever youthful, 'cute and handsome, would wish to stay in mansions such as those, When offer'd quarters with all the modern improvements, With all the fun that 's going and all the best society?) She comes! I hear the rustling of her gown; I scent the odor of her breath's delicious fragrance; I mark her step divine her curious eyes a-turning, rolling, Upon this very scene. The Dame of Dames! can I believe, then, Those ancient temples classic, and castles strong and feudalistic, could none of them restrain her? Nor shades of Virgil and Dante nor myriad memories, poems, old associations, magnetize and hold on to her? But that she 's left them all and here? Yes, if you will allow me to say so, I, my friends, if you do not, can plainly see Her, The same Undying Soul of Earth's, activity's, beauty's, heroism's Expression, Out from her evolutions hither come submerged the strata of her former themes, Hidden and cover'd by to-day's foundation of to-day's; Ended, deceas'd, through time, her voice by Castaly's fountain; Silent through time the broken-lipp'd Sphynx in Egypt silent those century-baffling tombs; Closed for aye the epics of Asia's, Europe's helmeted warriors; Calliope's call for ever closed Clio, Melpomene, Thalia closed and dead; Seal'd the stately rhythmus of Una and Oriana ended the quest of the Holy Graal; Jerusalem a handful of ashes blown by the wind extinct; The Crusaders' streams of shadowy, midnight troops, sped with the sunrise; Amadis, Tancred, utterly gone Charlemagne, Roland, Oliver gone, Palmerin, ogre, departed vanish'd the turrets that Usk reflected, Arthur vanish'd with all his knights Merlin and Lancelot and Galahad all gone dissolv'd utterly, like an exhalation; Pass'd! pass'd! for us, for ever pass'd! that once so mighty World now void, inanimate, phantom World! Embroider'd, dazzling World! with all its gorgeous legends, myths, Its kings and barons proud its priests, and warlike lords, and courtly dames; Pass'd to its charnel vault laid on the shelf coffin'd, with Crown and Armor on, Blazon'd with Shakspeare's purple page, And dirged by Tennyson's sweet sad rhyme. I say I see, my friends, if you do not, the Animus of all that World, Escaped, bequeath'd, vital, fugacious as ever, leaving those dead remains, and now this spot approaching, filling; And I can hear what maybe you do not a terrible aesthetical commotion, With howling, desperate gulp of "flower" and "bower," With "Sonnet to Matilda's Eyebrow" quite, quite frantic; With gushing, sentimental reading circles turn'd to ice or stone; With many a squeak, (in metre choice,) from Boston, New York, Philadelphia, London; As she, the illustrious Emigr', (having, it is true, in her day, although the same, changed, journey'd considerable,) Making directly for this rendezvous vigorously clearing a path for herself striding through the confusion, By thud of machinery and shrill steam-whistle undismay'd, Bluff'd not a bit by drain-pipe, gasometers, artificial fertilizers, Smiling and pleased, with palpable intent to stay, She 's here, install'd amid the kitchen ware! But hold don't I forget my manners? To introduce the Stranger (what else indeed have I come for?) to thee, Columbia: In Liberty's name, welcome, Immortal! clasp hands, And ever henceforth Sisters dear be both. Fear not, O Muse! truly new ways and days receive, surround you, (I candidly confess, a queer, queer race, of novel fashion,) And yet the same old human race the same within, without, Faces and hearts the same feelings the same yearnings the same, The same old love beauty and use the same. We do not blame thee, Elder World nor separate ourselves from thee: (Would the Son separate himself from the Father?) Looking back on thee seeing thee to thy duties, grandeurs, through past ages bending, building, We build to ours to-day. Mightier than Egypt's tombs, Fairer than Grecia's, Roma's temples, Prouder than Milan's statued, spired Cathedral, More picturesque than Rhenish castle-keeps, We plan, even now, to raise, beyond them all, Thy great Cathedral, sacred Industry no tomb, A Keep for life for practical Invention. As in a waking vision, E'en while I chant, I see it rise I scan and prophesy outside and in, Its manifold ensemble. Around a Palace, Loftier, fairer, ampler than any yet, Earth's modern Wonder, History's Seven outstripping, High rising tier on tier, with glass and iron fa'ades. Gladdening the sun and sky enhued in cheerfulest hues, Bronze, lilac, robin's-egg, marine and crimson, Over whose golden roof shall flaunt, beneath thy banner, Freedom, The banners of The States, the flags of every land, A brood of lofty, fair, but lesser Palaces shall cluster. Somewhere within the walls of all, Shall all that forwards perfect human life be started, Tried, taught, advanced, visibly exhibited. Here shall you trace in flowing operation, In every state of practical, busy movement, The rills of Civilization. Materials here, under your eye, shall change their shape, as if by magic; The cotton shall be pick'd almost in the very field, Shall be dried, clean'd, ginn'd, baled, spun into thread and cloth, before you: You shall see hands at work at all the old processes, and all the new ones; You shall see the various grains, and how flour is made, and then bread baked by the bakers; You shall see the crude ores of California and Nevada passing on and on till they become bullion; You shall watch how the printer sets type, and learn what a composing stick is; You shall mark, in amazement, the Hoe press whirling its cylinders, shedding the printed leaves steady and fast: The photograph, model, watch, pin, nail, shall be created before you. In large calm halls, a stately Museum shall teach you the infinite, solemn lessons of Minerals; In another, woods, plants, Vegetation shall be illustrated in another Animals, animal life and development. One stately house shall be the Music House; Others for other Arts Learning, the Sciences, shall all be here; None shall be slighted none but shall here be honor'd, help'd, exampled. This, this and these, America, shall be your Pyramids and Obelisks, Your Alexandrian Pharos, gardens of Babylon, Your temple at Olympia. The male and female many laboring not, Shall ever here confront the laboring many, With precious benefits to both glory to all, To thee, America and thee, Eternal Muse. And here shall ye inhabit, Powerful Matrons! In your vast state, vaster than all the old; Echoed through long, long centuries to come, To sound of different, prouder songs, with stronger themes, Practical, peaceful life the people's life the People themselves, Lifted, illumin'd, bathed in peace elate, secure in peace. Away with themes of war! away with War itself! Hence from my shuddering sight, to never more return, that show of blacken'd, mutilated corpses! That hell unpent, and raid of blood fit for wild tigers, or for lop-tongued wolves not reasoning men! And in its stead speed Industry's campaigns! With thy undaunted armies, Engineering! Thy pennants, Labor, loosen'd to the breeze! Thy bugles sounding loud and clear! Away with old romance! Away with novels, plots, and plays of foreign courts! Away with love-verses, sugar'd in rhyme the intrigues, amours of idlers, Fitted for only banquets of the night, where dancers to late music slide; The unhealthy pleasures, extravagant dissipations of the few, With perfumes, heat and wine, beneath the dazzling chandeliers. To you, ye Reverent, sane Sisters, To this resplendent day, the present scene, These eyes and ears that like some broad parterre bloom up around, before me, I raise a voice for far superber themes for poets and for Art, To exalt the present and the real, To teach the average man the glory of his daily walk and trade, To sing, in songs, how exercise and chemical life are never to be baffled; Boldly to thee, America, to-day! and thee, Immortal Muse! To practical, manual work, for each and all to plough, hoe, dig, To plant and tend the tree, the berry, the vegetables, flowers, For every man to see to it that he really do something for every woman too; To use the hammer, and the saw, (rip or cross-cut,) To cultivate a turn for carpentering, plastering, painting, To work as tailor, tailoress, nurse, hostler, porter, To invent a little something ingenious to aid the washing, cooking, cleaning, And hold it no disgrace to take a hand at them themselves. I say I bring thee, Muse, to-day and here, All occupations, duties broad and close, Toil, healthy toil and sweat, endless, without cessation, The old, old general burdens, interests, joys, The family, parentage, childhood, husband and wife, The house-comforts the house itself, and all its belongings, Food and its preservations chemistry applied to it; Whatever forms the average, strong, complete, sweet-blooded Man or Woman the perfect, longeve Personality, And helps its present life to health and happiness and shapes its Soul, For the eternal Real Life to come. With latest materials, works, Steam-power, the great Express lines, gas, petroleum, These triumphs of our time, the Atlantic's delicate cable, The Pacific Railroad, the Suez canal, the Mont Cenis tunnel; Science advanced, in grandeur and reality, analyzing every thing, This world all spann'd with iron rails with lines of steamships threading every sea, Our own Rondure, the current globe I bring. And thou, high-towering One America! Thy swarm of offspring towering high yet higher thee, above all towering, With Victory on thy left, and at thy right hand Law; Thou Union, holding all fusing, absorbing, tolerating all, Thee, ever thee, I bring. Thou also thou, a world! With all thy wide geographies, manifold, different, distant, Rounding by thee in One one common orbic language, One common indivisible destiny and Union. And by the spells which ye vouchsafe, To those, your ministers in earnest, I here personify and call my themes, To make them pass before ye. Behold, America! (And thou, ineffable Guest and Sister!) For thee come trooping up thy waters and thy lands: Behold! thy fields and farms, thy far-off woods and mountains, As in procession coming. Behold! the sea itself! And on its limitless, heaving breast, thy ships: See! where their white sails, bellying in the wind, speckle the green and blue! See! thy steamers coming and going, steaming in or out of port! See! dusky and undulating, their long pennants of smoke! Behold, in Oregon, far in the north and west, Or in Maine, far in the north and east, thy cheerful axemen, Wielding all day their axes! Behold, on the lakes, thy pilots at their wheels thy oarsmen! Behold how the ash writhes under those muscular arms! There by the furnace, and there by the anvil, Behold thy sturdy blacksmiths, swinging their sledges; Overhand so steady overhand they turn and fall, with joyous clank, Like a tumult of laughter. Behold! (for still the procession moves,) Behold, Mother of All, thy countless sailors, boatmen, coasters! The myriads of thy young and old mechanics! Mark mark the spirit of invention everywhere thy rapid patents, Thy continual workshops, foundries, risen or rising; See, from their chimneys, how the tall flame-fires stream! Mark, thy interminable farms, North, South, Thy wealthy Daughter-States, Eastern, and Western, The varied products of Ohio, Pennsylvania, Missouri, Georgia, Texas, and the rest; Thy limitless crops grass, wheat, sugar, corn, rice, hemp, hops, Thy barns all fill'd thy endless freight-trains, and thy bulging store-houses, The grapes that ripen on thy vines the apples in thy orchards, Thy incalculable lumber, beef, pork, potatoes thy coal thy gold and silver, The inexhaustible iron in thy mines. All thine, O sacred Union! Ship, farm, shop, barns, factories, mines, City and State North, South, item and aggregate, We dedicate, dread Mother, all to thee! Protectress absolute, thou! Bulwark of all! For well we know that while thou givest each and all, (generous as God,) Without thee, neither all nor each, nor land, home, Ship, nor mine nor any here, this day, secure, Nor aught, nor any day secure. And thou, thy Emblem, waving over all! Delicate beauty! a word to thee, (it may be salutary;) Remember, thou hast not always been, as here to-day, so comfortably ensovereign'd; In other scenes than these have I observ'd thee, flag; Not quite so trim and whole, and freshly blooming, in folds of stainless silk; But I have seen thee, bunting, to tatters torn, upon thy splinter'd staff, Or clutch'd to some young color-bearer's breast, with desperate hands, Savagely struggled for, for life or death fought over long, 'Mid cannon's thunder-crash, and many a curse, and groan and yell and rifle-volleys cracking sharp, And moving masses, as wild demons surging and lives as nothing risk'd, For thy mere remnant, grimed with dirt and smoke, and sopp'd in blood; For sake of that, my beauty and that thou might'st dally, as now, secure up there, Many a good man have I seen go under. Now here, and these, and hence, in peace all thine, O Flag! And here, and hence, for thee, O universal Muse! and thou for them! And here and hence, O Union, all the work and workmen thine! The poets, women, sailors, soldiers, farmers, miners, students thine! None separate from Thee henceforth one only, we and Thou; (For the blood of the children what is it only the blood Maternal? And lives and works what are they all at last except the roads to Faith and Death?) While we rehearse our measureless wealth, it is for thee, dear Mother! We own it all and several to-day indissoluble in Thee; Think not our chant, our show, merely for products gross, or lucre it is for Thee, the Soul, electric, spiritual! Our farms, inventions, crops, we own in Thee! Cities and States in Thee! Our freedom all in Thee! our very lives in Thee!

After The Battles Are Over

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

[Read at Reunion of the G. A. T., Madison, Wis., July 4, 1872.] After the battles are over, And the war drums cease to beat, And no more is heard on the hillside The sound of hurrying feet, Full many a noble action, That was done in the days of strife By the soldier is half forgotten, In the peaceful walks of life. Just as the tangled grasses, In Summer's warmth and light, Grow over the graves of the fallen And hide them away from sight, So many an act of valour, And many a deed sublime, Fade from the mind of the soldier O'ergrown by the grass of time Not so should they be rewarded, Those noble deeds of old! They should live for ever and ever, When the heroes' hearts are cold. Then rally, ye brave old comrades, Old veterans, reunite! Uproot Time's tangled grasses - Live over the march, and the fight. Let Grant come up from the White House, And clasp each brother's hand, First chieftain of the army, Last chieftain of the land. Let him rest from a nation's burdens, And go, in thought, with his men, Through the fire and smoke of Shiloh, And save the day again. This silent hero of battles Knew no such word as defeat. It was left for the rebels' learning, Along with the word - retreat. He was not given to talking, But he found that guns would preach In a way that was more convincing Than fine and flowery speech Three cheers for the grave commander Of the grand old Tennessee! Who won the first great battle - Gained the first great victory. His motto was always "Conquer," "Success" was his countersign, And "though it took all Summer," He kept fighting upon "that line." Let Sherman, the stern old General, Come rallying with his men; Let them march once more through Georgia And down to the sea again. Oh! that grand old tramp to Savannah, Three hundred miles to the coast, It will live in the heart of the nation, For ever its pride and boast. As Sheridan went to the battle, When a score of miles away, He has come to the feast and banquet, By the iron horse to-day. Its pace is not much swifter Than the pace of that famous steed Which bore him down to the contest And saved the day by his speed. Then go over the ground to-day, boys Tread each remembered spot. It will be a gleesome journey, On the swift-shod feet of thought; You can fight a bloodless battle, You can skirmish along the route, But it's not worth while to forage, There are rations enough without. Don't start if you hear the cannon, It is not the sound of doom, It does not call to the contest - To the battle's smoke and gloom. "Let us have peace," was spoken, And lo! peace ruled again; And now the nation is shouting, Through the cannon's voice, "Amen." O boys who besieged old Vicksburgh, Can time e'er wash away The triumph of her surrender, Nine years ago to-day? Can you ever forget the moment, When you saw the flag of white, That told how the grim old city Had fallen in her might? Ah, 'twas a bold, brave army, When the boys, with a right good will, Went gaily marching and singing To the fight at Champion Hill. They met with a warm reception, But the soul of "Old John Brown" Was abroad on that field of battle, And our flag did NOT go down. Come, heroes of Look Out Mountain, Of Corinth and Donelson, Of Kenesaw and Atlanta, And tell how the day was won! Hush! bow the head for a moment - There are those who cannot come. No bugle-call can arouse them - No sound of fife or drum. Oh, boys who died for the country, Oh, dear and sainted dead! What can we say about you That has not once been said? Whether you fell in the contest, Struck down by shot and shell, Or pined 'neath the hand of sickness Or starved in the prison cell, We know that you died for Freedom, To save our land from shame, To rescue a perilled Nation, And we give you deathless fame. 'Twas the cause of Truth and Justice That you fought and perished for, And we say it, oh, so gently, "Our boys who died in the war." Saviours of our Republic, Heroes who wore the blue, We owe the peace that surrounds us - And our Nation's strength to you. We owe it to you that our banner, The fairest flag in the world, Is to-day unstained, unsullied, On the Summer air unfurled. We look on its stripes and spangles, And our hearts are filled the while With love for the brave commanders, And the boys of the rank and file. The grandest deeds of valour Were never written out, The noblest acts of virtue The world knows nothing about. And many a private soldier, Who walks his humble way, With no sounding name or title, Unknown to the world to-day, In the eyes of God is a hero As worthy of the bays As any mighty General To whom the world gives praise. Brave men of a mighty army, We extend you friendship's hand I speak for the "Loyal Women," Those pillars of our land. We wish you a hearty welcome, We are proud that you gather here To talk of old times together On this brightest day in the year. And if Peace, whose snow-white pinions Brood over our land to-day, Should ever again go from us, (God grant she may ever stay!) Should our Nation call in her peril For "Six hundred thousand more," The loyal women would hear her, And send you out as before. We would bring out the treasured knapsack, We would take the sword from the wall, And hushing our own hearts' pleadings, Hear only the country's call. For next to our God is our Nation; And we cherish the honoured name Of the bravest of all brave armies Who fought for that Nation's fame.

Tilsonburg.

James McIntyre

After him who did the mills own, This place was called in honor Tilson; Bright gleaming like to a beaming star, Is clear waters of the Otter. And it doth form here a vast pond, Which extends for miles beyond, A fortune on town it will shower, This prodigious water power. No other spots to youth appear, Like lovely little lakes round here, And few small towns have fine roadway Lined with brick blocks like your broadway.

The Battle Of The Pons Trium Trojanorum: A lay sung in the Temple of Minerva Girtanensis.

Edward Woodley Bowling

A lay sung in the Temple of Minerva Girtanensis. [NOTE. - On Thursday, February 24th, 1881, three Graces were submitted to the Senate of the University of Cambridge, confirming the Report of The Syndicate appointed June 3rd, 1880, to consider four memorials relating to the Higher Education of Women.    The first two Graces were passed by majorities of 398 and 258 against 32 and 26 respectively; the third was unopposed.    The allusions in the following lay will probably be understood only by those who reside in Cambridge; but it may be stated that Professor Kennedy, Professor Fawcett, and Sir C. Dilke gave their votes and influence in favour of The Graces, while Dr. Guillemard, Mr. Wace, Mr. Potts, Professor Lumby, Dr. Perowne, Mr. Horne and Mr. Hamblin Smith voted against The Graces.] I Aemilia Girtonensis, By the Nine Muses swore That the great house of Girton Should suffer wrong no more. By the Muses Nine she swore it, And named a voting day, And bade her learned ladies write, And summon to the impending fight Their masters grave and gay. II. East and West and South and North The learned ladies wrote, And town and gown and country Have read the martial note. Shame on the Cambridge Senator Who dares to lag behind, When light-blue ladies call him To join the march of mind. III. But by the yellow Camus Was tumult and affright: Straightway to Pater Varius The Trojans take their flight - 'O Varius, Father Varius, 'To whom the Trojans pray, 'The ladies are upon us! 'We look to thee this day!' IV. There be thirty chosen Fellows, The wisest of the land, Who hard by Pater Varius To bar all progress stand: Evening and morn the Thirty On the Three Graces sit, Traced from the left by fingers deft In the great Press of Pitt. V. And with one voice the Thirty Have uttered their decree - 'Go forth, go forth, great Varius, 'Oppose the Graces Three! 'The enemy already 'Are quartered in the town, 'And if they once the Tripos gain, 'What hope to save the gown?' VI. 'To Hiz, [1] the town of Offa, 'Their classes first they led, 'Then onward to Girtonia 'And Nunamantium sped: 'And now a mighty army 'Of young and beardless girls 'Beneath our very citadel 'A banner proud unfurls.' VII. Then out spake Father Varius, No craven heart was his: 'To Pollmen and to Wranglers 'Death comes but once, I wis. 'And how can man live better, 'Or die with more renown, 'Than fighting against Progress 'For the rights of cap and gown?' VIII. 'I, with two more to help me, 'Will face yon Graces Three; 'Will guard the Holy Tripod, 'And the M.A. Degree. 'We know that by obstruction 'Three may a thousand foil. 'Now who will stand on either hand 'To guard our Trojan soil?' IX. Then Parvue Mariensis, Of Bearded Jove the Priest, Spake out 'of Trojan warriors 'I am, perhaps, the least, 'Yet will I stand at thy right hand.' Cried Pottius - 'I likewise 'At thy left side will stem the tide 'Of myriad flashing eyes. X. Meanwhile the Ladies' Army, Right glorious to behold, Came clad in silks and satins bright, With seal-skins and with furs bedight, And gems and rings of gold. Four hundred warriors shouted 'Placet' with fiendish glee, As that fair host with fairy feet, And smiles unutterably sweet, Came tripping each towards her seat, Where stood the dauntless Three. XI. The Three stood calm and silent, And frowned upon their foes, As a great shout of laughter From the four hundred rose: And forth three chiefs came spurring Before their ladies gay, They faced the Three, they scowled and scoffed, Their gowns they donned, their caps they doffed, Then sped them to the fray. XII. Generalis Post-Magister, Lord of the Letter-bags; And Dilkius Radicalis, Who ne'er in combat lags; And Graecus Professorius, Beloved of fair Sabrine, From the grey Elms - beneath whose shade A hospitable banquet laid, Had heroes e'en of cowards made. - Brought 'placets' thirty-nine. XIII Stout Varius hurled 'non placet' At Post-Magister's head: At the mere glance of Pottius Fierce Radicalis fled: And Parvus Mariensis - So they who heard him tell - Uttered but one false quantity, And Professorius fell! *            *            *            * XIV. But fiercer still and fiercer Fresh foemen sought the fray. And fainter still and fainter Stout Varius stood at bay. 'O that this too, too solid Flesh would dissolve,' he sighed; Yet still he stood undaunted, And still the foe defied. XV. Then Pollia Nunamensis, A student sweetly fair, Famed for her smiles and dimples Blue eyes and golden hair, Of Cupid's arrows seized a pair, One in each eye she took: Cupid's best bow with all her might She pulled - each arrow winged its flight, And straightway reason, sense, and sight Stout Varius forsook. XVI. 'He falls' - the Placets thundered, And filled the yawning gap; In vain his trusty comrades Avenge their chief's mishap - His last great fight is done. 'They charge!    Brave Pottius prostrate lies, No Rider helps him to arise: They charge!    Fierce Mariensis dies. The Bridge, the Bridge is won! XVII. In vain did Bencornutus Flash lightnings from his beard; In vain Fabrorum Maximus His massive form upreared; And Lumbius Revisorius - Diviner potent he! - And Peronatus robed in state, And fine old Fossilis sedate, All vainly stemmed the tide of fate - Triumphed the Graces Three! XVIII. But when in future ages Women have won their rights, And sweet girl-undergraduates Read through the lamp-lit nights; When some, now unborn, Pollia Her head with science crams; When the girls make Greek Iambics, And the boys black-currant jams; XIX. When the goodman's shuttle merrily Goes flashing through the loom, And the good wife reads her Plato In her own sequestered room; With weeping and with laughter Still shall the tale be told, How pretty Pollia won the Bridge In the brave days of old. (1881). [1] The ancient name of Hitchin.

Aerial Rock - Whose Solitary Brow

William Wordsworth

Aerial Rock, whose solitary brow From this low threshold daily meets my sight; When I step forth to hail the morning light; Or quit the stars with a lingering farewell, how Shall Fancy pay to thee a grateful vow? How, with the Muse's aid, her love attest? By planting on thy naked head the crest Of an imperial Castle, which the plough Of ruin shall not touch. Innocent scheme! That doth presume no more than to supply A grace the sinuous vale and roaring stream Want, through neglect of hoar Antiquity. Rise, then, ye votive Towers! and catch a gleam Of golden sunset, ere it fade and die.

After

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

After the end that is drawing near Comes, and I no more see your face Worn with suffering, lying here, What shall I do with the empty place? You are so weary, that if I could I would not hinder, I would not keep The great Creator of all things good, From giving his own beloved sleep. But over and over I turn this thought. After they bear you away to the tomb, And banish the glasses, and move the cot, What shall I do with the empty room? And when you are lying at rest, my own, Hidden away in the grass and flowers, And I listen in vain for your sigh and moan, What shall I do with the silent hours? O God!    O God! in the great To Be What canst Thou give me to compensate For the terrible silence, the vacancy, Grim, and awful, and desolate? Passing away, my beautiful one, Out of the old life into the new. But when it is over, and all is done, God of the Merciful, what shall I do? Sweetest of slumber, and soundest rest, No more sorrow, and no more gloom. I am quite contented, and all is best, - But the empty bed -and the silent room!

Epilogue To "Albion And Albanius."

John Dryden

After our 'sop's fable shown to-day, I come to give the moral of the play. Feign'd Zeal, you saw, set out the speedier pace: But the last heat, Plain Dealing won the race: Plain Dealing for a jewel has been known; But ne'er till now the jewel of a crown. When Heaven made man, to show the work divine, Truth was His image stamp'd upon the coin: And when a king is to a god refined, On all he says and does he stamps his mind: This proves a soul without alloy, and pure; Kings, like their gold, should every touch endure. To dare in fields is valour; but how few Dare be so thoroughly valiant,--to be true! The name of great let other kings affect: He's great indeed, the prince that is direct. His subjects know him now, and trust him more Than all their kings, and all their laws before. What safety could their public acts afford? Those he can break; but cannot break his word. So great a trust to him alone was due; Well have they trusted whom so well they knew. The saint, who walk'd on waves, securely trod, While he believed the beckoning of his God: But when his faith no longer bore him out, Began to sink, as he began to doubt. Let us our native character maintain; 'Tis of our growth to be sincerely plain. To excel in truth we loyally may strive, Set privilege against prerogative: He plights his faith, and we believe him just; His honour is to promise, ours to trust. Thus Britain's basis on a word is laid, As by a word the world itself was made.

The Progress Of Marriage[1]

Jonathan Swift

AETATIS SUAE fifty-two, A reverend Dean began to woo[2] A handsome, young, imperious girl, Nearly related to an earl.[3] Her parents and her friends consent; The couple to the temple went: They first invite the Cyprian queen; 'Twas answer'd, "She would not be seen;" But Cupid in disdain could scarce Forbear to bid them kiss his    -    - The Graces next, and all the Muses, Were bid in form, but sent excuses. Juno attended at the porch, With farthing candle for a torch; While mistress Iris held her train, The faded bow bedropt with rain. Then Hebe came, and took her place, But show'd no more than half her face. Whate'er these dire forebodings meant, In joy the marriage-day was spent; The marriage-day, you take me right, I promise nothing for the night. The bridegroom, drest to make a figure, Assumes an artificial vigour; A flourish'd nightcap on, to grace His ruddy, wrinkled, smirking face; Like the faint red upon a pippin, Half wither'd by a winter's keeping. And thus set out this happy pair, The swain is rich, the nymph is fair; But, what I gladly would forget, The swain is old, the nymph coquette. Both from the goal together start; Scarce run a step before they part; No common ligament that binds The various textures of their minds; Their thoughts and actions, hopes and fears, Less corresponding than their years. The Dean desires his coffee soon, She rises to her tea at noon. While the Dean goes out to cheapen books, She at the glass consults her looks; While Betty's buzzing at her ear, Lord, what a dress these parsons wear! So odd a choice how could she make! Wish'd him a colonel for her sake. Then, on her finger ends she counts, Exact, to what his[4] age amounts. The Dean, she heard her uncle say, Is sixty, if he be a day; His ruddy cheeks are no disguise; You see the crow's feet round his eyes. At one she rambles to the shops, To cheapen tea, and talk with fops; Or calls a council of her maids, And tradesmen, to compare brocades. Her weighty morning business o'er, Sits down to dinner just at four; Minds nothing that is done or said, Her evening work so fills her head. The Dean, who used to dine at one, Is mawkish, and his stomach's gone; In threadbare gown, would scarce a louse hold, Looks like the chaplain of the household; Beholds her, from the chaplain's place, In French brocades, and Flanders lace; He wonders what employs her brain, But never asks, or asks in vain; His mind is full of other cares, And, in the sneaking parson's airs, Computes, that half a parish dues Will hardly find his wife in shoes. Canst thou imagine, dull divine, 'Twill gain her love, to make her fine? Hath she no other wants beside? You feed her lust as well as pride, Enticing coxcombs to adore, And teach her to despise thee more. If in her coach she'll condescend To place him at the hinder end, Her hoop is hoist above his nose, His odious gown would soil her clothes.[5] She drops him at the church, to pray, While she drives on to see the play. He like an orderly divine, Comes home a quarter after nine, And meets her hasting to the ball: Her chairmen push him from the wall. The Dean gets in and walks up stairs, And calls the family to prayers; Then goes alone to take his rest In bed, where he can spare her best. At five the footmen make a din, Her ladyship is just come in; The masquerade began at two, She stole away with much ado; And shall be chid this afternoon, For leaving company so soon: She'll say, and she may truly say't, She can't abide to stay out late. But now, though scarce a twelvemonth married, Poor Lady Jane has thrice miscarried: The cause, alas! is quickly guest; The town has whisper'd round the jest. Think on some remedy in time, The Dean you see, is past his prime, Already dwindled to a lath: No other way but try the Bath. For Venus, rising from the ocean, Infused a strong prolific potion, That mix'd with Achelo's spring, The horned flood, as poets sing, Who, with an English beauty smitten, Ran under ground from Greece to Britain; The genial virtue with him brought, And gave the nymph a plenteous draught; Then fled, and left his horn behind, For husbands past their youth to find; The nymph, who still with passion burn'd, Was to a boiling fountain turn'd, Where childless wives crowd every morn, To drink in Achelo's horn;[6] Or bathe beneath the Cross their limbs Where fruitful matter chiefly swims. And here the father often gains That title by another's pains. Hither, though much against his grain The Dean has carried Lady Jane. He, for a while, would not consent, But vow'd his money all was spent: Was ever such a clownish reason! And must my lady slip her season? The doctor, with a double fee, Was bribed to make the Dean agree. Here, all diversions of the place Are proper in my lady's case: With which she patiently complies, Merely because her friends advise; His money and her time employs In music, raffling-rooms, and toys; Or in the Cross-bath[7] seeks an heir, Since others oft have found one there; Where if the Dean by chance appears, It shames his cassock and his years. He keeps his distance in the gallery, Till banish'd by some coxcomb's raillery; For 'twould his character expose, To bathe among the belles and beaux. So have I seen, within a pen, Young ducklings foster'd by a hen; But, when let out, they run and muddle, As instinct leads them, in a puddle; The sober hen, not born to swim, With mournful note clucks round the brim.[8] The Dean, with all his best endeavour, Gets not an heir, but gets a fever. A victim to the last essays Of vigour in declining days, He dies, and leaves his mourning mate (What could he less?)[9] his whole estate. The widow goes through all her forms: New lovers now will come in swarms. O, may I see her soon dispensing Her favours to some broken ensign! Him let her marry for his face, And only coat of tarnish'd lace; To turn her naked out of doors, And spend her jointure on his whores; But, for a parting present, leave her A rooted pox to last for ever!

On the Death of Mrs. Jessie Willis.

George Pope Morris

After life's eventful mission, In her truthfulness and worth, Like a calm and gentle vision She has passed away from earth. Lovely she in frame and feature! Blended purity and grace!-- The Creator in the creature Glowed in her expressive face! Angel of a nature human! Essence of a celestial love! Heart and soul of trusting woman, Gone to her reward above! Mourners, dry your tears of sorrow-- Read the golden promise o'er; There will dawn a cheerful morrow When we meet to part no more.

The Divine Comedy by Dante: The Vision Of Paradise: Canto VI

Dante Alighieri

"After that Constantine the eagle turn'd Against the motions of the heav'n, that roll'd Consenting with its course, when he of yore, Lavinia's spouse, was leader of the flight, A hundred years twice told and more, his seat At Europe's extreme point, the bird of Jove Held, near the mountains, whence he issued first. There, under shadow of his sacred plumes Swaying the world, till through successive hands To mine he came devolv'd. Caesar I was, And am Justinian; destin'd by the will Of that prime love, whose influence I feel, From vain excess to clear th' encumber'd laws. Or ere that work engag'd me, I did hold Christ's nature merely human, with such faith Contented. But the blessed Agapete, Who was chief shepherd, he with warning voice To the true faith recall'd me. I believ'd His words: and what he taught, now plainly see, As thou in every contradiction seest The true and false oppos'd. Soon as my feet Were to the church reclaim'd, to my great task, By inspiration of God's grace impell'd, I gave me wholly, and consign'd mine arms To Belisarius, with whom heaven's right hand Was link'd in such conjointment, 't was a sign That I should rest. To thy first question thus I shape mine answer, which were ended here, But that its tendency doth prompt perforce To some addition; that thou well, mayst mark What reason on each side they have to plead, By whom that holiest banner is withstood, Both who pretend its power and who oppose. "Beginning from that hour, when Pallas died To give it rule, behold the valorous deeds Have made it worthy reverence. Not unknown To thee, how for three hundred years and more It dwelt in Alba, up to those fell lists Where for its sake were met the rival three; Nor aught unknown to thee, which it achiev'd Down to the Sabines' wrong to Lucrece' woe, With its sev'n kings conqu'ring the nation round; Nor all it wrought, by Roman worthies home 'Gainst Brennus and th' Epirot prince, and hosts Of single chiefs, or states in league combin'd Of social warfare; hence Torquatus stern, And Quintius nam'd of his neglected locks, The Decii, and the Fabii hence acquir'd Their fame, which I with duteous zeal embalm. By it the pride of Arab hordes was quell'd, When they led on by Hannibal o'erpass'd The Alpine rocks, whence glide thy currents, Po! Beneath its guidance, in their prime of days Scipio and Pompey triumph'd; and that hill, Under whose summit thou didst see the light, Rued its stern bearing. After, near the hour, When heav'n was minded that o'er all the world His own deep calm should brood, to Caesar's hand Did Rome consign it; and what then it wrought From Var unto the Rhine, saw Isere's flood, Saw Loire and Seine, and every vale, that fills The torrent Rhone. What after that it wrought, When from Ravenna it came forth, and leap'd The Rubicon, was of so bold a flight, That tongue nor pen may follow it. Tow'rds Spain It wheel'd its bands, then tow'rd Dyrrachium smote, And on Pharsalia with so fierce a plunge, E'en the warm Nile was conscious to the pang; Its native shores Antandros, and the streams Of Simois revisited, and there Where Hector lies; then ill for Ptolemy His pennons shook again; lightning thence fell On Juba; and the next upon your west, At sound of the Pompeian trump, return'd. "What following and in its next bearer's gripe It wrought, is now by Cassius and Brutus Bark'd off in hell, and by Perugia's sons And Modena's was mourn'd. Hence weepeth still Sad Cleopatra, who, pursued by it, Took from the adder black and sudden death. With him it ran e'en to the Red Sea coast; With him compos'd the world to such a peace, That of his temple Janus barr'd the door. "But all the mighty standard yet had wrought, And was appointed to perform thereafter, Throughout the mortal kingdom which it sway'd, Falls in appearance dwindled and obscur'd, If one with steady eye and perfect thought On the third Caesar look; for to his hands, The living Justice, in whose breath I move, Committed glory, e'en into his hands, To execute the vengeance of its wrath. "Hear now and wonder at what next I tell. After with Titus it was sent to wreak Vengeance for vengeance of the ancient sin, And, when the Lombard tooth, with fangs impure, Did gore the bosom of the holy church, Under its wings victorious, Charlemagne Sped to her rescue. Judge then for thyself Of those, whom I erewhile accus'd to thee, What they are, and how grievous their offending, Who are the cause of all your ills. The one Against the universal ensign rears The yellow lilies, and with partial aim That to himself the other arrogates: So that 't is hard to see which more offends. Be yours, ye Ghibellines, to veil your arts Beneath another standard: ill is this Follow'd of him, who severs it and justice: And let not with his Guelphs the new-crown'd Charles Assail it, but those talons hold in dread, Which from a lion of more lofty port Have rent the easing. Many a time ere now The sons have for the sire's transgression wail'd; Nor let him trust the fond belief, that heav'n Will truck its armour for his lilied shield. "This little star is furnish'd with good spirits, Whose mortal lives were busied to that end, That honour and renown might wait on them: And, when desires thus err in their intention, True love must needs ascend with slacker beam. But it is part of our delight, to measure Our wages with the merit; and admire The close proportion. Hence doth heav'nly justice Temper so evenly affection in us, It ne'er can warp to any wrongfulness. Of diverse voices is sweet music made: So in our life the different degrees Render sweet harmony among these wheels. "Within the pearl, that now encloseth us, Shines Romeo's light, whose goodly deed and fair Met ill acceptance. But the Provencals, That were his foes, have little cause for mirth. Ill shapes that man his course, who makes his wrong Of other's worth. Four daughters were there born To Raymond Berenger, and every one Became a queen; and this for him did Romeo, Though of mean state and from a foreign land. Yet envious tongues incited him to ask A reckoning of that just one, who return'd Twelve fold to him for ten. Aged and poor He parted thence: and if the world did know The heart he had, begging his life by morsels, 'T would deem the praise, it yields him, scantly dealt."

The Meeting

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

After so long an absence At last we meet again: Does the meeting give us pleasure, Or does it give us pain? The tree of life has been shaken, And but few of us linger now, Like the Prophet's two or three berries In the top of the uppermost bough. We cordially greet each other In the old, familiar tone; And we think, though we do not say it, How old and gray he is grown! We speak of a Merry Christmas And many a Happy New Year But each in his heart is thinking Of those that are not here. We speak of friends and their fortunes, And of what they did and said, Till the dead alone seem living, And the living alone seem dead. And at last we hardly distinguish Between the ghosts and the guests; And a mist and shadow of sadness Steals over our merriest jests.

Meditations - Hers

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

After the ball last night, when I came home I stood before my mirror, and took note Of all that men call beautiful.    Delight, Keen sweet delight, possessed me, when I saw My own reflection smiling on me there, Because your eyes, through all the swirling hours, And in your slow good-night, had made a fact Of what before I fancied might be so; Yet knowing how men lie, by look and act, I still had doubted.    But I doubt no more, I know you love me, love me.    And I feel Your satisfaction in my comeliness. Beauty and youth, good health and willing mind, A spotless reputation, and a heart Longing for mating and for motherhood, And lips unsullied by another's kiss - These are the riches I can bring to you. But as I sit here, thinking of it all In the clear light of morning, sudden fear Has seized upon me.    What has been your past? From out the jungle of old reckless years, May serpents crawl across our path some day And pierce us with their fangs?    Oh, I am not A prude or bigot; and I have not lived A score and three full years in ignorance Of human nature.    Much I can condone; For well I know our kinship to the earth And all created things.    Why, even I Have felt the burden of virginity, When flowers and birds and golden butterflies In early spring were mating; and I know How loud that call of sex must sound to man Above the feeble protest of the world. But I can hear from depths within my soul The voices of my unborn children cry For rightful heritage.    (May God attune The souls of men, that they may hear and heed That plaintive voice above the call of sex; And may the world's weak protest swell into A thunderous diapason - a demand For cleaner fatherhood.) Oh, love, come near; Look in my eyes, and say I need not fear.

Sonnet: After Dark Vapors Have Oppress'd Our Plains

John Keats

After dark vapors have oppress'd our plains For a long dreary season, comes a day Born of the gentle South, and clears away From the sick heavens all unseemly stains. The anxious month, relieved of its pains, Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May; The eyelids with the passing coolness play Like rose leaves with the drip of Summer rains. The calmest thoughts came round us; as of leaves Budding, fruit ripening in stillness, Autumn suns Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves, Sweet Sappho's cheek, a smiling infant's breath The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs A woodland rivulet, a Poet's death.

Sonnet - To An Octogenarian

William Wordsworth

Affections lose their object; Time brings forth No successors; and, lodged in memory, If love exist no longer, it must die, Wanting accustomed food, must pass from earth, Or never hope to reach a second birth. This sad belief, the happiest that is left To thousands, share not Thou; howe'er bereft, Scorned, or neglected, fear not such a dearth. Though poor and destitute of friends thou art, Perhaps the sole survivor of thy race, One to whom Heaven assigns that mournful part The utmost solitude of age to face, Still shall be left some corner of the heart Where Love for living Thing can find a place.

Verses To John Rankine.

Robert Burns

Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl, Was driving to the tither warl' A mixtie-maxtie motley squad, And mony a guilt-bespotted lad; Black gowns of each denomination, And thieves of every rank and station, From him that wears the star and garter, To him that wintles in a halter: Asham'd himsel' to see the wretches, He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches, "By G--d, I'll not be seen behint them, Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them, Without, at least, ae honest man, To grace this d--d infernal clan." By Adamhill a glance he threw, "L--d G--d!" quoth he, "I have it now, There's just the man I want, i' faith!" And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath.

Butch" Weldy

Edgar Lee Masters

After I got religion and steadied down They gave me a job in the canning works, And every morning I had to fill The tank in the yard with gasoline, That fed the blow-fires in the sheds To heat the soldering irons. And I mounted a rickety ladder to do it, Carrying buckets full of the stuff. One morning, as I stood there pouring, The air grew still and seemed to heave, And I shot up as the tank exploded, And down I came with both legs broken, And my eyes burned crisp as a couple of eggs. For someone left a blow - fire going, And something sucked the flame in the tank. The Circuit Judge said whoever did it Was a fellow-servant of mine, and so Old Rhodes' son didn't have to pay me. And I sat on the witness stand as blind As lack the Fiddler, saying over and over, "I didn't know him at all."

Friendship After Love.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

After the fierce midsummer all ablaze Has burned itself to ashes, and expires In the intensity of its own fires, There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin days, Crowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze. So after Love has led us, till he tires Of his own throes and torments and desires, Comes large-eyed friendship: with a restful gaze He beckons us to follow, and across Cool, verdant vales we wander free from care. Is it a touch of frost lies in the air? Why are we haunted with a sense of loss? We do not wish the pain back, or the heat; And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete.

Lines Read At A Ladies' Aid.

James McIntyre

After chatting with each friend, We our way to the table wend, On it we all do make a raid, And this we call a ladies' aid. 'Tis pleasant way of taking tea, Improvement on the old soiree, On such a time as this I find Food for body and for mind. Gladly all obey the call, To attend this pleasant social, And we hope none will lament The time and money they have spent.

Clarity

A. R. Ammons

After the event the rockslide realized, in a still diversity of completion, grain and fissure, declivity & force of upheaval, whether rain slippage, ice crawl, root explosion or stream erosive undercut: well I said it is a pity: one swath of sight will never be the same: nonetheless, this shambles has relived a bind, a taut of twist, revealing streaks & scores of knowledge now obvious and quiet.

A Fragment Of Seneca Translated

John Wilmot

After Death nothing is, and nothing, death, The utmost limit of a gasp of breath. Let the ambitious zealot lay aside His hopes of heaven, whose faith is but his pride; Let slavish souls lay by their fear Nor be concerned which way nor where After this life they shall be hurled. Dead, we become the lumber of the world, And to that mass of matter shall be swept Where things destroyed with things unborn are kept. Devouring time swallows us whole. Impartial death confounds body and soul. For Hell and the foul fiend that rules God's everlasting fiery jails (Devised by rogues, dreaded by fools), With his grim, grisly dog that keeps the door, Are senseless stories, idle tales, Dreams, whimsey's, and no more.

Written In Butler's Sermons

Matthew Arnold

Affections, Instincts, Principles, and Powers, Impulse and Reason, Freedom and Control So men, unravelling God's harmonious whole. Rend in a thousand shreds this life of ours. Vain labour! Deep and broad, where none may see, Spring the foundations of the shadowy throne Where man's one Nature, queen-like, sits alone, Centred in a majestic unity; And rays her powers, like sister islands, seen Linking their coral arms under the sea: Or cluster'd peaks, with plunging gulfs between Spann'd by a'rial arches, all of gold; Whereo'er the chariot wheels of Life are roll'd In cloudy circles, to eternity