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(Written upon the return of General Scott from his brilliant Mexican campaign.)

Victorious the hero returns from the wars,
    His brow bound with laurels that never will fade,
While streams the free standard of stripes and of stars,
    Whose field in the battle the foeman dismayed.
When the Mexican hosts in their fury came on,
    Like a tower of strength in his might he arose,
Where danger most threatened his banner was borne,
    Waving hope to his friends and despair to his foes!

The soldier of honor and liberty hail!
    His deeds in the temple of Fame are enrolled;
His precepts, like flower-seeds sown by the gale,
    Take root in the hearts of the valiant and bold.
The warrior's escutcheon his foes seek to blot,
    But vain is the effort of partisan...

In vision I roamed the flashing Firmament,
So fierce in blazon that the Night waxed wan,
As though with an awed sense of such ostent;
And as I thought my spirit ranged on and on

In footless traverse through ghast heights of sky,
To the last chambers of the monstrous Dome,
Where stars the brightest here to darkness die:
Then, any spot on our own Earth seemed Home!

And the sick grief that you were far away
Grew pleasant thankfulness that you were near?
Who might have been, set on some outstep sphere,
Less than a Want to me, as day by day
I lived unware, uncaring all that lay
Locked in that Universe taciturn and drear.

1866.

Like some school master, kind in being stern,
Who hears the children crying o'er their slates
And calling, "Help me master!" yet helps not,
Since in his silence and refusal lies
Their self-development, so God abides
Unheeding many prayers. He is not deaf
To any cry sent up from earnest hearts,
He hears and strengthens when He must deny.
He sees us weeping over life's hard sums
But should He give the key and dry our tears
What would it profit us when school were done
And not one lesson mastered?

        What a world
Were this if all our prayers were answered. Not
In famed Pandora's box were such vast ills
As lie in human hearts. Should our desires
Voiced one by one in prayer ascend to God
And come back as events shaped to our wish
What chaos wou...

Is our renown'd Dominion then so small
As not to hold this new inhabitant?
Or are her means so pitiably scant
As not to yield a livelihood to all?
Or are we lesser men, foredoom'd to thrall?
Or so much better than the immigrant
That we should make our hearts as adamant
And guard against defilement with a wall?

Nay, but our land is large and rich enough
For us and ours and millions more - her need
    Is working men; she cries to let them in.
Nor can we fear; our race is not the stuff
Servants are made of, but a royal seed,
    And Christian, owning all mankind as kin.

Lyke some choise booke thou arte toe mee,
Bound all so daintilie;
And 'neath the covers faire
Are contents true and rare.
Ne wolde I looke
Ne reade inne any other booke
If I belyke could find therein the charte
And indice to thy hearte.
The Great Wise Authour made but one
Of this edition, then was don;
And were this onlie copie mine,
Then wolde I write therein, "My Valentyne."

In five-score summers! All new eyes,
New minds, new modes, new fools, new wise;
New woes to weep, new joys to prize;

With nothing left of me and you
In that live century's vivid view
Beyond a pinch of dust or two;

A century which, if not sublime,
Will show, I doubt not, at its prime,
A scope above this blinkered time.

- Yet what to me how far above?
For I would only ask thereof
That thy worm should be my worm, Love!

16 WESTBOURNE PARK VILLAS, 1867.

    When in the bosom of the eldest night
    This body lies, cold as a sculptured rest;
    When through its shaded windows comes no light,
    And its pale hands are folded on its breast--

        How shall I fare, who had to wander out,
    And of the unknown land the frontier cross,
    Peering vague-eyed, uncertain, all about,
    Unclothed, mayhap unwelcomed, bathed in loss?

        Shall I depart slow-floating like a mist,
    Over the city murmuring beneath;
    Over the trees and fields, where'er I list,
    Seeking the mountain and the lonely heath?

        Or will a darkness, o'er material shows
    Descending, hide them from the spirit's sight;
    As from the sun a blotting radiance flows
    Athwart the stars all glorious through the...

Good princes must be pray'd for; for the bad
They must be borne with, and in rev'rence had.
Do they first pill thee, next pluck off thy skin?
Good children kiss the rods that punish sin.
Touch not the tyrant; let the gods alone
To strike him dead that but usurps a throne.