Freedom

The landscape sleeps in mist from morn till noon;
And, if the sun looks through, tis with a face
Beamless and pale and round, as if the moon,
When done the journey of her nightly race,
Had found him sleeping, and supplied his place.
For days the shepherds in the fields may be,
Nor mark a patch of sky--blindfold they trace,
The plains, that seem without a bush or tree,
Whistling aloud by guess, to flocks they cannot see.

The timid hare seems half its fears to lose,
Crouching and sleeping neath its grassy lair,
And scarcely startles, though the shepherd goes
Close by its home, and dogs are barking there;
The wild colt only turns around to stare
At passer by, then knaps his hide again;
And moody crows beside the road forbear
To fly, though pelted by the pas...

High waving heather 'neath stormy blasts bending,
Midnight and moonlight and bright shining stars,
Darkness and glory rejoicingly blending,
Earth rising to heaven and heaven descending,
Man's spirit away from its drear dungeon sending,
Bursting the fetters and breaking the bars.

All down the mountain sides wild forests lending
One mighty voice to the life-giving wind,
Rivers their banks in their jubilee rending,
Fast through the valleys a reckless course wending,
Wider and deeper their waters extending,
Leaving a desolate desert behind.

Shining and lowering and swelling and dying,
Changing forever from midnight to noon;
Roaring like thunder, like soft music sighing,
Shadows on shadows advancing and flying,
Lighning-bright flashes the deep gloom def...

The principle whence everything
To life and shape ascended--
The pulley whereon Zeus the ring
Of Earth, which else in sherds would spring,
Has carefully suspended--
To genius I yield him a claim
Who fathoms for me what its name,
Save I withdraw its curtain:
It is--ten is not thirteen.

That snow makes cold, that fire burns,
That man on two feet goeth,
That in the heavens the sun sojourns--
This much the man who logic spurns
Through his own senses knoweth;
But metaphysics who has got,
Knows he that burneth, freezeth not;
Knows 'tis the moist that wetteth,
And 'tis the rough that fretteth.

Great Homer sings his epic high;
The hero fronts his dangers;
The brave his duty still doth ply--
And did it while, I won't deny,
Phil...

For your letter, dear - [Hattie], accept my best thanks,
Rendered long and amusing by virtue of franks,
Though concise they would please, yet the longer the better,
The more news that's crammed in, more amusing the letter,
All excuses of etiquette nonsense I hate,
Which only are fit for the tardy and late,
As when converse grows flat, of the weather they talk,
How fair the sun shines - a fine day for a walk,
Then to politics turn, of Burdett's reformation,
One declares it would hurt, t'other better the nation,
Will ministers keep? sure they've acted quite wrong,
The burden this is of each morning-call song.
So - is going to - you say,
I hope that success her great efforts will pay [ - ]
That [the Colonel] will see her, be dazzled outright,
And declare he can't bear...

Our King went forth on pilgrimage
His prayers and vows to pay
To them that saved our heritage
And cast their own away.

And there was little show of pride,
Or prows of belted steel,
For the clean-swept oceans every side
Lay free to every keel.

And the first land he found, it was shoal and banky ground,
Where the broader seas begin,
And a pale tide grieving at the broken harbour-mouth
Where they worked the death-ships in.

And there was neither gull on the wing,
Nor wave that could not tell
Of the bodies that were buckled in the life-buoy's ring
That slid from swell to swell.

All that they had they gave, they gave; and they shall not return,
For these are those that have no grave where any heart may mourn.

And the next land...

I heard men saying, Leave hope and praying,
    All days shall be as all have been;
To-day and to-morrow bring fear and sorrow,
    The never-ending toil between.

When Earth was younger mid toil and hunger,
    In hope we strove, and our hands were strong;
Then great men led us, with words they fed us,
    And bade us right the earthly wrong.

Go read in story their deeds and glory,
    Their names amidst the nameless dead;
Turn then from lying to us slow-dying
    In that good world to which they led;

Where fast and faster our iron master,
    The thing we made, for ever drives,
Bids us grind treasure and fashion pleasure
    For other hopes and other lives.

Where home is a hovel and dull we grovel,
    Forgetting that the world is...

I.

There was a naughty boy,
A naughty boy was he,
He would not stop at home,
He could not quiet be
He took
In his knapsack
A book
Full of vowels
And a shirt
With some towels,
A slight cap
For night cap,
A hair brush,
Comb ditto,
New stockings
For old ones
Would split O!
This knapsack
Tight at's back
He rivetted close
And followed his nose
To the north,
To the north,
And follow'd his nose
To the north.

II.

There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
For nothing would he do
But scribble poetry
He took
An ink stand
In his hand
And a pen
Big as ten
In the other,
And away
In a pother
He ran
To the mountains
And fountai...

Wilt thou not the lambkins guard?
Oh, how soft and meek they look,
Feeding on the grassy sward,
Sporting round the silvery brook!
"Mother, mother, let me go
On yon heights to chase the roe!"

Wilt thou not the flock compel
With the horn's inspiring notes?
Sweet the echo of yon bell,
As across the wood it floats!
"Mother, mother, let me go
On yon heights to hunt the roe!"

Wilt thou not the flow'rets bind,
Smiling gently in their bed?
For no garden thou wilt find
On yon heights so wild and dread.
"Leave the flow'rets, let them blow!
Mother, mother, let me go!"

And the youth then sought the chase,
Onward pressed with headlong speed
To the mountain's gloomiest place,
Naught his progress could impede;
And before him, l...

I know not why my soul is rack'd
Why I ne'er smile as was my wont:
I only know that, as a fact,
I don't.
I used to roam o'er glen and glade
Buoyant and blithe as other folk:
And not unfrequently I made
A joke.

A minstrel's fire within me burn'd,
I'd sing, as one whose heart must break,
Lay upon lay: I nearly learn'd
To shake.
All day I sang; of love, of fame,
Of fights our fathers fought of yore,
Until the thing almost became
A bore.

I cannot sing the old songs now!
It is not that I deem them low;
'Tis that I can't remember how
They go.
I could not range the hills till high
Above me stood the summer moon:
And as to dancing, I could fly
As soon.

The sports, to which with boyish glee
I sprang erewhil...

O soft enchantress, let me tell the truth
Of all the beauties decking out your youth!
I'll paint the charms for you to see
Of childhood married with maturity.

When you step out, your broad skirt sweeps the breeze
As if you were a ship on easy seas
Under full sail, that rolls along
In rhythm with a slow and languid song.

On your plump shoulders and your rounded neck
Your head parades itself with rare effect;
In a composed, triumphant style
You go your stately way, majestic child.

O soft enchantress, let me tell the truth
Of all the beauties decking out your youth!
I'll paint the charms for you to see
Of childhood married with maturity.

Your jutting bosom stretching out the moire,
Triumphant bosom, is a fine armoire
Whose bright...

    How cold is that bosom which folly once fired,
        How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd!
    How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired,
        How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen'd!

    If sorrow and anguish their exit await,
        From friendship and dearest affection remov'd;
    How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate,
        Thou diest unwept as thou livedst unlov'd.

    Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you;
        So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear:
    But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true,
        And flowers let us cull for Maria's cold bier.

    We'll search through the garden for each silly flower,
        We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed;
    But chie...

Oh day of fire and sun,
Pure as a naked flame,
Blue sea, blue sky and dun
Sands where he spoke my name;

Laughter and hearts so high
That the spirit flew off free,
Lifting into the sky
Diving into the sea;

Oh day of fire and sun
Like a crystal burning,
Slow days go one by one,
But you have no returning.

Death and Famine on every side
    And never a sign of rain,
The bones of those who have starved and died
    Unburied upon the plain.
What care have I that the bones bleach white?
    To-morrow they may be mine,
But I shall sleep in your arms to-night
    And drink your lips like wine!

Cholera, Riot, and Sudden Death,
    And the brave red blood set free,
The glazing eye and the failing breath, -
    But what are these things to me?
Your breath is quick and your eyes are bright
    And your blood is red like wine,
And I shall sleep in your arms to-night
    And hold your lips with mine!

I hear the sound of a thousand tears,
    Like softly pattering rain,
I see the fever, folly, and fears
    Fulfilling man's tale of pain.
But ...

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass,
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass;
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class
With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;
Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that belong
One to the fields, the other to the hearth,
Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong
At your clear hearts; and both were sent on earth
To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song:
Indoors and out, summer and winter,--Mirth.

I.

Oh, for a deep-shaded spot where the shadows cool
    Are hid from the rays of the glaring sun,
And the sparkling waters from a limped pool
    O'er the gleaming pebbles in ripples run!


II.

Where the sloping banks are with verdure clad,
    And the hoary cliffs with moss o'ergrown,
And the tangled vine and the wildflowers pad
    The fallen trunk and the hidden stone!


III.

Where the song that wells from a feathered throat
    The echoes repeat again and again,
And the drifted sedge and the bubbles float
    O'er the glassy depths of a miniature main!


IV.

Where the willows dip in the edge of the stream,
    And sway and nod in the passing breeze,
And a feller could tranquilly rest and drea...

I.

He sang a song as he sowed the field,
Sowed the field at break of day:
"When the pursed-up leaves are as lips that yield
Balm and balsam, and Spring, - concealed
In the odorous green, - is so revealed,
    Halloo and oh!
Hallo for the woods and the far away!"


II.

He trilled a song as he mowed the mead,
Mowed the mead as noon begun:
"When the hills are gold with the ripened seed,
As the sunset stairs that loom and lead
To the sky where Summer knows naught of need,
    Halloo and oh!
Hallo for the hills and the harvest sun!"


III.

He hummed a song as he swung the flail,
Swung the flail in the afternoon:
"When the idle fields are a wrecker's tale,
That the Autumn tells to the twilight pale,
As t...

    Why dost thou want to sing
    When thou hast no song, my heart?
    If there be in thee a hidden spring,
    Wherefore will no word start?

    On its way thou hearest no song,
    Yet flutters thy unborn joy!
    The years of thy life are growing long--
    Art still the heart of a boy?--

    Father, I am thy child!
    My heart is in thy hand!
    Let it hear some echo, with gladness wild,
    Of a song in thy high land.

    It will answer--but how, my God,
    Thou knowest; I cannot say:
    It will spring, I know, thy lark, from thy sod--
    Thy lark to meet thy day!

And now 'tis time; for their officious haste,
    Who would before have borne him to the sky,
Like eager Romans, ere all rites were past,
    Did let too soon the sacred eagle[1] fly.

Though our best notes are treason to his fame,
    Join'd with the loud applause of public voice;
Since Heaven, what praise we offer to his name,
    Hath render'd too authentic by its choice.

Though in his praise no arts can liberal be,
    Since they, whose muses have the highest flown,
Add not to his immortal memory,
    But do an act of friendship to their own:

Yet 'tis our duty, and our interest too,
    Such monuments as we can build to raise;
Lest all the world prevent what we should do,
    And claim a title in him by their praise.
...