Heartbreak

A sound of tumult troubles all the air,
Like the low thunders of a sultry sky
Far-rolling ere the downright lightnings glare;
The hills blaze red with warnings; foes draw nigh,
Treading the dark with challenge and reply.
Behold the burden of the prophet's vision;
The gathering hosts, the Valley of Decision,
Dusk with the wings of eagles wheeling o'er.
Day of the Lord, of darkness and not light!
It breaks in thunder and the whirlwind's roar!
Even so, Father! Let Thy will be done;
Turn and o'erturn, end what Thou hast begun
In judgment or in mercy: as for me,
If but the least and frailest, let me be
Evermore numbered with the truly free
Who find Thy service perfect liberty!
I fain would thank Thee that my mortal life
Has reached the hour (albeit through car...

March! The mud is cakin' good about our trousies.
Front!, eyes front, an' watch the Colour-casin's drip.
Front! The faces of the women in the 'ouses
Ain't the kind o' things to take aboard the ship.

Cheer! An' we'll never march to victory.
Cheer! An' we'll never live to 'ear the cannon roar!
The Large Birds o' Prey
They will carry us away,
An' you'll never see your soldiers any more!

Wheel! Oh, keep your touch; we're goin' round a corner.
Time!, mark time, an' let the men be'ind us close.
Lord! the transport's full, an' 'alf our lot not on 'er,
Cheer, O cheer! We're going off where no one knows.

March! The Devil's none so black as 'e is painted!
Cheer! We'll 'ave some fun before we're put away.
'Alt, an' 'and 'er out, a woman's gone and fainted!

Twin stars, aloft in ether clear,
    Around each other roll alway,
Within one common atmosphere
    Of their own mutual light and day.

And myriad happy eyes are bent
    Upon their changeless love alway;
As, strengthened by their one intent,
    They pour the flood of life and day.

So we through this world's waning night
    May, hand in hand, pursue our way;
Shed round us order, love, and light,
    And shine unto the perfect day.

Equal to Jove that youth must be -
Greater than Jove he seems to me -
Who, free from Jealousy's alarms,
Securely views thy matchless charms;
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows,
That mouth, from whence such music flows,
To him, alike, are always known,
Reserv'd for him, and him alone.
Ah! Lesbia! though 'tis death to me,
I cannot choose but look on thee;
But, at the sight, my senses fly,
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die;
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres,
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support;
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread,
With deadly languor droops my head,
My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And Life itself is on the wing;
My eyes refuse th...

[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 ...

'Tis true, my fading years decline,
Yet can I quaff the brimming wine,
As deep as any stripling fair,
Whose cheeks the flush of morning wear;
And if, amidst the wanton crew,
I'm called to wind the dance's clue,
Then shalt thou see this vigorous hand,
Not faltering on the Bacchant's wand,
But brandishing a rosy flask,
The only thyrsus e'er I'll ask![1]

    Let those, who pant for Glory's charms,
Embrace her in the field of arms;
While my inglorious, placid soul
Breathes not a wish beyond this bowl.
Then fill it high, my ruddy slave,
And bathe me in its brimming wave.
For though my fading years decay,
Though manhood's prime hath past away,
Like old Silenus, sire divine,
With blushes borrowed from my wine.
I'll wanton mid the ...

        An owl took, in a barn, a station
        As fittest for deep contemplation;
        There (like a Turk) upon a beam
        He sat, as Turks sit in hareem.

        So smokers, at the Magpie met,
        Peruse the 'Post-boy' or 'Gazette;'
        And thence foretell, in wise and sure hope,
        The future destinies of Europe.

        The farmer comes to see his sheaves.
        The owl his silent soul relieves;
        "Reason in man is sheer pretence,
        Would he - were he endowed with sense -
        Treat owls with scorning? He can praise
        The birds that twitter on the sprays:
        Linnets, and larks, and nightingales,
        Yet in the nobler owl he fails.
        Should I, by daylight, view my reign,
        Th...

"They tell me in a sunny land
    Our Willie is at play;
And with him is a happy band
    Of children, good and gay.

"They say their shining robes of white
    Are free from spot or stain;
That there, where it is never night,
    They feel no grief or pain.

"But Willie shunned the stranger's face,
    When he was with us here;
And in that new, though lovely place,
    He will be sad, I fear.

"He'll miss me,--though the fields are fair,
    His bright eyes will grow dim;
He has no little sister there;
    O let me go to him!"

"Our Willie is not sad, my child;
    For in that heavenly home
There dwells the blessed Saviour mild,
    Who bids the children come.

"He loves them with a purer love,
    A holier, t...

Fair summer home peninsula,
    Enriched by every breeze
From fragrant islands, wafted far
    Across the sunny seas!

A profile rare! a height of land
    Outlined 'gainst heaven's blue
With bolder touch than skillful hand
    Of artist ever drew.

In "mountain billows" that parade
    The grandeur of the deep,
Is His supremacy displayed
    Whose hands the waters keep.

No sweep of waves, in broad expanse,
    With wild, weird melody,
Shall thus an unseen world enhance -
    "There shall be no more sea!"

A wealth of joy-perfected days,
    Where glorious sunset dyes,
Resplendent in declining rays,
    Surpass Italia's skies!

Proud caravansaries that compete
    In studied arts to please
The multitude, ...

The star of love now shines above,
    Cool zephyrs crisp the sea;
Among the leaves the wind-harp weaves
    Its serenade for thee.
The star, the breeze, the wave, the trees,
    Their minstrelsy unite,
But all are drear till thou appear
    To decorate the night.

The light of noon streams from the moon,
    Though with a milder ray
O'er hill and grove, like woman's love,
    It cheers us on our way.
Thus all that's bright--the moon, the night,
    The heavens, the earth, the sea,
Exert their powers to bless the hours
    We dedicate to thee.

        [Part of this is in a song called 'Jockey's Lamentation,' in the 'Pills to Purge Melancholy,' 1719, vol. v, p. 317.]

    Tom he was a piper's son,
    He learn'd to play when he was young,
    But all the tunes that he could play,
    Was, "Over the hills and far away;"
    Over the hills, and a great way off,
    And the wind will blow my top-knot off.

    Now Tom with his pipe made such a noise,
    That he pleas'd both the girls and boys,
    And they stopp'd to hear him play,
    "Over the hills and far away."

    Tom with his pipe did play with such skill,
    That those who heard him could never keep still;
    Whenever they heard they began for to dance,
    Even pigs on their hind legs would after him prance.

    As Dolly was...

    He that goes to see his wheat in May,
    Comes weeping away.

The moon, like a round device
On a shadowy shield of war,
Hangs white in a heaven of ice
With a solitary star.

The wind is sunk to a sigh,
And the waters are stern with frost;
And gray, in the eastern sky,
The last snow-cloud is lost.

White fields, that are winter-starved,
Black woods, that are winter-fraught,
Cold, harsh as a face death-carved
With the iron of some black thought.

1729[1] (Verses Written During Lord Carteret's Administration Of Ireland)

    Credis ob haec me, Pastor, opes fortasse rogare,
    Propter quae vulgus crassaque turba rogat.
MART., Epig., lib. ix, 22.

Thou wise and learned ruler of our isle,
Whose guardian care can all her griefs beguile;
When next your generous soul shall condescend
T' instruct or entertain your humble friend;
Whether, retiring from your weighty charge,
On some high theme you learnedly enlarge;
Of all the ways of wisdom reason well,
How Richelieu rose, and how Sejanus fell:
Or, when your brow less thoughtfully unbends,
Circled with Swift and some delighted friends;
When, mixing mirth and wisdom with your wine,
Like that your wit shall flow, your genius shine:
Nor with less ...

Out in Oldham County once
Met a boy who showed me how
He could milk an old red cow.
Yes; he was n't any dunce.
Put me on an old-gray mare;
Rode me to an old mill, where
They were grinding corn. He filled
A big sack and then we sat
By the dam and there he killed
A black snake, as long as that.

Then he showed me how to row
In an old flat boat that leaked,
Where the dam was stained and streaked
With big lilies, white as snow.
Then he showed me how to swim
Jumping from a sycamore limb:
While he splashed around, why, I
Waded up and down the shore;
Then, when he was dressed and dry,
Mounted that old mare once more.

And he took the bag of meal
"That's for corn-cakes, " so he said:
"And it makes the grandest bread!
Cornbr...

O Moon, Mr. Moon,
When you comin' down?
Down on the hilltop,
Down in the glen,
Out in the clearin',
To play with little men?
Moon, Mr. Moon,
When you comin' down?

O Mr. Moon,
Hurry up your stumps!
Don't you hear Bullfrog
Callin' to his wife,
And old black Cricket
A-wheezin' at his fife?
Hurry up your stumps,
And get on your pumps!
Moon, Mr. Moon,
When you comin' down?

O Mr. Moon,
Hurry up along!
The reeds in the current
Are whisperin' slow;
The river's a-wimplin'
To and fro.
Or you'll miss the song!
Moon, Mr. Moon,
When you comin' down?

O Mr. Moon,
We're all here!
Honey-bug, Thistledrift,
White-imp, Weird,
Wryface, Billiken,
Quidnunc, Queered;
We're all here,...

        Our first Canadian job when boy,
        In the big woods we did enjoy,
        Large maple bush we then did tap
        And to camp carried maple sap.

        We stored it in great wooden trough,
        Then in big kettles sugared off,
        Though often it did try our mettle
        To keep up fire beneath each kettle.

        For it was a serious toil
        To cut the wood to kettles boil,
        To-night it is a pleasant joke,
        No trouble from the fire and smoke.

        Of old we thought our neck was broke
        By having on it a neckyoke,
        And on each side a heavy pail
        Suspended from the yoke by bail.

        We waded through the snow and slush
        And stumbled o'er the logs in bush,<...

BROTHER BILL.


To have a good birthday for a grown-up person is very difficult indeed;
We don't give it up, for Mother says the harder things are, the harder you must try till you succeed.
Still, our birthdays are different; we want so many things, and choosing your own pudding, and even half-holidays are treats;
But what can you do for people who always order the dinner, and never have lessons, and don't even like sweets?
I know Mother does not. Baby put a big red comfit in her mouth, and I saw her take it out again on the sly;
I don't believe she even enjoys going a-gypseying, for she gets neuralgia if she stands about where it isn't dry.
And how can you boil the kettle if you're not near the brook? But it's the last time she shall go there,
I told her so; I said, "What's the goo...