Inspirational

Weep with me, all you that read
This little story;
And know, for whom a tear you shed
Death’s self is sorry.
’Twas a child that so did thrive
In grace and feature,
As heaven and nature seemed to strive
Which owned the creature.

Years he numbered scarce thirteen
When fates turned cruel,
Yet three filled zodiacs had be been
The stage’s jewel;
And did act what now we moan,
Old men so duly,
As, sooth, the parcae thought him one,
He played so truly.

So by error, so his fate
They all consented;
But viewing him since, alas too late,
They have repented,
And have sought to give new birth,
In baths to steep him;
But being so much too good for earth,
Heaven vows to keep him.

I' be'n down to the Capital at Washington, D. C.,
Where Congerss meets and passes on the pensions ort to be
Allowed to old one-legged chaps, like me, 'at sence the war
Don't wear their pants in pairs at all - and yit how proud we are!

Old Flukens, from our deestrick, jes' turned in and tuck and made
Me stay with him whilse I was there; and longer 'at I stayed
The more I kep' a-wantin' jes' to kind o' git away,
And yit a-feelin' sociabler with Flukens ever' day.

You see I'd got the idy - and I guess most folks agrees -
'At men as rich as him, you know, kin do jes' what they please;
A man worth stacks o' money, and a Congerssman and all,
And livin' in a buildin' bigger'n Masonic Hall!

Now mind, I'm not a-faultin' Fluke - he made his money square:
We both was ...

Two little girls aged six and nine, the daughters of a lengthsman on the railway at Walloon, near Ipswich, Queensland, were sent on an errand by their parents and it is supposed they were attracted by some water-lilies in a pool near their home. They were found drowned in six feet of water.

He was lengthsman on the railway, and his station scarce deserved
That “pre-eminence in sorrow” of the Majesty he served,
But as dear to him and precious were the gifts reclaimed so soon—
Were the workman’s little daughters who were buried near Walloon.

Speak their names in tones that linger, just as though you held them dear;
There are eyes to which the mention of those names will bring a tear.
Little Kate and Bridget, straying in an autumn afternoon,
Were attracted by the lilies in the water ...

    "Gie him strong drink, until he wink,
        That's sinking in despair;
    An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,
        That's prest wi' grief an' care;
    There let him bouse, an' deep carouse,
        Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
    Till he forgets his loves or debts,
        An' minds his griefs no more."

Solomon's Proverb, xxxi. 6, 7.


    Let other poets raise a fracas
    'Bout vines, an' wines, an' dru'ken Bacchus,
    An' crabbit names and stories wrack us,
        An' grate our lug,
    I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,
        In glass or jug.

    O, thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink;
    Whether thro' wimplin' worms thou jink,
    Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink,
        In glorious faem,
   ...

"What other men have dared, I dare,"
    He said. "I'm daring, too:
And tho' they told me to beware,
    One kiss I'll take from you.

"Did I say one? Forgive me, dear;
    That was a grave mistake,
For when I've taken one, I fear,
    One hundred more I'll take.

"'Tis sweet one kiss from you to win,
    But to stop there? Oh, no!
One kiss is only to begin;
    There is no end, you know."

The maiden rose from where she sat
    And gently raised her head:
"No man has ever talked like that,
    You may begin," she said.

Thy petals yet are closely curled,
Rose of the world,
Around their scented, golden core;
Nor yet has Summer purpled o'er
Thy tender clusters that begin
To swell within
The dewy vine-leaves' early screen
Of sheltering green.

O hearts that are Love's helpless prey,
While yet you may,
Fly, ere the shaft is on the string!
The fire that now is smouldering
Shall be the conflagration soon
Whose paths are strewn
With torment of blanched lips and eyes
That agonize.

Delos' stately ruler, and Maia's son, the adroit one,

Warmly were striving, for both sought the great prize to obtain.
Hermes the lyre demanded, the lyre was claim'd by Apollo,

Yet were the hearts of the foes fruitlessly nourish'd by hope.
For on a sudden Ares burst in, with fury decisive,

Dashing in twain the gold toy, brandishing wildly his sword.
Hermes, malicious one, laughed beyond measure; yet deep-seated sorrow

Seized upon Phoebus's heart, seized on the heart of each Muse.

"On court, hélas! après la vérité;
Ah! croyez-moi, l'erreur a son mérite."
Voltaire.


Curled in a maze of dolls and bricks,
I find Miss Mary, ætat six,
Blonde, blue-eyed, frank, capricious,
Absorbed in her first fairy book,
From which she scarce can pause to look,
Because it's "so delicious!"

"Such marvels, too. A wondrous Boat,
In which they cross a magic Moat,
That's smooth as glass to row on--
A Cat that brings all kinds of things;
And see, the Queen has angel wings--
Then OGRE comes"--and so on.

What trash it is! How sad to find
(Dear Moralist!) the childish mind,
So active and so pliant.
Rejecting themes in which you mix
Fond truths and pleasing facts, to fix
On tales of Dwarf and Giant!

In merest prud...

E'en all religious courses to be rich
Hath been rehers'd by Joel Michelditch:
But now perceiving that it still does please
The sterner fates, to cross his purposes;
He tacks about, and now he doth profess
Rich he will be by all unrighteousness;
Thus if our ship fails of her anchor hold
We'll love the divel, so he lands the gold.

        We love but once. The great gold orb of light
    From dawn to even-tide doth cast his ray;
        But the full splendor of his perfect might
    Is reached but once throughout the livelong day.

        We love but once. The waves, with ceaseless motion,
    Do day and night plash on the pebbled shore;
        But the strong tide of the resistless ocean
    Sweeps in but one hour of the twenty-four.

        We love but once. A score of times, perchance,
    We may be moved in fancy's fleeting fashion -
        May treasure up a word, a tone, a glance;
    But only once we feel the soul's great passion.

        We love but once. Love walks with death and birth
    (The saddest, the unkindest of the three);
        And only once while we sojourn...

He heard it first upon the lips of love,
        And loved it for love’s sake;
A faithful word, that knows nor time nor change,
        Nor lone heart-break.

It sung across his heart-strings like a breath
        Of Heaven’s faithfulness, that whispered “Never
To part, to lose, to linger from your gaze.”
        She said, “I love for ever.”

He heard it then upon the lips of death,
        Of things that fade and die;
A word of sorrow never to be stilled,
        An ever echoing sigh.

And loneliness within his soul did dwell,
        And struck upon his heart-strings, crying “Never
To meet, to have, to hold, to see again.”
        She said, “Good-bye for ever.”

My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired,
    My soul oppressed --
And I desire, what I have long desired --
    Rest -- only rest.

'Tis hard to toil -- when toil is almost vain,
    In barren ways;
'Tis hard to sow -- and never garner grain,
    In harvest days.

The burden of my days is hard to bear,
    But God knows best;
And I have prayed -- but vain has been my prayer
    For rest -- sweet rest.

'Tis hard to plant in Spring and never reap
    The Autumn yield;
'Tis hard to till, and 'tis tilled to weep
    O'er fruitless field.

And so I cry a weak and human cry,
    So heart oppressed;
And so I sigh a weak and human sigh,
    For rest -- for rest.

My way has wound across the desert years,
    And c...

All-ruling tyrant of the earth,
To vilest slaves I owe my birth,
How is the greatest monarch blest,
When in my gaudy livery drest!
No haughty nymph has power to run
From me; or my embraces shun.
Stabb'd to the heart, condemn'd to flame,
My constancy is still the same.
The favourite messenger of Jove,
And Lemnian god, consulting strove
To make me glorious to the sight
Of mortals, and the gods' delight.
Soon would their altar's flame expire
If I refused to lend them fire.

    By fate exalted high in place,
    Lo, here I stand with double face:
    Superior none on earth I find;
    But see below me all mankind
    Yet, as it oft attends the great,
    I almost sink with my own weight.

At every motion undertook,
The vulgar al...

"Give us Rain, Rain," said the bean and the pea,
    "Not so much Sun,
    Not so much Sun."
But the Sun smiles bravely and encouragingly,
And no rain falls and no waters run.

"Give us Peace, Peace," said the peoples oppressed,
    "Not so many Flags,
    Not so many Flags."
But the Flags fly and the Drums beat, denying rest,
And the children starve, they shiver in rags.

Victor in Drama, Victor in Romance,
Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes and fears,
French of the French, and Lord of human tears;
Child-lover; Bard whose fame-lit laurels glance
Darkening the wreaths of all that would advance,
Beyond our strait, their claim to be thy peers;
Weird Titan by thy winter weight of years
As yet unbroken, Stormy voice of France!
Who dost not love our England–so they say;
I know not–England, France, all man to be
Will make one people ere man’s race be run:
And I, desiring that diviner day,
Yield thee full thanks for thy full courtesy
To younger England in the boy my son.

These few brief lines, my reverend friend,
By a safe, private hand I send
(Fearing lest some low Catholic wag
Should pry into the Letter-bag),
To tell you, far as pen can dare
How we, poor errant martyrs, fare;--
Martyrs, not quite to fire and rack,
As Saints were, some few ages back.
But--scarce less trying in its way--
To laughter, wheresoe'er we stray;
To jokes, which Providence mysterious
Permits on men and things so serious,
Lowering the Church still more each minute,
And--injuring our preferment in it.

Just think, how worrying 'tis, my friend,
To find, where'er our footsteps bend,
    Small jokes, like squibs, around us whizzing;
And bear the eternal torturing play
Of that great engine of our day,
    Unknown to the Inquisition--quiz...

The nuns sing, "ora pro nobis,"
The lancets glitter above;
And the beautiful Virgin whose robe is
Woven of infinite love,
Infinite love and sorrow,
Prays for them there on high;
Who has most need of her prayers, to-morrow
Shall tell them, they or I?

Up in the hills together
We loved, where the world seemed true;
Our world of the whin and heather,
Our skies of a nearer blue,
A blue from which one borrows
A faith that helps one die
O Mother, sweet Mother of Sorrows,
None needs such more than I!

We lived, we loved unwedded
Love's sin and its shame that slays!
No ill of the year we dreaded,
No day of its coming days;
Its coming days, their many
Trials by morn and night,
And I know no land, not any,
Where love's...

Still as a mountain with dark pines and sun
He stood between the armies, and his shout
Rolled from the empyrean above the host:
"Bid any little flea ye have come forth,
And wince at death upon my finger-nail!"
He turned his large-boned face; and all his steel
Tossed into beams the lustre of the noon;
And all the shaggy horror of his locks
Rustled like locusts in a field of corn.
The meagre pupil of his shameless eye
Moved like a cormorant over a glassy sea.
He stretched his limbs, and laughed into the air,
To feel the groaning sinews of his breast,
And the long gush of his swollen arteries pause:
And, nodding, wheeled, towering in all his height.
Then, like a wind that hushes, gazed and saw
Down, down, far down upon the untroubled green
A shepherd-boy tha...