Inspirational

So the time seems come at last,
And the drums go rolling past,
And above them in the sunlight Labour's banners float and flow;
They are marching with the sun,
But I look in vain for one
Of the men who fought for freedom more than fifteen years ago.

They were men who did the work
Out at Blackall, Hay, and Bourke,
They were men who fought the battle that the world shall never know;
And they vanished one by one
When their bitter task was done,
Men who worked and wrote for freedom more than fifteen years ago.

Some are scattered, some are dead,
By the shanty and the shed,
In the lignum and the mulga, by the river running low;
And I often wish in vain
I could call them back again,
Mates of mine who fought for freedom more than fifteen years ago.

The pleasant isle of Rugen looks the Baltic water o'er,
To the silver-sanded beaches of the Pomeranian shore;

And in the town of Rambin a little boy and maid
Plucked the meadow-flowers together and in the sea-surf played.

Alike were they in beauty if not in their degree
He was the Amptman's first-born, the miller's child was she.

Now of old the isle of Rugen was full of Dwarfs and Trolls,
The brown-faced little Earth-men, the people without souls;

And for every man and woman in Rugen's island found
Walking in air and sunshine, a Troll was underground.

It chanced the little maiden, one morning, strolled away
Among the haunted Nine Hills, where the elves and goblins play.

That day, in barley-fields below, the harvesters had known
Of evil voi...

I

In the evening of our days,
When the first far stars above
Glimmer dimmer, through the haze,
Than the dewy eyes of love,
Shall we mournfully revert
To the vanished morns and Mays
Of our youth, with hearts that hurt, -
In the evening of our days?


II

Shall the hand that holds your own
Till the twain are thrilled as now,
Be withheld, or colder grown?
Shall my kiss upon your brow
Falter from its high estate?
And, in all forgetful ways,
Shall we sit apart and wait -
In the evening of our days?


III

Nay, my wife - my life! - the gloom
Shall enfold us velvetwise,
And my smile shall be the groom
Of the gladness of your eyes:
Gently, gently as the dew
Mingles with the darkening maze,

Now thou art dead, no eye shall ever see,
For shape and service, spaniel like to thee.
This shall my love do, give thy sad death one
Tear, that deserves of me a million.

They called him Mr. What's-his-name:
From where he was, or why he came,
Or when, or what he found to do,
Nobody in the city knew.

He lived, it seemed, shut up alone
In a low hovel of his own;
There cooked his meals and made his bed,
Careless of all his neighbors said.

His neighbors, too, said many things
Expressive of grave wonderings,
Since none of them had ever been
Within his doors, or peered therein.

In fact, grown watchful, they became
Assured that Mr. What's-his-name
Was up to something wrong - indeed,
Small doubt of it, we all agreed.

At night were heard strange noises there,
When honest people everywhere
Had long retired; and his light
Was often seen to burn all night.

He left his house but seldom - the...

Amor con la man destra il lato manco.

UNDER THE FIGURE OF A LAUREL, HE RELATES THE GROWTH OF HIS LOVE.


    My poor heart op'ning with his puissant hand,
Love planted there, as in its home, to dwell
A Laurel, green and bright, whose hues might well
In rivalry with proudest emeralds stand:
Plough'd by my pen and by my heart-sighs fann'd,
Cool'd by the soft rain from mine eyes that fell,
It grew in grace, upbreathing a sweet smell,
Unparallel'd in any age or land.
Fair fame, bright honour, virtue firm, rare grace,
The chastest beauty in celestial frame,--
These be the roots whence birth so noble came.
Such ever in my mind her form I trace,
A happy burden and a holy thing,
To which on rev'rent knee with loving prayer I cling.

MACGREG...

Behold that great Plotinus swim,
Buffeted by such seas;
Bland Rhadamanthus beckons him,
But the Golden Race looks dim,
Salt blood blocks his eyes.
Scattered on the level grass
Or winding through the grove
Plato there and Minos pass,
There stately Pythagoras
And all the choir of Love.

O years!and age!    farewell:
Behold I go,
Where I do know
Infinity to dwell.

And these mine eyes shall see
All times, how they
Are lost i' th' sea
Of vast eternity:

Where never moon shall sway
The stars; but she,
And night, shall be
Drown'd in one endless day.

Old trees, old trees! in your mystic gloom
There's many a warrior laid,
And many a nameless and lonely tomb
Is sheltered beneath your shade.
Old trees, old trees! without pomp or prayer
We buried the brave and the true,
We fired a volley and left them there
To rest, old trees, with you.

Old trees, old trees! keep watch and ward
Over each grass-grown bed;
'Tis a glory, old trees, to stand as guard
Over the Southern dead;
Old trees, old trees! we shall pass away
Like the leaves you yearly shed,
But ye, lone sentinels, still must stay,
Old trees, to guard "our dead".

As the sunrise to the night,
As the north wind to the clouds,
As the earthquake's fiery flight,
Ruining mountain solitudes,
Everlasting Italy,
Be those hopes and fears on thee.

A tall, slight, English gentleman,
With an eyeglass to his eye;
He mostly says “Good-Bai” to you,
When he means to say “Good-bye”;
He shakes hands like a ladies’ man,
For all the world to see,
But they know, in Corners of the World.
No ladies’ man is he.
A tall, slight English gentleman,
Who hates to soil his hands;
He takes his mother’s drawing-room
To the most outlandish lands;
And when, through Hells we dream not of,
His battery prevails,
He cleans the grime of gunpowder
And blue blood from his nails.

He’s what our blokes in Egypt call
“A decent kinder cove.”
And if the Pyramids should fall?
He’d merely say “Bai Jove!”
And if the stones should block his path
For a twelve-month, or a day,
He’d call on Sergeant Whatsisname<...

Ah! hapless stranger! who, without a tear,
Can this sad record of thy fate survey?
No angry tempest laid thee breathless here,
Nor hostile sword, nor Nature's mild decay.

The fond companion of thy pilgrim feet,
Who watch'd thee in thy sleep, who moan'd if miss'd,
And sprung with such delight his Lord to greet,
Imbu'd with death the hand he oft had kiss'd.

And here, remov'd from Love's lamenting eye,
Far from thy native cat'racts' awful sound,
Far from thy dusky forests' pensive sigh,
Thy poor remains repose on alien ground;
Yet Pity oft shall sit beside thy stone,
And sigh as tho' she mourn'd a brother gone.

Artemis! thou fairest
Of the maids that be
In divine Olympus,
Hail!    Hail to thee!
To thee I bring this woven weed
Culled for thee from a virgin mead,
Where neither shepherd claims his flocks to feed
Nor ever yet the mower's scythe hath come.
There in the Spring the wild bee hath his home,
Lightly passing to and fro
Where the virgin flowers grow;
And there the watchful Purity doth go
Moistening with dew-drops all the ground below,
Drawn from a river untaintedly flowing,
They who have gained by a kind fate's bestowing
Pure hearts, untaught by philosophy's care,
May gather the flowers in the mead that are blowing,
But the tainted in spirit may never be there.

Now, O Divinest, eternally fair,
Take thou this garland to gather thy hair,
...

La sera desiar, odiar l' aurora.

CONTRARY TO THE WONT OF LOVERS, HE PREFERS MORN TO EVE.


    Tranquil and happy loves in this agree,
The evening to desire and morning hate:
On me at eve redoubled sorrows wait--
Morning is still the happier hour for me.
For then my sun and Nature's oft I see
Opening at once the orient's rosy gate,
So match'd in beauty and in lustre great,
Heaven seems enamour'd of our earth to be!
As when in verdant leaf the dear boughs burst
Whose roots have since so centred in my core,
Another than myself is cherish'd more.
Thus the two hours contrast, day's last and first:
Reason it is who calms me to desire,
And fear and hate who fiercer feed my fire.

MACGREGOR.

If well thou hast begun, go on fore-right;
It is the end that crowns us, not the fight.

"Will Jockey come to-day, mither?
Will Jockey come to-day?
He's taen sic likings to my brither
He's sure to come the day."
"Haud yer tongue, lass, mind your rockie;
But th'other day ye wore a pockie.
What can ye mean to think o' Jockey?
Ye've bin content the season long,
Ye'd best keep to your harmless song."

"Ye'll soon see falling tears, mither,
If love's a sin in youth;
He leuks to me, and talks wi' brither,
But I know the secret truth.
He's courted me the year, mither;
Judge not the matter queer, mither;
Ye're a' the while as dear, mither,
As ye've been the Summer long.
I cannot sing my song.

I'll hear nae farder preaching, mither;
I'se bin a child ower lang;
He led me frae the teaching, mither,
Ann wherefore did he wra...

Be bold, my Book, nor be abash'd, or fear
The cutting thumb-nail, or the brow severe;
But by the Muses swear, all here is good,
If but well read, or ill read, understood.

Snowdrift of the mountains,
Spindrift of the sea,
We who down the border
Rove from gloom to glee,--

Snowdrift of the mountains,
Spindrift of the sea,
There be no such gypsies
Over earth as we.

Snowdrift of the mountains,
Spindrift of the sea,
Let us part the treasure
Of the world in three.

Snowdrift of the mountains,
Spindrift of the sea,
You shall keep your kingdoms;
Joscelyn for me!