Loneliness

Men, whose fathers braved the world in arms against our isles in union,
Men, whose brothers met rebellion face to face,
Show the hearts ye have, if worthy long descent and high communion,
Show the spirits, if unbroken, of your race.
What are these that howl and hiss across the strait of westward water?
What is he who floods our ears with speech in flood?
See the long tongue lick the dripping hand that smokes and reeks of slaughter!
See the man of words embrace the man of blood!
Hear the plea whereby the tonguester mocks and charms the gazing gaper,
"We are they whose works are works of love and peace;
Till disunion bring forth union, what is union, sirs, but paper?
Break and rend it, then shall trust and strength increase."
Who would fear to trust a double-faced but single-hearte...

    Every Sunday there's a throng
    Of pretty girls, who trot along
    In a pious, breathless state
    (They are nearly always late)
    To the Chapel, where they pray
    For the sins of Saturday.

    They have frocks of white and blue,
    Yellow sashes they have too,
    And red ribbons show each head
    Tenderly is ringleted;
    And the bell rings loud, and the
    Railway whistles urgently.

    After Chapel they will go,
    Walking delicately slow,
    Telling still how Father John
    Is so good to look upon,
    And such other grave affairs
    As they thought of during prayers.

Here I have heard on hills the battle clash
Roar to the windy sea that roared again:
When, drunk with wrath, upon the clanking plain
Barbaric kings did meet in war and dash
Their mailéd thousands down, heard onset crash
Like crags contending 'gainst the battering main.
Torrents of helms, beaming like streams of rain,
Blue-billowing 'neath the pale moon's fitful flash;
Saw the scared moon hang over the black wood
Like a pale wreath of foam; shields, spears, and swords
Shoot green as meteors thro' the steely flood,
Or shine like ripples 'round their heathen lords
Standing like stubborn rocks, whence the wild wave
Of war circled in steel and foamed out brave on brave.

        Come o'er the sea,
        Maiden, with me,
    Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows;
        Seasons may roll,
        But the true soul
    Burns the same, where'er it goes.
Let fate frown on, so we love and part not;
'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not.
        Then come o'er the sea,
        Maiden, with me,
    Come wherever the wild wind blows;
        Seasons may roll,
        But the true soul
    Burns the same, where'er it goes.

        Was not the sea
        Made for the Free,
    Land for courts and chains alone?
        Here we are slaves,
        But, on the waves,
    Love and Liberty's all our own.
No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us,
All earth forgot, and all heaven aro...

    Little Tom Tittlemouse,
    Lived in a bell-house;
    The bell-house broke,
    And Tom Tittlemouse woke.

Little maidens, when you look
On this little story-book,
Reading with attentive eye
Its enticing history,
Never think that hours of play
Are your only holiday,
And that in a house of joy
Lessons serve but to annoy:
If in any house you find
Children of a gentle mind,
Each the others pleasing ever,
Each the others vexing never,
Daily work and pastime daily
In their order taking gaily,
Then be very sure that they
Have a life of holiday.

Out of the darkness, fretted sometimes in its sleeping,
Jets of sparks in fountains of blue come leaping
To sight, revealing a secret, numberless secrets keeping.

Sometimes the darkness trapped within a wheel
Runs into speed like a dream, the blue of the steel
Showing the rocking darkness now a-reel.

And out of the invisible, streams of bright blue drops
Rain from the showery heavens, and bright blue crops
Surge from the under-dark to their ladder-tops.

And all the manifold blue and joyous eyes,
The rainbow arching over in the skies,
New sparks of wonder opening in surprise.

All these pure things come foam and spray of the sea
Of Darkness abundant, which shaken mysteriously,
Breaks into dazzle of living, as dolphins that leap from the sea
Of...

The very reverend Dean Smedley,
Of dulness, pride, conceit, a medley,
Was equally allow'd to shine
As poet, scholar, and divine;
With godliness could well dispense,
Would be a rake, but wanted sense;
Would strictly after Truth inquire,
Because he dreaded to come nigh her.
For Liberty no champion bolder,
He hated bailiffs at his shoulder.
To half the world a standing jest,
A perfect nuisance to the rest;
From many (and we may believe him)
Had the best wishes they could give him.
To all mankind a constant friend,
Provided they had cash to lend.
One thing he did before he went hence,
He left us a laconic sentence,
By cutting of his phrase, and trimming
To prove that bishops were old women.
Poor Envy durst not show her phiz,
She was so ter...

I.

What human form is this? what form divine?
And who are these that gaze upon his face
Mild, beautiful, and full of heavenly grace,
With whose reflected light the gazers shine?
Saviour, who does not know it to be thine?
Who does not long to fill a gazer's place?
And yet there is no time, there is no space
To keep away thy servants from thy shrine!
Here if we kneel, and watch with faithful eyes,
Thou art not too far for faithful eyes to see,
Thou art not too far to turn and look on me,
To speak to me, and to receive my sighs.
Therefore for ever I forget the skies,
And find an everlasting Sun in thee.

II.

Oh let us never leave that happy throng!
From that low attitude of love not cease!
In all the world there is no other peace,
...

The Kitten mews outside the Door,
    The Cat-bird in the Tree,
The Sea-mew mews upon the Shore,
    The Catfish in the Sea.

The Emu with his feathers queer
    Is mewing in the Zoo.
Why is it that I never hear
    A Pussy-willow mew?

There was a young person whose history
Was always considered a mystery;
She sate in a ditch,
Although no one knew which,
And composed a small treatise on history.

    How did you feel, you libertarians,
    Who spent your talents rallying noble reasons
    Around the saloon, as if Liberty
    Was not to be found anywhere except at the bar
    Or at a table, guzzling?
    How did you feel, Ben Pantier, and the rest of you,
    Who almost stoned me for a tyrant
    Garbed as a moralist,
    And as a wry-faced ascetic frowning upon Yorkshire pudding,
    Roast beef and ale and good will and rosy cheer -
    Things you never saw in a grog-shop in your life?
    How did you feel after I was dead and gone,
    And your goddess, Liberty, unmasked as a strumpet,
    Selling out the streets of Spoon River
    To the insolent giants
    Who manned the saloons from afar?
    Did it occur to you that personal liberty
    Is li...

Ill-wrought life we look at as we die!
Mistaken, selfish, meagre, and unmeet;
So graven on the hearts that cruelly
We have deprived of many an hour sweet:
O ill-wrought life we look at as we die!

O day of God we look at as we die!
Grace, like a river flowing toward our feet;
Wide pardon blowing with the breezes by;
Love telling us bright tales of the Complete; -
While listening, hoping, thanking, lo, we die!

                The Deil's forhooit his ain, his ain!
                    The Deil's forhooit his ain!
                His bairns are greitin in ilka neuk,
                    For the Deil's forhooit his ain.

The Deil he tuik his stick and his hat,
    And his yallow gluves on he drew:
"The coal's sae dear, and the preachin sae flat.
    And I canna be aye wi' you!"

                The Deil's, &c.

"But I'll gie ye my blessin afore I gang,
    Wi' jist ae word o' advice;
And gien onything efter that gaes wrang
    It'll be yer ain wull and ch'ice!

"Noo hark: There's diseases gaein aboot,
    Whiles are, and whiles a' thegither!
Ane's ca'd Repentance--haith, hand it oot!
    It comes wi' a change o' weather.

"...

I heard that you ask'd for something to prove this puzzle, the New World,
And to define America, her athletic Democracy;
Therefore I send you my poems, that you behold in them what you wanted.

Tune - "To daunton me."


I.

    The blude red rose at Yule may blaw,
    The simmer lilies bloom in snaw,
    The frost may freeze the deepest sea;
    But an auld man shall never daunton me.
            To daunton me, and me so young,
            Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue.
            That is the thing you ne'er shall see;
            For an auld man shall never daunton me.

II.

    For a' his meal and a' his maut,
    For a' his fresh beef and his saut,
    For a' his gold and white monie,
    An auld man shall never daunton me.

III.

    His gear may buy him kye and yowes,
    His gear may buy him glens and knowes;
    But me he shall not buy nor fee,
    For an auld man shall neve...

When grace is given us ever to behold
A child some sweet months old,
Love, laying across our lips his finger, saith,
Smiling, with bated breath,
Hush! for the holiest thing that lives is here,
And heaven’s own heart how near!
How dare we, that may gaze not on the sun,
Gaze on this verier one?
Heart, hold thy peace; eyes, be cast down for shame;
Lips, breathe not yet its name.
In heaven they know what name to call it; we,
How should we know? For, see!
The adorable sweet living marvellous
Strange light that lightens us
Who gaze, desertless of such glorious grace,
Full in a babe’s warm face!
All roses that the morning rears are nought,
All stars not worth a thought,
Set this one star against them, or suppose
As rival this one rose.
What price ...

Imitated from Théophile Gautier


We are in love’s land to-day;
Where shall we go?
Love, shall we start or stay,
Or sail or row?
There’s many a wind and way,
And never a May but May;
We are in love’s hand to-day;
Where shall we go?

Our landwind is the breath
Of sorrows kissed to death
And joys that were;
Our ballast is a rose;
Our way lies where God knows
And love knows where.
We are in love’s hand to-day

Our seamen are fledged Loves,
Our masts are bills of doves,
Our decks fine gold;
Our ropes are dead maids’ hair,
Our stores are love-shafts fair
And manifold.
We are in love’s land to-day

Where shall we land you, sweet?
On fields of strange men’s feet,
Or fields near home?
Or...