Loneliness

Oh! by and by we shall hear the cry,
    'This is the way to Mars.'
Come take a trip, on the morning Ship;
    It sails by the Isle of Stars.

'A glorious view of planets new
    We promise by night and day.
Past dying suns our good ship runs,
    And we pause at the Milky Way.'

I am almost sure we will take that tour
    Together, my dear, my dear.
For, ever have we, by land and sea,
    Gone journeying far and near.

Out over the deep - o'er mountain steep,
    We have travelled mile on mile;
And to sail away to the Martian Bay,
    Oh! that were a trip worth while.

Our ship will race through seas of space
    Up into the Realms of Light,
Till the whirling ball of the earth grows small,
    And is utterly lost to sight.

Now, I think there is a likeness 'twixt St Peter's life and mine
For he did a lot of trampin' long ago in Palestine
He was 'union' when the workers first began to organize
And I'm glad that old St Peter keeps the gate of Paradise

When the ancient agitator and his brothers carried swags
I've no doubt he very often tramped with empty tucker-bags
And I'm glad he's Heaven's picket, for I hate explainin' things
And he'll think a union ticket just as good as Whitely King's

When I reach the great head-station, which is somewhere 'off the track'
I won't want to talk with angels who have never been out back
They might bother me with offers of a banjo meanin' well
And a pair of wings to fly with, when I only want a spell

I'll just ask for old St Peter, and I think, when h...

May! Be thou never grac'd with birds that sing,
        Nor Flora's pride!
In thee all flowers and roses spring,
        Mine only died.

W. B.

("Comme dans les étangs.")

[X., May, 1839.]


As in some stagnant pool by forest-side,
In human souls two things are oft descried;
The sky, - which tints the surface of the pool
With all its rays, and all its shadows cool;
The basin next, - where gloomy, dark and deep,
Through slime and mud black reptiles vaguely creep.

R.F. HODGSON

O wonderful! In sport we climbed the tree,
Eager and laughing, as in all our play,
To see the eggs where, in the nest, they lay,
But silent fell before the mystery.

For, one brief moment there, we understood
By sudden sympathy too fine for words
That we were sisters to the brooding birds
And part, with them, in God’s great motherhood.

So long as my spirit still
Is glad of breath
And lifts its plumes of pride
In the dark face of death;
While I am curious still
Of love and fame,
Keeping my heart too high
For the years to tame,
How can I quarrel with fate
Since I can see
I am a debtor to life,
Not life to me?

"Yu ban old, Fader Olaf," a young geezer
say, "yure hair it ban whiter sum snow;
Ay lak yu to tal me how yu keep so young.
By Yudas! Ay ant hardly know."

"Ven ay ban a young kid," Fader Olaf he
say, "ay never hang out in saloon;
Ay never ban smoking dese har cigarettes, or
sitting on sofa and spoon!"

"Yu ban slim, Fader Olaf," the young faller
say: "old fallers ban mostly dam fat.
Yu measure 'bout tventy-sax inches reund
vaist, vat for ban the reason of dat?"

"In the days of my youth," Fader Olaf
reply, "ay ant drenk no lager from cup;
Ay let all my frends fight dis bourbon and
rye, and alvays pass breakfast fude up!"

"Fader Olaf, yure eyes ban so bright sum a
star, yu ant vear no glasses at all;
Ay lak yu to tal me gude reaso...

Give it 'em hot, an be hanged to ther feelins!
Souls may be lost wol yor choosin' yor words!
Out wi' them doctrines 'at taich o' fair dealins!
Daan wi' a vice tho' it may be a lord's!
What does it matter if truth be unpleasant?
Are we to lie a man's pride to exalt!
Why should a prince be excused, when a peasant
Is bullied an' blamed for a mich smaller fault?

O, ther's too mich o' that sneakin and bendin;
An honest man still should be fearless and bold;
But at this day fowk seem to be feeared ov offendin,
An' they'll bow to a cauf if it's nobbut o' gold.
Give me a crust tho' it's dry, an' a hard 'en,
If aw know it's my own aw can ait it wi' glee;
Aw'd rayther bith hauf work all th' day for a farden,
Nor haddle a fortun wi' bendin' mi knee.

Let ivery...

    I'm always glad when Christmas comes, and yet I'd like it better;
    If mother wouldn't bother me to write a Christmas letter
    To uncle John and Cousin Kate and dear old Grand-aunt Gray,
    And all whose presents come to me from places far away.
    Of course I love my presents, and if givers should forget her,
    No little girl, my mother says, need write a Christmas letter.
    For oh! my ink makes awful blots, though I try to do real well,
    And when you write them out of school, all words are hard to spell.
    I mean to mind my mother, she's so kind I would not fret her,
    But when she says, "Stop playing, dear. Come, write this Christmas letter,"
    That's just the thing I hate to hear, and if I dared, I wouldn't
    Remember how to hold a pen, I'd make believe I ...

I caught, for a second, across the crowd -
Just for a second, and barely that -
A face, pox-pitted and evil-browed,
Hid in the shade of a slouch-rim'd hat -
With small gray eyes, of a look as keen
As the long, sharp nose that grew between.

And I said: 'Tis a sketch of Nature's own,
Drawn i' the dark o' the moon, I swear,
On a tatter of Fate that the winds have blown
Hither and thither and everywhere -
With its keen little sinister eyes of gray,
And nose like the beak of a bird of prey!

Her, the worthy maid, my heart doth hold,
And I shall not forget her.
Praise, honour, virtue of her are told;
Than all I love her better.
    I seek her good,
    And if I should
    Right evil fare,
    I do not care:
With that she'll make me merry!
With love and truth that never tire
Glad she will make me very,
And do all my desire.

She wears a crown of pure gold, where
Twelve stars their rays are twining;
Her raiment like the sun is fair,
And bright from far is shining.
    Her feet the moon
    Are set upon;
    She is the bride
    By Jesus' side!
She hath sorrow, must be mother
To her fair child, the noble Son,
Of all men lord and brother,
Her king, her crowned one.

That makes the old dragon ramp and ro...

The word is writ that he who runs may read.
What is the passing breath of earthly fame?
But to snatch glory from the hands of blame--
That is to be, to live, to strive indeed.
A poor Virginia cabin gave the seed,
And from its dark and lowly door there came
A peer of princes in the world's acclaim,
A master spirit for the nation's need.
Strong, silent, purposeful beyond his kind,
The mark of rugged force on brow and lip,
Straight on he goes, nor turns to look behind
Where hot the hounds come baying at his hip;
With one idea foremost in his mind,
Like the keen prow of some on-forging ship.

Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west,
Star of my Country! on the horizon's brink
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink
On England's bosom; yet well pleased to rest,
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,
Should'st be my Country's emblem; and should'st wink,
Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot
Beneath thee, that is England; there she lies.
Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,
One life, one glory! I, with many a fear
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,
Among men who do not love her, linger here.

    There's a line of rails on an upland green
    With a good take-off and a landing sound,
    Six fences grim as were ever seen,
    And it's there I would be with fox and hound.
    Oh, that was a country free and fair
    For the raking stride of my old grey mare!

    With her raking stride, and her head borne high,
    And her ears a-prick, and her heart a-flame,
    And the steady look of her deep brown eye,
    I warrant the grey mare knew the game:
    It was "Up to it, lass," and before I knew
    We were up and over, and on we flew.

    The rooks from the grass got up, and so,
    With a caw and flap, away they went;
    When the grey mare made up her mind to go
    At the tail of the bounds on a breast-high scent,
    The best of the st...

To the Right Honourable Mildmay, Earl of Westmoreland

Come, sons of summer, by whose toil
We are the lords of wine and oil;
By whose tough labours, and rough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands.
Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come,
And to the pipe sing Harvest Home.
Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
Dress'd up with all the country art.
See, here a malkin, there a sheet,
As spotless pure, as it is sweet;
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
(Clad, all, in linen, white as lilies.)
The harvest swains and wenches bound
For joy, to see the Hock-cart crown'd.
About the cart, hear, how the rout
Of rural younglings raise the shout;
Pressing before, some coming after,
Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
Some bless the c...

Some would know
Why I so
Long still do tarry,
And ask why
Here that I
Live and not marry.
Thus I those
Do oppose:
What man would be here
Slave to thrall,
If at all
He could live free here?

You may have heard of Proclus, sir,
If you have been a reader;
And you may know a bit of her
Who helped the Lycian leader.

I have my doubts the head you “sport”
(Now mark me, don’t get crusty)
Is hardly of the classic sort
Your lore, I think, is fusty.

Most likely you have stuck to tracts
Flushed through with flaming curses
I judge you, neighbour, by your acts
So don’t you d    n my verses.

But to my theme. The Asian sage,
Whose name above I mention,
Lived in the pitchy Pagan age,
A life without pretension.

He may have worshipped gods like Zeus,
And termed old Dis a master;
But then he had a strong excuse
He never heard a pastor.

However, it occurs to me
That, had he cut Demeter
And followed you, or f...

Now as an angler melancholy standing
Upon a green bank yielding room for landing,
A wriggling yellow worm thrust on his hook,
Now in the midst he throws, then in a nook:
Here pulls his line, there throws it in again,
Mendeth his cork and bait, but all in vain,
He long stands viewing of the curled stream;
At last a hungry pike, or well-grown bream
Snatch at the worm, and hasting fast away,
He knowing it a fish of stubborn sway,
Pulls up his rod, but soft, as having skill,
Wherewith the hook fast holds the fish's gill;
Then all his line he freely yieldeth him,
Whilst furiously all up and down doth swim
Th' insnared fish, here on the top doth scud,
There underneath the banks, then in the mud,
And with his frantic fits so scares the shoal,
That each one takes...