War

God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.


Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,
He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.


Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.


Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace:
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.


His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.


Blind unbelief is sure to err,[1]
And scan his work in vain:
God is his ...

(Bar Harbor)

From this fair home behold on either side
The restful mountains or the restless sea
So the warm sheltering walls of life divide
Time and its tides from still eternity.

Look on the waves: their stormy voices teach
That not on earth may toil and struggle cease.
Look on the mountains: better far than speech
Their silent promise of eternal peace.

A cat duet.
    A silhouette.
A high brick wall,
    An awful squall.
A moonlit night,
    A mortal fight.
A man in bed,
    Sticks out his head.
Gee Whiz!
    The man has riz.
His arm draws back
    A big bootjack--
A loud swish,
    Squish!
"What's that?"
    A dead cat.

Look back on time with kindly eyes,
He doubtless did his best;
How softly sinks his trembling sun
In human nature's west!

“Recessit in Franciam.”

“Et affectu pectoris,
Et toto gestu corporis,
Et scholares maxime,
Qui festa colunt optime.”
- Carmina Burana, 13th century.



Der teufel’s los in Bal Mabille,
Dere’s hell-fire in de air,
De fiddlers can’t blay noding else
Boot Orphée aux Enfers:
Vot makes de beoples howl mit shoy?
Da capo Bravo! bis!!
It’s a Deutscher aus Amerikà:
Hans Breitmann in Paris.

Dere’s silber toughts vot might hafe peen,
Dere’s golden deeds vot must:
Der Hans ish come to Frankenland
On one eternal bust.
Der same old rowdy Argonaut
Vot hoont de same oldt vleece,
A hafin all de foon dere ish
Der Breitmann in Paris.

Mit a gal on eider shoulder
A holdin py his beard,
He tantz de Canc...

The Lord forgive if we transgress
Thus to familiarly address
    One of our betters.
But Jamie, do you no recall
The slate whereon you learned to scrawl
    Your Humble Letters?

Well we remember how you drew
Our shapely features all askew,
    Unflattering really.
You made A lame and B too fat
And C too curly--what of that!
    We loved you dearly.

From that first day we owned your spell,
And just because you used us well
    We served you blindly.
Why, even when you put us through
A fearsome Scottish Reel, we knew
    You meant it kindly.

Jamie, 'tis said Grand Tales there be
Still biding in the A B C--
    If this be true,
Quick Jamie! Cast your golden net.
Maybe we have the grandest yet
    In store for y...

The spirit of freedom is born of the mountains,
In gorge and in cañon it hovers and dwells;
Pervading the torrents and crystalline fountains,
    Which dash through the valleys and forest clad dells.

The spirit of freedom, so firm and impliant,
    Is borne on the breeze, whose invisible waves
Descend from the mountain peaks, stern and defiant--
    Created for freemen, but never for slaves.

Nettie, Nettie! oh, she's pretty!
With her wreath of golden curls;
None compare with charming Nettie,
She's the prettiest of girls.
Not her face alone is sweetest, -
Nor her eyes the bluest blue,
But her figure is the neatest
Of all forms I ever knew.
But she has a fault, - the greatest
That a pretty girl could have;
When she's looking the sedatist,
And pretending to be grave, -
You discover, 'spite of hiding,
What I feel constrained to tell;
That she knows she is a beauty, -
Knows it, - knows it, - aye, too well.
May be when the bloom has vanished;
Which we know in time it will;
And her foolish fancies banished,
May be, she'll be lovely still.
For though Time may put his finger,
On her dainty-fashioned face;
There will still some...

Your past is past and never to return,
The long bright yesterday of life's first years,
Its days are dead -- cold ashes in an urn.
Some held for you a chalice for your tears,
And other days strewed flowers upon your way.
They all are gone beyond your reach,
And thus they are beyond my speech.
I know them not, so that your first gone times
To me unknown, lie far beyond my rhymes.
But I can bless your soul and aims to-day,
And I can ask your future to be sweet,
And I can pray that you may never meet
With any cross, you are too weak to bear.
Virginia, Virgin name, and may you wear
Its virtues and its beauties, fore'er and fore'er.
I breathe this blessing, and I pray this prayer.

Exquisite Laura! with thy pouting lip,
    And the arch smile that makes me constant so -
Tempting me still like a dull bee to sip
    The flower I should have left so long ago -
Beautiful Laura! who art just so fair
    That I can think thee lovely when alone,
And still art not so wonderfully rare
    That I could never find a prettier one -
Spirited Laura! laughing, weeping, crying
    In the same breath, and gravest with the gay -
So wild, that Cupid ever shoots thee flying,
    And knows his archery is thrown away -
Inconstant as I am, I cannot yet
Break thy sweet fetter, exquisite coquette!

I ought to feel more satisfy an' happy dan I be,
For better husban' dan ma own, it 's very hard to fin'
An' plaintee woman if dey got such boy an' girl as me
Would never have no troub' at all, an' not'ing on deir min'
But w'ile dey're alway wit' me, an' dough I love dem all
I can't help t'inkin'w'en I watch de chil'ren out at play
Of tam I'm jus' lak dat mese'f, an' den de tear will fall
For de hill of St. Sebastien is very far away!

It seem so pleasan' w'en I come off here ten year ago
An' hardes' work I 'm gettin' den, was never heavy load,
De roughes' place is smoot' enough, de quickes' gait is slow
For glad I am to foller w'ere Louis lead de road
But somet'ing 's comin' over me, I feel it more an' more
It 's alway pullin' on de heart, an' stronger ev'ry day,
A...

Each day upon the yellow Nile, 'tis said.
Joseph, the youthful ruler, cast forth wheat,
That haply, floating to his father's feet,--
The sad old father, who believed him dead,--
It might be sign in Egypt there was bread;
And thus the patriarch, past the desert sands
And scant oasis fringed with thirsty green,
Be lured toward the love that yearned unseen.
So, flung and scattered--ah! by what dear hands?--
On the swift-rushing and invisible tide,
Small tokens drift adown from far, fair lands,
And say to us, who in the desert bide,
"Are you athirst? Are there no sheaves to bind?
Beloved, here is fulness; follow on and find."

The Text is that obtained in 1800 by Alexander Fraser Tytler from Mrs. Brown of Falkland, and by him committed to writing. The first ten and the last two stanzas show corruption, but the rest of the ballad is in the best style.

The Story emphasises the necessity of asking the consent of a brother to the marriage of his sister, and therefore the title The Cruel Brother is a misnomer. In ballad-times, the brother would have been well within his rights; it was rather a fatal oversight of the bridegroom that caused the tragedy.

Danish and German ballads echo the story, though in the commonest German ballad, Graf Friedrich, the bride receives an accidental wound, and that from the bridegroom's own hand.

The testament of the bride, by which she benefits her friends and leaves curses on her e...

It was a sultry day of summer time.
The sun pour'd down upon the ripen'd grain
With quivering heat, and the suspended leaves
Hung motionless. The cattle on the hills
Stood still, and the divided flock were all
Laying their nostrils to the cooling roots,
And the sky look'd like silver, and it seem'd
As if the air had fainted, and the pulse
Of nature had run down, and ceas'd to beat.

'Haste thee, my child!' the Syrian mother said,
'Thy father is athirst' - and from the depths
Of the cool well under the leaning tree,
She drew refreshing water, and with thoughts
Of God's sweet goodness stirring at her heart,
She bless'd her beautiful boy, and to his way
Committed him. And he went lightly on,
With his soft hands press'd closely to the cool
Stone vessel, ...

Spunge makes his boasts that he's the only man
Can hold of beer and ale an ocean;
Is this his glory? then his triumph's poor;
I know the tun of Heidleberg holds more.

For thee, my son, a mother's earnest prayer
Rises to Heaven each day from heart sincere,
Anxiously seeking what concerns thee most;
Not merely earthly good for thee she prays,
Knowledge, or wealth, or fame, or length of days,
What shall these profit, if the soul be lost.

In this life we find alternate day and night,
Not always darkness, sure not always light;
'Tis well it should be so, we're travellers here,
Home, that "sweet home," the Christian's place of rest,
Rises by faith to view when most distressed:
Oh! this life past - mayst thou find entrance there.

Perplexed, distressed, sick, or by friends betrayed,
Beset with snares, deprived of human aid,
In all thy sorrows whatsoe'er they be,
Go to the Saviour, tell him all thy need,
En...

If the stars fell; night's nameless dreams
Of bliss and blasphemy came true,
If skies were green and snow were gold,
And you loved me as I love you;

O long light hands and curled brown hair,
And eyes where sits a naked soul;
Dare I even then draw near and burn
My fingers in the aureole?

Yes, in the one wise foolish hour
God gives this strange strength to a man.
He can demand, though not deserve,
Where ask he cannot, seize he can.

But once the blood's wild wedding o'er,
Were not dread his, half dark desire,
To see the Christ-child in the cot,
The Virgin Mary by the fire?

O Merlin, how the magic from your eyes
Bids the world flame about your idle feet,
And makes a marvel of the humming street,
The watchful bush, the starry-haunted skies!
Dear, do you know that all such magic dies
In foolish hearts that regularly beat?
Blinded with dust, the elders in retreat
Shake their thin locks to prove that they are wise.
God help them in their tameness: you are wild.
Hold fast your faith, for love has mightier spells
Than yet your mouth has chattered, sung or laughed;
Be drunk still with th’ enchanted wine you’ve quaffed.
Awe spreads her wings above the hut where dwells,
Rapt in his glow of gramarye, the child.