I halted at the margin of the wood,
For tortuous was the path, and overhead
Low branches hung, and roots and fragments rude
Of rock hindered the tardy foot. I led
My timid horse, that started at our tread
And looked about on every side in fear,
Until, arising from the jocund shed,
The voice of laughter broke upon our ear,
And through the chinks the light shone out as we drew near.

I tied the bridle rain about a tree,
And on the ample flatness of a stone
Awhile I lay. 'Tis very sweet to be
In social mirth's domain, unseen, alone,
Sweet to make others' happiness one's own:
And he who views the dance from still recess,
Or reads a love tale in a meadow, prone,
Secures the joy without the weariness.
And fills with love's delight, nor feels its sore distr...

"Where art thou wandering, little child?"
I said to one I met to-day--
She push'd her bonnet up and smil'd,
"I'm going upon the green to play:
Folks tell me that the May's in flower,
That cowslip-peeps are fit to pull,
And I've got leave to spend an hour
To get this little basket full."

--And thou'st got leave to spend an hour !
My heart repeated--she was gone;
--And thou hast heard the thorn's in flower,
And childhood bliss is urging on:
Ah, happy child! thou mak'st me sigh,
This once as happy heart of mine,
Would nature with the boon comply,
How gladly would I change for thine.

Oh, the hobo's life is a roving life;
It robs pretty maids of their heart's delight -
It causes them to weep and it causes them to mourn
For the life of a hobo, never to return.

The hobo's heart it is light and free,
Though it's Sweethearts all, farewell, to thee! -
Farewell to thee, for it's far away
The homeless hobo's footsteps stray.

In the morning bright, or the dusk so dim,
It's any path is the one for him!
He'll take his chances, long or short,
For to meet his fate with a valiant heart.

Oh, it's beauty mops out the sidetracked-car,
And it's beauty-beaut' at the pigs-feet bar;
But when his drinks and his eats is made
Then the hobo shunts off down the grade.

He camps near town, on the old crick-bank,
And he cuts his name on th...

Sorrows divided amongst many, less
Discruciate a man in deep distress.

        [A storm of wind.]

    Arthur O'Bower has broken his band,
    He comes roaring up the land; -
    The King of Scots, with all his power,
    Cannot turn Arthur of the Bower!

The bars are thick with drops that show
As they gather themselves from the fog
Like silver buttons ranged in a row,
And as evenly spaced as if measured, although
They fall at the feeblest jog.

They load the leafless hedge hard by,
And the blades of last year's grass,
While the fallow ploughland turned up nigh
In raw rolls, clammy and clogging lie -
Too clogging for feet to pass.

How dry it was on a far-back day
When straws hung the hedge and around,
When amid the sheaves in amorous play
In curtained bonnets and light array
Bloomed a bevy now underground!

BOCKHAMPTON LANE.

There was an Old Man of the Coast,
Who placidly sat on a post;
But when it was cold,
He relinquished his hold,
And called for some hot buttered toast.

    I cannot but remember
        When the year grows old--
    October--November--
        How she disliked the cold!

    She used to watch the swallows
        Go down across the sky,
    And turn from the window
        With a little sharp sigh.

    And often when the brown leaves
        Were brittle on the ground,
    And the wind in the chimney
        Made a melancholy sound,

    She had a look about her
        That I wish I could forget--
    The look of a scared thing
        Sitting in a net!

    Oh, beautiful at nightfall
        The soft spitting snow!
    And beautiful the bare boughs
        Rubbing to and fro!

    But the roaring of the fire,
        And the warmth of fur,
    And the ...

Dolci ire, dolci sdegni e dolci paci.

HE CONSOLES HIMSELF WITH THE THOUGHT THAT HE WILL BE ENVIED BY POSTERITY.


    Sweet scorn, sweet anger, and sweet misery,
Forgiveness sweet, sweet burden, and sweet ill;
Sweet accents that mine ear so sweetly thrill,
That sweetly bland, now sweetly fierce can be.
Mourn not, my soul, but suffer silently;
And those embitter'd sweets thy cup that fill
With the sweet honour blend of loving still
Her whom I told: "Thou only pleasest me."
Hereafter, moved with envy, some may say:
"For that high-boasted beauty of his day
Enough the bard has borne!" then heave a sigh.
Others: "Oh! why, most hostile Fortune, why
Could not these eyes that lovely form survey?
Why was she early born, or wherefore late was I?"
...

Fame tells of groves, from England far away,
Groves that inspire the Nightingale to trill
And modulate, with subtle reach of skill
Elsewhere unmatched, her ever-varying lay;
Such bold report I venture to gainsay:
For I have heard the quire of Richmond hill
Chanting, with indefatigable bill,
Strains that recalled to mind a distant day;
When, haply under shade of that same wood,
And scarcely conscious of the dashing oars
Plied steadily between those willowy shores,
The sweet-souled Poet of the Seasons stood
Listening, and listening long, in rapturous mood,
Ye heavenly Birds! to your Progenitors.

To mute and to material things
New life revolving summer brings;
The genial call dead Nature hears,
And in her glory reappears.
But oh, my Country's wintry state
What second spring shall renovate?
What powerful call shall bid arise
The buried warlike and the wise;

The mind that thought for Britain's weal,
The hand that grasp'd the victor steel?
The vernal sun new life bestows
Even on the meanest flower that blows;
But vainly, vainly may he shine
Where glory weeps o'er Nelson's shrine;
And vainly pierce the solemn gloom
That shrouds, O Pitt, thy hallow'd tomb!

Deep graved in every British heart,
O never let those names depart!
Say to your sons, Lo, here his grave,
Who victor died on Gadite wave!
To him, as to the burning levin,

Dearest of thousands, now the time draws near
That with my lines my life must full-stop here.
Cut off thy hairs, and let thy tears be shed
Over my turf when I am buried.
Then for effusions, let none wanting be,
Or other rites that do belong to me;
As love shall help thee, when thou dost go hence
Unto thy everlasting residence.

Three times, sweet hawthorn! I have met thy bower,
And thou hast gain'd my love, and I do feel
An aching pain to leave thee: every flower
Around thee opening doth new charms reveal,
And binds my fondness stronger.--Wild wood bower,
In memory's calendar thou'rt treasur'd up:
And should we meet in some remoter hour,
When all thy bloom to winter-winds shall droop;
Ah, in life's winter, many a day to come,
Should my grey wrinkles pass thy spot of ground,
And find it bare--with thee no longer crown'd;
Within the woodman's faggot torn from hence,
Or chopt by hedgers up for yonder fence;
Ah, should I chance by thee as then to come,
I'll look upon thy nakedness with pain,
And, as I view thy desolated doom,
In fancy's eye I'll fetch thy shade again:
And of this lo...

The tremulous morning is breaking
    Against the white waste of the sky,
And hundreds of birds are awaking
    In tamarisk bushes hard by.
I, waiting alone in the station,
    Can hear in the distance, grey-blue,
The sound of that iron desolation,
    The train that will bear me from you.

'T will carry me under your casement,
    You'll feel in your dreams as you lie
The quiver, from gable to basement,
    The rush of my train sweeping by.
And I shall look out as I pass it, -
    Your dear, unforgettable door,
'T was ours till last night, but alas! it
    Will never be mine any more.

Through twilight blue-grey and uncertain,
    Where frost leaves the window-pane free,
I'll look at the tinsel-edged curtain
    That hid so muc...

Before the rain, low in the obscure east,
Weak and morose the moon hung, sickly gray;
Around its disc the storm mists, cracked and creased,
Wove an enormous web, wherein it lay
Like some white spider hungry for its prey.

Vindictive looked the scowling firmament,
In which each star, that flashed a dagger ray,
Seemed filled with malice of some dark intent.
The marsh-frog croaked; and underneath the stone
The peevish cricket raised a creaking cry.

Within the world these sounds were heard alone,
Save when the ruffian wind swept from the sky,
Making each tree like some sad spirit sigh;
Or shook the clumsy beetle from its weed,
That, in the drowsy darkness, bungling by,
Sharded the silence with its feverish speed.

Slowly the tempest gathered. Hours...

They spoke of him I love
With cruel words and gay;
My lips kept silent guard
On all I could not say.

I heard, and down the street
The lonely trees in the square
Stood in the winter wind
Patient and bare.

I heard... oh voiceless trees
Under the wind, I knew
The eager terrible spring
Hidden in you.

I cannot tell what you say, green leaves,
    I cannot tell what you say:
But I know that there is a spirit in you,
    And a word in you this day.

I cannot tell what you say, rosy rocks,
    I cannot tell what you say:
But I know that there is a spirit in you,
    And a word in you this day.

I cannot tell what you say, brown streams,
    I cannot tell what you say:
But I know that in you too a spirit doth live,
    And a word doth speak this day.

'Oh green is the colour of faith and truth,
And rose the colour of love and youth,
    And brown of the fruitful clay.
    Sweet Earth is faithful, and fruitful, and young,
    And her bridal day shall come ere long,
And you shall know what the rocks and the streams
    And the whispering ...

                        Margaret wrote a letter,
                        Seal'd it with her finger,
                        Threw it in the dam
                        For the dusty miller.
                        Dusty was his coat,
                        Dusty was the siller,
                        Dusty was the kiss
                        I'd from the dusty miller.
                        If I had my pockets
                        Full of gold and siller,
                        I would give it all
                        To my dusty miller.

    Chorus. O the little, little,
                        Rusty, dusty, miller.