(See Note 28)

My boyish heart in thee confided,
For to the great by thee 't was guided.
As man, my waiting is for thee, -
The Northern cause with thee, with thee!

Rich lands and talents are thy dower,
But fallow lie thy wealth and power.
Thou must the North in concord bind,
Or never shalt thy true self find.

There's longing in thy folk arisen,
Poetic hope - but yet in prison.
Though forces great within thee dwell,
Thou art not wholly sound and well.

Too many things are undertaken,
Too oft the task is soon forsaken.
Though rich in promptings of the heart,
In faith and duty faint thou art.

In danger only hast thou thriven,
When something great to guard was given.
When every breast with warmth shall glow<...

In the downhill of life, when I find I’m declining,
May my lot no less fortunate be
Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining,
And a cot that o’erlooks the wide sea;
With an ambling pad-pony to pace o’er the lawn,
While I carol away idle sorrow,
And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn
Look forward with hope for tomorrow.

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,
As the sunshine or rain may prevail;
And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,
With a barn for the use of the flail;
A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,
And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;
I’ll envy no Nabob his riches or fame,
Nor what honours may wait him tomorrow.

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
Secure...

The world is with me, and its many cares,
Its woes - its wants - the anxious hopes and fears
That wait on all terrestrial affairs -
The shades of former and of future years -
Foreboding fancies, and prophetic tears,
Quelling a spirit that was once elate: -
Heavens! what a wilderness the earth appears,
Where Youth, and Mirth, and Health are out of date!
But no - a laugh of innocence and joy
Resounds, like music of the fairy race,
And gladly turning from the world's annoy
I gaze upon a little radiant face,
And bless, internally, the merry boy
Who "makes a son-shine in a shady-place."

    As the days lengthen,
    So the storms strengthen.

“Nec propter vitam vivendi perdere causas.”

Though the pitcher that goes to the sparkling rill
Too oft gets broken at last,
There are scores of others its place to fill
When its earth to the earth is cast;
Keep that pitcher at home, let it never roam,
But lie like a useless clod,
Yet sooner or later the hour will come
When its chips are thrown to the sod.

Is it wise, then, say, in the waning day,
When the vessel is crack’d and old,
To cherish the battered potters’ clay,
As though it were virgin gold?
Take care of yourself, dull, boorish elf,
Though prudent and safe you seem,
Your pitcher will break on the musty shelf,
And mine by the dazzling stream.

Men say - beyond the western seas
    The happy isles no longer glow,
No sailor sights Hesperides,
    All that was long ago.

No longer in a glittering morn
    Their misty meadows flicker nigh,
No singing with the spray is borne,
    All that is long gone by.

To-day upon the golden beach
    No gold-haired guardian maidens stand,
No apples ripen out of reach,
    And none are mad to land.

The merchant-men, 'tis they say so,
    That trade across the western seas,
In hurried transit to and fro,
    About Hesperides.

But, Reader, not as these thou art,
    So, loose thy shallop from its hold,
And, trusting to the ancient chart,
    Thou 'It make them as of old.

On to Iona! What can she afford
To 'us' save matter for a thoughtful sigh,
Heaved over ruin with stability
In urgent contrast? To diffuse the WORD
(Thy Paramount, mighty Nature! and Time's Lord)
Her Temples rose, 'mid pagan gloom; but why,
Even for a moment, has our verse deplored
Their wrongs, since they fulfilled their destiny?
And when, subjected to a common doom
Of mutability, those far-famed Piles
Shall disappear from both the sister Isles,
Iona's Saints, forgetting not past days,
Garlands shall wear of amaranthine bloom,
While heaven's vast sea of voices chants their praise.

Millions have been and passed from view
Benignity who never knew;
    No aspiration theirs, nor aim;
Existence soulless as the clay
From whence they sprang, what right have they
    To eulogy or fame?

So multitudes have been forgot -
But drones or dunces, good for naught;
    Like clinging parasites or burrs
Taking from others all they dared,
Yet little they for others cared
    Except as pilferers.

Not so with that majestic man
The all-round antiquarian -
    No model his nor parallel;
From selfishness inviolate
Are his achievements good and great,
    And thus shall ages tell.

A love for the antiquities
His honest hold, his birthright is!
    And things unheard of or unread,
Defaced by moth or rust or mold,
To ...

When, long sequester’d from his throne,
George took his seat again,
By right of worth, not blood alone,
Entitled here to reign,


Then loyalty, with all his lamps
New trimm’d, a gallant show!
Chasing the darkness and the damps,
Set London in a glow.


‘Twas hard to tell, of streets or squares
Which form’d the chief display,
These most resembling cluster’d stars,
Those the long milky way.


Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires,
And rockets flew, self-driven,
To hang their momentary fires
Amid the vault of heaven.


So, fire with water to compare,
The ocean serves, on high
Up-spouted by a whale in air,
To express unwieldy joy.


Had all the pageants of the world
In one procession...

ONCE more permit me, nuns, and this the last;
I can't resist, whatever may have passed,
But must relate, what often I've been told;
Your tales of convent pranks are seldom cold;
They have a grace that no where else we find,
And, somehow, better seem to please designed.
Another then we'll have, which three will make: -
Three did I say?-'tis four, or I mistake;
Let's count them well:-The GARD'NER first, we'll name;
Then comes the ABBESS, whose declining frame
Required a youth, her malady to cure
A story thought, perhaps, not over pure;
And, as to SISTER JANE, who'd got a brat,
I cannot fancy we should alter that.
These are the whole, and four's a number round;
You'll probably remark, 'tis strange I've found
Such pleasure in detailing convent scenes: -
'Tis ...

Early within his workshop here,
On Sundays stands our master dear;
His dirty apron he puts away,
And wears a cleanly doublet to-day;
Lets wax'd thread, hammer, and pincers rest,
And lays his awl within his chest;
The seventh day he takes repose
From many pulls and many blows.

Soon as the spring-sun meets his view,
Repose begets him labour anew;
He feels that he holds within his brain
A little world, that broods there amain,
And that begins to act and to live,
Which he to others would gladly give.

He had a skilful eye and true,
And was full kind and loving too.
For contemplation, clear and pure,
For making all his own again, sure;
He had a tongue that charm'd when 'twas heard,
And graceful and light flow'd ev'ry word;
Which made ...

The Autumn promised, and he keeps
His word unto the meadow-rose.
The pure, bright lightnings herald Spring,
Serene and glad the fresh earth shows.
The rain has quenched her children's thirst,
Her cheeks, but now so cold and dry,
Are soft and fair, a laughing face;
With clouds of purple shines the sky,
Though filled with light, yet veiled with haze.
Hark! hark! the turtle's mocking note
Outsings the valley-pigeon's lays.
Her wings are gemmed, and from her throat,
When the clear sun gleams back again,
It seems to me as though she wore
About her neck a jewelled chain.
Say, wilt thou darken such a light,
Wilt drag the clouds from heaven's height?
Although thy heart with anger swell,
Yet firm as marble mine doth dwell.
Therein no fear thy wrath beget...

Last night she came unto me,
And kneeling by my side,
Laid her head upon my bosom,
My beautiful, my bride;
My lost one, with her soft dark eyes,
And waves of sunny hair.
I smoothed the shining tresses,
With tearful, fond caresses,
And words of thankful prayer.

And then a thrill of doubt and pain,
My jealous heart swept o'er;
We were parted - she was dwelling
Upon a far-off shore;
Yet He who made my sad heart, knew
I loved her more and more;
My love more true and perfect grew,
As each dark day passed o'er;
But she whose heart had been my own,
Who loved me tenderly,
Whose last low words I knelt to hear,
Were, "How can I leave thee?"

And "Death would seem as sweet as life,
Could we together be."
Now, though we two we...

The fountain of our story spreads no clouds
Of mist above it rich in varied glows,
None paint us Gods and Goddesses in crowds
Where some Scamander flows.

The tale of Jamestown, which I need not gild,
With that of Plymouth, by the World is seen,
But none, in visions, fancifully build
Olympus in between.

At Jamestown stood the Saxon's home and graves,
There Britain's spray broke on the native rock,
There rose the English tide with crested waves
And overwhelming shock.

Virginia thence, stirred by a grand unrest,
Swept o'er the waters, scaled the mountain's crag,
Hewed out a more than Roman roadway West,
And planted there her flag.

Her fortune was forewritten even then -
That fortune in the coming years to be
"Mother of States and...

(From 'A Faun's Holiday')

'Be warned! I feel the world grow old,
And off Olympus fades the gold
Of the simple passionate sun;
And the Gods wither one by one:
Proud-eyed Apollo's bow is broken,
And throned Zeus nods nor may be woken
But by the song of spirits seven
Quiring in the midnight heaven
Of a new world no more forlorn,
Sith unto it a Babe is born,
That in a propped, thatched stable lies,
While with darkling, reverent eyes
Dusky Emperors, coifed in gold,
Kneel mid the rushy mire, and hold
Caskets of rubies, urns of myrrh,
Whose fumes enwrap the thurifer
And coil toward the high dim rafters
Where, with lutes and warbling laughters,
Clustered cherubs of rainbow feather,
Fanning the fragrant air together,
Flit in jubilant holy...

The new-born child of gospel grace,
Like some fair tree when summer’s nigh,
Beneath Emmanuel’s shining face
Lifts up his blooming branch on high.


No fears he feels, he sees no foes,
No conflict yet his faith employs,
Nor has he learnt to whom he owes
The strength and peace his soul enjoys.


But sin soon darts its cruel sting,
And comforts sinking day by day:
What seem’d his own, a self-fed spring,
Proves but a brook that glides away.


When Gideon arm’d his numerous host,
The Lord soon made his numbers less;
And said, “Lest Israel vainly boast,[1]
‘My arm procured me this success.’”


Thus will he bring our spirits down,
And draw our ebbing comforts low,
That, saved by grace, but not our own,

    It is no winter night comes down
        Upon our hearts, dear friends of old;
    But a May evening, softly brown,
        Whose wind is rather cold.

    We are not, like yon sad-eyed West,
        Phantoms that brood o'er Time's dust-hoard,
    We are like yon Moon--in mourning drest,
        But gazing on her lord.

    Come nearer to the hearth, sweet friends,
        Draw nigher, closer, hand and chair;
    Ours is a love that never ends,
        For God is dearest there!

    We will not talk about the past,
        We will not ponder ancient pain;
    Those are but deep foundations cast
        For peaks of soaring gain!

    We, waiting Dead, will warm our bones
        At our poor smouldering earthly fire;
    And ta...

The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame
Their great Original proclaim.
Th’unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator’s powers display,
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty Hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the listening earth
Repeats the story of her birth;
While all the stars that round her burn
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though in solemn silence all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball?
What though no real voice nor sound
Amid the radiant orbs be found?
In reason’s ear they all rejoice,
And utter ...