The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;
Caolte tossing his burning hair
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing ’twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.

I know a cliff, whose steep and craggy brow
O'erlooks the troubled ocean, and spurns back
The advancing billow from its rugged base;
Yet many a goodly rood of land lies deep
Beneath the wild wave buried, which rolls on
Its course exulting o'er the prostrate towers
Of high cathedral--church--and abbey fair,--
Lifting its loud and everlasting voice
Over the ruins, which its depths enshroud,
As if it called on Time, to render back
The things that were, and give to life again
All that in dark oblivion sleeps below:--
Perched on the summit of that lofty cliff
A time-worn edifice o'erlooks the wave,
"Which greets the fisher's home-returning bark,"
And the young seaman checks his blithesome song
To hail the lonely ruin from the deep.

    Majestic in decay,...

The burden that I bear would be no less
Should I cry out against it; though I fill
The weary day with sound of my distress,
It were my burden still.

The burden that I bear may be no more
For all I bear it silently and stay
Sometimes to laugh and listen at a door
Where joy keeps holiday.

I ask no more save only this may be--
On life's long road, where many comrades fare,
One shall not guess, though he keep step with me,
The burden that I bear.

I know the need of the world,
    Though it would not have me know.
It would hide its sorrow deep,
    Where only God may go.
Yet its secret it can not keep;
It tells it awake, or asleep,
It tells it to all who will heed,
And he who runs may read.
    The need of the world I know.

I know the need of the world,
    When it boasts of its wealth the loudest,
When it flaunts it in all men's eyes,
    When its mien is the gayest and proudest.
Oh! ever it lies - it lies,
For the sound of its laughter dies
In a sob and a smothered moan,
And it weeps when it sits alone.
    The need of the world I know.

I know the need of the world.
    When the earth shakes under the tread
Of men who march to the fight,
    When rivers with blood ...

Come, Poet, come!
A thousand labourers ply their task,
And what it tends to scarcely ask,
And trembling thinkers on the brink
Shiver, and know not how to think.
To tell the purport of their pain,
And what our silly joys contain;
In lasting lineaments pourtray
The substance of the shadowy day;
Our real and inner deeds rehearse,
And make our meaning clear in verse:
Come, Poet, come! for but in vain
We do the work or feel the pain,
And gather up the seeming gain,
Unless before the end thou come
To take, ere they are lost, their sum.

Come, Poet, come!
To give an utterance to the dumb,
And make vain babblers silent, come;
A thousand dupes point here and there,
Bewildered by the show and glare;
And wise men half have learned to doubt

Singer of songs of the hills
Dreamer, by waters unstirred,
Back in a valley of rills,
Home of the leaf and the bird!
Read in this fall of the year
Just the compassionate phrase,
Faded with traces of tear,
Written in far-away days:

“Gone is the light of my lap
(Lord, at Thy bidding I bow),
Here is my little one’s cap,
He has no need of it now,
Give it to somebody’s boy
Somebody’s darling” she wrote.
Touching was Bob in his joy
Bob without boots or a coat.

Only a cap; but it gave
Capless and comfortless one
Happiness, bright as the brave,
Beautiful light of the sun.
Soft may the sanctified sod
Rest on the father who led
Bob from the gutter, unshod
Covered his cold little head!

Bob from the foot to the cro...

God's bounty, that ebbs less and less
As men do wane in thankfulness.

In placid hours well-pleased we dream
Of many a brave unbodied scheme.
But form to lend, pulsed life create,
What unlike things must meet and mate:
A flame to melt--a wind to freeze;
Sad patience--joyous energies;
Humility--yet pride and scorn;
Instinct and study; love and hate;
Audacity--reverence. These must mate,
And fuse with Jacob's mystic heart,
To wrestle with the angel--Art.

I

Light of the World, and Ruler of the Year,
With happy Speed begin Thy great Career;
And, as Thou dost thy radiant Journeys run,
Through every distant Climate own,
That in fair Albion Thou hast seen
The greatest Prince, the brightest Queen,
That ever sav'd a Land, or blest a Throne,
Since first Thy Beams were spread, or Genial Power was known.

II

So may Thy Godhead be confest;
So the returning Year be blest;
As His Infant Months bestow
Springing Wreaths for William's Brow;
As His Summer's Youth shall shed
Eternal Sweets around Maria's Head.
From the Blessings They bestow,
Our Times are dated, and our Æra's move:
They govern, and enlighten all Below,
As Thou dost all Above.

III

Let our Hero in the War

Humanity's bright image to impair.
Scorn laid thee prostrate in the deepest dust;
Wit wages ceaseless war on all that's fair,
In angel and in God it puts no trust;
The bosom's treasures it would make its prey,
Besieges fancy, dims e'en faith's pure ray.

Yet issuing like thyself from humble line,
Like thee a gentle shepherdess is she
Sweet poesy affords her rights divine,
And to the stars eternal soars with thee.
Around thy brow a glory she hath thrown;
The heart 'twas formed thee, ever thou'lt live on!

The world delights whate'er is bright to stain,
And in the dust to lay the glorious low;
Yet fear not! noble bosoms still remain,
That for the lofty, for the radiant glow
Let Momus serve to fill the booth with mirth;
A nobler mind loves forms of...

To my fellow sinners all, who, in hope and doubt,
Through the Commonwealth to-night watch the Old Year out,
New Year’s Resolutions are jerry-built I know,
But I want to say to you, “Give yourselves a show”.

You who drink for drinking’s sake, love for lust alone,
Thinking heaven is a myth and the world your own,
Dancing gaily down to hell in the devil’s dance,
This I have to say to you: “Give your souls a chance”.

You who drink because of shame that you think will last,
Or because of wrong done you, trouble in the past,
“Nothing left to live for now,” you will say, I know;
But you have your own self yet, give that self a show!

You who want all things on earth, money, love, and fame
Having the advantage of worldly place or name,
You who have more than yo...

Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn,
Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
Laugh heart again in the gray twilight,
Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.

Your mother Eire is always young,
Dew ever shining and twilight gray;
Though hope fall from you and love decay,
Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.

Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill:
For there the mystical brotherhood
Of sun and moon and hollow and wood
And river and stream work out their will;

And God stands winding His lonely horn,
And time and the world are ever in flight;
And love is less kind than the gray twilight,
And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.

Was there even a cause too lost,
Ever a cause that was lost too long,
Or that showed with the lapse of time to vain
For the generous tears of youth and song?

Timid Hares, from the trumpeting wind,
Fled as swift as the fear in their mind;
Till in fright from their fear,
From the green sedges near,
Leaping Frogs left their terror behind.

Our Own Are Not The Only Troubles

When the white dawn comes
I shall kneel to welcome it;
The dread that darkened on my eyes
Shall vanish and be gone.
I shall look upon it
As the parched on fountains,
Yet it was the blinding night
That taught the joy of dawn.

When the first bird sings,
Oh, I shall hear rejoicing,
And all my life shall thrill to it
And all my heart draw near.
I shall lean to listen
Lest a note elude me,
Yet it was the fearsome night
That taught me how to hear.

When the sun comes up
I shall lift my arms to it;
The fear of fear shall fall from me
As shackles from a slave.
I shall run to hail it,
Free and unbewildered,
Yet it was the silent night
That taught me to be brave.

"God bless New Hampshire! from her granite peaks
Once more the voice of Stark and Langdon speaks.
The long-bound vassal of the exulting South
For very shame her self-forged chain has broken;
Turn the black seal of slavery from her mouth,
And in the clear tones of her old time spoken!
Oh, all undreamed-of, all unhoped for changes!
The tyrants's ally proves his sternest foe;
To all his biddings, from her mountain ranges,
New Hampshire thunders an indignant No!
Who is it now despairs? Oh, faint of heart,
Look upward to those Northern mountain cold,
Flouted by Freedom's victor-flag unrolled
And gather strength to bear a manlier part!
All is not lost. The angel of God's blessing
Encamps with Freedom on the field of fight;
Still to her banner, day by day, are pressi...

WRITTEN ON THE APPROACH OF WAR.


Where is now the smile, that lightened
Every hero's couch of rest?
Where is now the hope, that brightened
Honor's eye and Pity's breast?
Have we lost the wreath we braided
For our weary warrior men?
Is the faithless olive faded?
Must the bay be plucked again?

Passing hour of sunny weather,
Lovely, in your light awhile,
Peace and Glory, wed together,
Wandered through our blessed isle.
And the eyes of Peace would glisten,
Dewy as a morning sun,
When the timid maid would listen
To the deeds her chief had done.

Is their hour of dalliance over?
Must the maiden's trembling feet
Waft her from her warlike lover
To the desert's still retreat?
Fare you well! with sighs we banish
Nymph ...

I saw the curl of his waving lash,
And the glance of his knowing eye,
And I knew that he thought he was cutting a dash,
As his steed went thundering by.

And he may ride in the rattling gig,
Or flourish the Stanhope gay,
And dream that he looks exceeding big
To the people that walk in the way;

But he shall think, when the night is still,
On the stable-boy's gathering numbers,
And the ghost of many a veteran bill
Shall hover around his slumbers;

The ghastly dun shall worry his sleep,
And constables cluster around him,
And he shall creep from the wood-hole deep
Where their spectre eyes have found him!

Ay! gather your reins, and crack your thong,
And bid your steed go faster;
He does not know, as he scrambles along,
That he h...