The tent-lights glimmer on the land,
The ship-lights on the sea;
The night-wind smooths with drifting sand
Our track on lone Tybee.

At last our grating keels outslide,
Our good boats forward swing;
And while we ride the land-locked tide,
Our negroes row and sing.

For dear the bondman holds his gifts
Of music and of song
The gold that kindly Nature sifts
Among his sands of wrong:

The power to make his toiling days
And poor home-comforts please;
The quaint relief of mirth that plays
With sorrow’s minor keys.

Another glow than sunset’s fire
Has filled the west with light,
Where field and garner, barn and byre,
Are blazing through the night.

The land is wild with fear and hate,
The rout runs mad and fast;

In thin clear light unshadowed shapes go by
Small on green fields beneath the hueless sky.
They do not stay for question, do not hear
Any old human speech: their tongue and ear
Seem only thought, for when I spoke they stirred not
And their bright minds conversing my ear heard not.
--Until I slept or, musing, on a heap
Of warm crisp fern lay between sense and sleep
Drowsy, still clinging to a strand of thought
Spider-like frail and all unconscious wrought.
For thinking of that unforgettable thing,
The war, that spreads a loud and shaggy wing
On things most peaceful, simple, happy and bright,
Until the spirit is blind though the eye is light;
Thinking of all that evil, envy, hate,
The cruelty most dark, most desolate;
Thinking of the English dead--"How can you d...

There is not any weed but hath its shower,
There is not any pool but hath its star;
And black and muddy though the waters are
We may not miss the glory of a flower,
And winter moons will give them magic power
To spin in cylinders of diamond spar;
And everything hath beauty near and far,
And keepeth close and waiteth on its hour!
And I, when I encounter on my road
A human soul that looketh black and grim,
Shall I more ceremonious be than God?
Shall I refuse to watch one hour with him
Who once beside our deepest woe did bud
A patient watching flower about the brim?

I might have met his anger with a smile
    For so it was that I had set my heart
To mask deception with a wanton's guile,
    And save the tears that now begin to start.

I might have worn my guilty crown of thorn,--
    Yea, even worn it gladly like a prize;
But, oh! more bitter than his rage or scorn,
    He left me with forgiveness in his eyes.

    WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM.

    I walked all night: the darkness did not yield.
    Around me fell a mist, a weary rain,
    Enduring long. At length the dawn revealed

    A temple's front, high-lifted from the plain.
    Closed were the lofty doors that led within;
    But by a wicket one might entrance gain.

    'Twas awe and silence when I entered in;
    The night, the weariness, the rain were lost
    In hopeful spaces. First I heard a thin

    Sweet sound of voices low, together tossed,
    As if they sought some harmony to find
    Which they knew once, but none of all that host

    Could wile the far-fled music back to mind.
    Loud voices, distance-low, wandered along
    The pillared paths, and up the arches twined

My lot on earth is not all mirth,
Nor is it constant gloom;
Some joys decay and fall away,
But leave much lasting bloom.
My wishes are not always met,
And cares press hard at times;
Yet joyous strains ne'er sink to fret,
Tho' dollars shrink to dimes.

My earthly lot boasts not a cot,
No foot of land I own,
No bank account nor phosphate mount,
Nor credit for a loan;
But I can read my title clear
To mansion, robe, and crown;
I couple these with lot down here,
And sing, tho' foes may frown.

    Place the helm on thy brow,
        In thy hand take the spear;--
    Thou art armed, Cupid, now,
        And thy battle-hour is near.
March on! march on! thy shaft and bow
    Were weak against such charms;
March on! march on! so proud a foe
    Scorns all but martial arms.

    See the darts in her eyes,
        Tipt with scorn, how they shine!
    Every shaft, as it flies,
        Mocking proudly at thine.
March on! march on! thy feathered darts
    Soft bosoms soon might move;
But ruder arms to ruder hearts
    Must teach what 'tis to love.
    Place the helm on thy brow;
        In thy hand take the spear,--
    Thou art armed, Cupid, now,
        And thy battle-hour is near.

When I grow up I mean to be
A Lion large and fierce to see.
I'll mew so loud that Cook in fright
Will give me all the cream in sight.
And anyone who dares to say
"Poor Puss" to me will rue the day.
Then having swallowed him I'll creep
Into the Guest Room Bed to sleep.

I first saw Phebe when the show'rs
Had just made brighter all the flow'rs;
        Yet she was fair
        As any there,
And so I loved her hours and hours.

Then I met Helen, and her ways
Set my untutored heart ablaze.
        I loved at sight
        And deemed it right
To worship her for days and days.

Yet when I gazed on Clara's cheeks
And spoke the language Cupid speaks,
        O'er all the rest
        She seemed the best,
And so I loved her weeks and weeks.

But last of Love's sweet souvenirs
Was Delia with her sighs and tears.
        Of her it seemed
        I'd always dreamed,
And so I loved her years and years.

But now again with Phebe met,
I love the first one of the set.
        "Fickle," you s...

I meditate upon a swallow's flight,
Upon a aged woman and her house,
A sycamore and lime-tree lost in night
Although that western cloud is luminous,
Great works constructed there in nature's spite
For scholars and for poets after us,
Thoughts long knitted into a single thought,
A dance-like glory that those walls begot.
There Hyde before he had beaten into prose
That noble blade the Muses buckled on,
There one that ruffled in a manly pose
For all his timid heart, there that slow man,
That meditative man, John Synge, and those
Impetuous men, Shawe-Taylor and Hugh Lane,
Found pride established in humility,
A scene well Set and excellent company.
They came like swallows and like swallows went,
And yet a woman's powerful character
Could keep a Swallow to...

Hail to thee, spirit of hope! whom men call Spring;
Youngest and fairest of the four, who guide
Our mortal year along Time's rapid tide.
Spirit of life! the old decrepid earth
Has heard thy voice, and at a wondrous birth,
Forth springing from her dark, mysterious womb,
A thousand germs of light and beauty come.
Thy breath is on the waters, and they leap
From their bright winter-woven fetters free;
Along the shore their sparkling billows sweep,
And greet thee with a gush of melody.
The air is full of music, wild and sweet,
Made by the joyous waving of the trees,
Wherein a thousand winged minstrels meet,
And by the work-song of the early bees,
In the white blossoms fondly murmuring,
And founts, that in the blessed sunshine sing;
Hail to thee! maiden, with t...

It is the longest night in all the year,
    Near on the day when the Lord Christ was born;
Six hours ago I came and sat down here,
    And ponder'd sadly, wearied and forlorn.

The winter wind that pass'd the chapel door,
    Sang out a moody tune, that went right well
With mine own thoughts: I look'd down on the floor,
    Between my feet, until I heard a bell

Sound a long way off through the forest deep,
    And toll on steadily; a drowsiness
Came on me, so that I fell half asleep,
    As I sat there not moving: less and less

I saw the melted snow that hung in beads
    Upon my steel-shoes; less and less I saw
Between the tiles the bunches of small weeds:
    Heartless and stupid, with no touch of awe

Upon me, half-shut eyes upon the ...

Wanted--Authors of all-work to job for the season,
    No matter which party, so faithful to neither;
Good hacks who, if posed for a rhyme or a reason.
    Can manage, like ******, to do without either.

If in jail, all the better for out-o'-door topics;
    Your jail is for travellers a charming retreat;
They can take a day's rule for a trip to the Tropics,
    And sail round the world at their ease in the Fleet.

For a dramatist too the most useful of schools--
    He can study high life in the King's Bench community;
Aristotle could scarce keep him more within rules,
    And of place he at least must adhere to the unity.

Any lady or gentleman, come to an age
    To have good "Reminiscences" (three-score or higher)
Will meet with e...

The world was in its day of peril dark
Wont to believe the dotage of fond love
From the fair Cyprian deity, who rolls
In her third epicycle, shed on men
By stream of potent radiance: therefore they
Of elder time, in their old error blind,
Not her alone with sacrifice ador'd
And invocation, but like honours paid
To Cupid and Dione, deem'd of them
Her mother, and her son, him whom they feign'd
To sit in Dido's bosom: and from her,
Whom I have sung preluding, borrow'd they
The appellation of that star, which views,
Now obvious and now averse, the sun.

I was not ware that I was wafted up
Into its orb; but the new loveliness
That grac'd my lady, gave me ample proof
That we had entered there. And as in flame
A sparkle is distinct, or voice in voice

To that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naught
Of all the great things men have saved from Time,
The withered body of a girl was brought
Dead ere the world's glad youth had touched its prime,
And seen by lonely Arabs lying hid
In the dim womb of some black pyramid.

But when they had unloosed the linen band
Which swathed the Egyptian's body, lo! was found
Closed in the wasted hollow of her hand
A little seed, which sown in English ground
Did wondrous snow of starry blossoms bear
And spread rich odours through our spring-tide air.

With such strange arts this flower did allure
That all forgotten was the asphodel,
And the brown bee, the lily's paramour,
Forsook the cup where he was wont to dwell,
For not a thing of earth it seemed to be,
But st...

A man prepar'd against all ills to come,
That dares to dead the fire of martyrdom;
That sleeps at home, and sailing there at ease,
Fears not the fierce sedition of the seas;
That's counter-proof against the farm's mishaps,
Undreadful too of courtly thunderclaps;
That wears one face, like heaven, and never shows
A change when fortune either comes or goes;
That keeps his own strong guard in the despite
Of what can hurt by day or harm by night;
That takes and re-delivers every stroke
Of chance (as made up all of rock and oak);
That sighs at others' death, smiles at his own
Most dire and horrid crucifixion.
Who for true glory suffers thus, we grant
Him to be here our Christian militant.

I may not go to-night to Bethlehem,
Nor follow star-directed ways, nor tread
The paths wherein the shepherds walked, that led
To Christ, and peace, and God's good will to men.

I may not hear the Herald Angel's song
Peal through the Oriental skies, nor see
The wonder of that Heavenly company
Announce the King the world had waited long.

The manger throne I may not kneel before,
Or see how man to God is reconciled,
Through pure St. Mary's purer, holier child;
The human Christ these eyes may not adore.

I may not carry frankincense and myrrh
With adoration to the Holy One;
Nor gold have I to give the Perfect Son,
To be with those wise kings a worshipper.

Not mine the joy that Heaven sent to them,
For ages since Time swung and locked his...

I read, before my eyelids dropt their shade,
‘The Legend of Good Women,’ long ago
Sung by the morning star of song, who made
His music heard below;

Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath
Preluded those melodious bursts that fill
The spacious times of great Elizabeth
With sounds that echo still.

And, for a while, the knowledge of his art
Held me above the subject, as strong gales
Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho’ my heart,
Brimful of those wild tales,

Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every land
I saw, wherever light illumineth,
Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand
The downward slope to death.

Those far-renowned brides of ancient song
Peopled the hollow dark, like burning stars,
And I heard sounds of ins...