With what a glory comes and goes the year!
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out;
And when the silver habit of the clouds
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with
A sober gladness the old year takes up
His bright inheritance of golden fruits,
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.

    There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Kisses the blushing lea...

O! well I mind the olden time,
    The sweet, sweet olden time;
When I did long for eve all day,
    And watch'd upon the new-mown grass
    The shadows slowly eastward pass,
And o'er the meadows glide away,
    Till I could steal, with heart elate,
    Unto the little cottage-gate,
In the sweet, sweet olden time.

O! well I mind the olden time,
    The sweet, sweet olden time;
How all the night I long'd for morn,
    And bless'd the thrush whose early note
    The silver chords of silence smote
With greetings to the day new-born;
    For then again, with heart elate,
    I hoped to meet her at the gate,
In the sweet, sweet olden time.

But now hath pass'd the olden time,
    That sweet, sweet olden time;
And there is neither morn...

See you the towers, that, gray and old,
Frown through the sunlight's liquid gold,
Steep sternly fronting steep?
The Hellespont beneath them swells,
And roaring cleaves the Dardanelles,
The rock-gates of the deep!
Hear you the sea, whose stormy wave,
From Asia, Europe clove in thunder?
That sea which rent a world, cannot
Rend love from love asunder!

In Hero's, in Leander's heart,
Thrills the sweet anguish of the dart
Whose feather flies from love.
All Hebe's bloom in Hero's cheek
And his the hunter's steps that seek
Delight, the hills above!
Between their sires the rival feud
Forbids their plighted hearts to meet;
Love's fruits hang over danger's gulf,
By danger made more sweet.

Alone on Sestos' rocky tower,
Where upward sen...

Amor, not the child, the youthful lover of Psyche,
Look'd round Olympus one day, boldly, to triumph inured;
There he espied a goddess, the fairest amongst the immortals,
Venus Urania she, straight was his passion inflamed.
Even the holy one powerless proved, alas! 'gainst his wooing,
Tightly embraced in his arm, held her the daring one fast.
Then from their union arose a new, a more beauteous Amor,
Who from his father his wit, grace from his mother derives.
Ever thou'lt find him join'd in the kindly Muses' communion,
And his charm-laden bolt foundeth the love of the arts.

    Worthless, the man who works - he knows not why,
        Whom naught inspires to his puny plan,
    Who seeming plays his part instinctively:
        Soulless, and falsely designated "man."

    Wicked, who works from wish of worldly gain, -
        His soul surrendered to th'accursèd lust
    Of pleasure partial, briefly to remain,
        Of treasure liable to moth and rust.

    Foolish and vain is he whose motive - fame,
        Ruled by desire of honor and renown;
    And fondly courting Fortune's fickle Dame, -
        To-day she smiles, to-morrow she will frown.

    But virtuous, noble, prompted from above,
        Preluding now the perfect life again,
    Is he, whose only inspiration, love,
        Love to his God and to his fellow-men....

He comes from Erin's speechful shore
Like fervid kettle, bubbling o'er
    With hot effusions--hot and weak;
Sound, Humbug, all your hollowest drums,
He comes, of Erin's martyrdoms
    To Britain's well-fed Church to speak.

Puff him, ye Journals of the Lord,[1]
Twin prosers, Watchman and Record!
Journals reserved for realms of bliss,
Being much too good to sell in this,
Prepare, ye wealthier Saints, your dinners,
    Ye Spinsters, spread your tea and crumpets;
And you, ye countless Tracts for Sinners,
    Blow all your little penny trumpets.
He comes, the reverend man, to tell
    To all who still the Church's part take,
Tales of parsonic woe, that well
    Might make even grim Dissenter's heart ache:--
Of ten whole bis...

Smiles are things aw like to see, an'. they're noa less acceptable becoss sometimes ther's a tear or two. A chap at's a heart ov a reight sooart under his waistcoit cannot allus be smilin'. Awve met a deal o' sooarts o' fowk i' my bit o' time, an' th' best aw iver met had a tear i' ther ee nah an' then. If ther's owt aw hate to see, its a chap at's allus smilin'; an' if iver yo meet sich a one set him daan to be awther a haufthick or a hypocrite - yo'll be sure to be reight. It'll be time enuff to be allus grinnin' when all th' warkhaases an' th' prisons are to let - when lawyers have to turn farmers, an' bumbaileys have to emigrate - when yo connot find a soldier's or a policeman's suit ov clooas, except in a museum - when ther's noa chllder fun frozen to th' deeath o' London Brig - an' when poor fowk get more beef an' less bullyin'. If ...

Better in bitterest agony to lie,
Before Thy throne,
Than through much increase to be lifted up on high,
And stand alone.

Better by one sweet soul, constant and true,
To be beloved,
Than all the kingdoms of delight to trample through,
Unloved, unloved.

Yet best--the need that broke me at Thy feet,
In voiceless prayer,
And cast my chastened heart, a sacrifice complete,
Upon Thy care.

For all the world is nought, and less than nought,
Compared with this,--
That my dear Lord, with His own life, my ransom bought,
And I am His.

The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a man,
And the man said, ‘Am I your debtor?’
And the Lord–‘Not yet; but make it as clean as you can,
And then I will let you a better.’


I.
If my body come from brutes, my soul uncertain or a fable,
Why not bask amid the senses while the sun of morning shines,
I, the finer brute rejoicing in my hounds, and in my stable,
Youth and health, and birth and wealth, and choice of women and of wines?


II.
What hast thou done for me, grim Old Age, save breaking my bones on the rack?
Would I had past in the morning that looks so bright from afar!


OLD AGE

Done for thee? starved the wild beast that was linkt with thee eighty years back.
Less weight now for the ladder-of-heaven that hangs on a s...

I.


O goat-foot God of Arcady!
This modern world is grey and old,
And what remains to us of thee?

No more the shepherd lads in glee
Throw apples at thy wattled fold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!

Nor through the laurels can one see
Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold
And what remains to us of thee?

And dull and dead our Thames would be,
For here the winds are chill and cold,
O goat-loot God of Arcady!

Then keep the tomb of Helice,
Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,
And what remains to us of thee?

Though many an unsung elegy
Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Ah, what remains to us of thee?


II.


Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,
Thy satyr...

There's a feast undated yet:
    Both our true lives hold it fast,--
The first day we ever met.
    What a great day came and passed!
    --Unknown then, but known at last.

And we met: You knew not me,
    Mistress of your joys and fears;
Held my hands that held the key
    Of the treasure of your years,
    Of the fountain of your tears.

For you knew not it was I,
        And I knew not it was you.
We have learnt, as days went by.
        But a flower struck root and grew
        Underground, and no one knew.

Days of days!    Unmarked it rose,
    In whose hours we were to meet;
And forgotten passed.    Who knows,
    Was earth cold or sunny, Sweet,
    At the coming of your feet?

One mere day, we thought; the measu...

    For thee he thought,
    The Greek, who by the sea
    Lay in his lithe-limbed grace, as dreamily
    He gazed upon the sky begemmed with stars,
    And pondered mysteries. Ah, few the bars
    To stop that lofty spirit in its flight
    Compared with those that lock our souls in night.
    For thee he thought!
    For thee he wrought,
    The Tyrian, who of old
    His rich web wove of purple dye and gold;
    Whose little bark, outstanding many a storm,
    To ruder lands the spirit and the form
    Of Eastern culture bore. Ah! what we owe
    To him today, let sage and poet show.
    For thee he wrought!
    For thee he fought!
    The Saxon, who upheld
    The freedom of our race; whose broad-ax felled
    Imperial legions in the forest ...

(STROPHE)

Who shall awake the Spartan fife,
And call in solemn sounds to life
The youths, whose locks divinely spreading,
Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue,
At once the breath of Fear and Virtue shedding,
Applauding Freedom lov'd of old to view?
What new Alcæus, fancy-blest,
Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest,
At Wisdom's shrine a-while its flame concealing,
(What place so fit to seal a deed renown'd?)
Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing,
It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted wound!
O Goddess, in that feeling hour,
When most its sounds would court thy ears,
Let not my shell's misguided pow'r,
E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears.
No, Freedom, no, I will not tell,
How Rome, before thy weeping face,
With heavie...

        When the warm sun, that brings
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,
'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
        The first flower of the plain.

        I love the season well,
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell
        The coming-on of storms.

        From the earth's loosened mould
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,
        The drooping tree revives.

        The softly-warbled song
Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along
        The forest openings.

        When the bright sunset fills
The silver woods with light, the green slope t...

        Gent on sidewalk held out his foot
        While boy in gutter brushed his boot,
        But at this time, how sad, alas,
        An unruly horse did o'er him pass.

        The child for friends he sad did lack,
        They said he was but a shoeblack,
        Kind hearted man the poor child bore,
        To a soft cot in back of store.

        And brought from hospital ward
        A skilful nurse the lad to guard,
        She often listened for his breath,
        As he was passing the vale of death.

        But, poor child, once he ope'd his eyes,
        And he looked round in great surprise,
        Feebly he asked, heaving a sigh,
        Where in the world now am I.

        The tender nurse bent o'er his face,
     ...

Where God is merry, there write down thy fears:
What He with laughter speaks, hear thou with tears.

'Twas but a dream! and oh! what are they all,
    All the fond visions Hope's bright finger traces,
    All the fond visions Time's dark wing effaces,
But very dreams! but morning buds, that fall
    Withered and blighted, long before the night:
    Strewing the paths they should have made more bright,
With mournful wreaths, whose light hath past away,
    That can return to life and beauty never,
And yet, of whom it was but yesterday,
    We deemed they'd bloom as fresh and fair for ever.
Oh then, when hopes, that to thy heart are dearest,
    Over the future shed their sunniest beam,
When round thy path their bright wings hover nearest,
    Trust not too fondly! - for 'tis but a dream!

Of creatures that to man attend,
    His pastime, or his wealth;
The Horse we cherish as a friend,
    To sickness and to health.

Bless them, who shield a steed from woe.
    By age from toil releas'd!
And hated be the proud, who shew
    No mercy to their beast!

A wretch once doom'd, tho' rich and strong,
    His faithful horse to bleed,
But tell his fate, my moral song,
    For that atrocious deed!

An antient knight, of Kentish race;
    Of his athletic frame
Prone to indulge the passions base,
    Sir Geoffrin his name,

Against a priest indulg'd his rage,
    Who charitably good,
To shield a widow's helpless age,
    His avarice withstood.

With abject choler fierce and hot,
    The knight perforce would...