God's pity on poor kings,
    They know no gentle rest;
The North and South cry out,
    Cries come from East and West,
"Come, open this new Dock,
    Building, Bazaar or Fair."
Lord, what a wretched life
    Such men must bear.

They're followed, watched and spied,
    No liberty they know;
Some eye will watch them still,
    No matter where they go.
When in green lanes I muse,
    Alone, and hear birds sing,
God's pity then, say I,
    On some poor king.

haud curat Hippoclides.
        ERASM. Adag.


To those we love we've drank tonight;
    But now attend and stare not,
While I the ampler list recite
    Of those for whom WE CARE NOT.

For royal men, howe'er they frown,
    If on their fronts they bear not
That noblest gem that decks a crown,
    The People's Love--WE CARE NOT.

For slavish men who bend beneath
    A despot yoke, yet dare not
Pronounce the will whose very breath
    Would rend its links--WE CARE NOT.

For priestly men who covet sway
    And wealth, tho' they declare not;
Who point, like finger-posts, the way
    They never go--WE CARE NOT.

For martial men who on their sword,
    Howe'er it conquers, wear not
The pledges of a sol...

And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely. Revelation 22:17.


I wandered down a mountain road,
Past flower and rock and lichen gray,
Alone with nature and her God
Upon a flitting summer day.

The forest skirted to the edge
Of Capon river, Hampshire's gem,
Which, bathing many a primrose ledge,
Oft sparkled like a diadem.

At length a silvery spring I spied,
Gurgling through moss and fern along,
Waiting to bless with cooling tide
All who were gladdened by its song.

Oh, who would pass with thirsting lip
And burning brow, this limpid wave?
Who would not pause with joy and sip?
Its crystal depths who would not crave?

This query woke a voice within
Why slight the spri...

Jacob God's beggar was; and so we wait,
Though ne'er so rich, all beggars at His gate.

SUNDAY

Lie still and rest, in that serene repose
That on this holy morning comes to those
Who have been burdened with the cares which make
The sad heart weary and the tired head ache.
    Lie still and rest -
    God's day of all is best.

MONDAY

Awake! arise!    Cast off thy drowsy dreams!
Red in the East, behold the Morning gleams.
"As Monday goes, so goes the week," dames say.
Refreshed, renewed, use well the initial day.
    And see! thy neighbour
    Already seeks his labour.

TUESDAY

Another morning's banners are unfurled -
Another day looks smiling on the world.
It holds new laurels for thy soul to win;
Mar not its grace by slothfulness or sin,
    Nor sad, away,
    Send it to yesterday.

WEDNES...

Corn-colored clouds upon a sky of gold,
And 'mid their sheaves, - where, like a daisy-bloom
Left by the reapers to the gathering gloom,
The star of twilight glows, - as Ruth, 'tis told,
Dreamed homesick 'mid the harvest fields of old,
The Dusk goes gleaning color and perfume
From Bible slopes of heaven, that illume
Her pensive beauty deep in shadows stoled.
Hushed is the forest; and blue vale and hill
Are still, save for the brooklet, sleepily
Stumbling the stone with one foam-fluttering foot:
Save for the note of one far whippoorwill,
And in my heart her name, - like some sweet bee
Within a rose, - blowing a faery flute.

Yes; I write verses now and then,
But blunt and flaccid is my pen,
No longer talk’d of by young men
As rather clever;
In the last quarter are my eyes,
You see it by their form and size;
Is it not time then to be wise?
Or now or never.

Fairest that ever sprang from Eve!
While Time allows the short reprieve,
Just look at me! would you believe
’T was once a lover?
I cannot clear the five-bar gate;
But, trying first its timber’s state,
Climb stiffly up, take breath, and wait
To trundle over.

Through gallopade I cannot swing
The entangling blooms of Beauty’s spring:
I cannot say the tender thing,
Be ’t true or false,
And am beginning to opine
Those girls are only half divine
Whose waists yon wicked boys entwine
In gidd...

Translation From The Eneid, Book I.

The god looked out upon the troubled deep
Waked into tumult from its placid sleep;
The flame of anger kindles in his eye
As the wild waves ascend the lowering sky;
He lifts his head above their awful height
And to the distant fleet directs his sight,
Now borne aloft upon the billow's crest,
Struck by the bolt or by the winds oppressed,
And well he knew that Juno's vengeful ire
Frowned from those clouds and sparkled in that fire.
On rapid pinions as they whistled by
He calls swift Zephyrus and Eurus nigh
Is this your glory in a noble line
To leave your confines and to ravage mine?
Whom I - but let these troubled waves subside -
Another tempest and I'll quell your pride!
Go - bear our message to your master's ear,

INGRATITUDE, how deadly is thy smart
    Proceeding from the Form we fondly love!
    How light, compared, all other sorrows prove!
    THOU shed'st a Night of Woe, from whence depart
The gentle beams of Patience, that the heart
    'Mid lesser ills, illume. - Thy Victims rove
    Unquiet as the Ghost that haunts the Grove
    Where MURDER spilt the life-blood. - O! thy dart
Kills more than Life, - e'en all that makes Life dear;
    Till we "the sensible of pain" wou'd change
    For Phrenzy, that defies the bitter tear;
Or wish, in kindred callousness, to range
    Where moon-ey'd IDIOCY, with fallen lip,
    Drags the loose knee, and intermitting step.

July 1773.

When I look on thee and feel how dear,
    How pure, and how fair thou art,
Into my eyes there steals a tear,
And a shadow mingled of love and fear
    Creeps slowly over my heart.

And my very hands feel as if they would lay
    Themselves on thy fair young head,
And pray the good God to keep thee alway
As good and lovely, as pure and gay, -
    When I and my wild love are dead.

Her love is like the hardy flower
That blooms amid the Alpine snows;
Deep-rooted in an icy bower,
No blast can chill its sweet repose;
But fresh as is the tropic rose,
Drenched in mellowest sunny beams,
It has as sweet delicious dreams
As any flower that grows.

And though an avalanche came down
And robbed it of the light of day,
That which withstood the tempest's frown
In grief would never pine away.
Hope might withhold her feeblest ray,
Within her bosom's snowy tomb
Love still would wear its everbloom,
The gayest of the gay.

God could have made all rich, or all men poor;
But why He did not, let me tell wherefore:
Had all been rich, where then had patience been?
Had all been poor, who had His bounty seen?

There is a place, so Ariosto sings,
A treasury for lost and missing things;
Lost human wits have places assign'd them,
And they, who lose their senses, there may find them.
But where's this place, this storehouse of the age?
The Moon, says he: but 'I' affirm the Stage:
At least in many things, I think, I see
His lunar, and our mimic world agree.
Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone,
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down.
Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,
And sure the folks of both are lunatics.
But in this parallel my best pretence is,
That mortals visit both to find their senses.
To this strange spot, Rakes, Macaronies, Cits
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at nigh...

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,
    Fanny dearest, for thee I'd sigh;
And every smile on my cheek should turn
    To tears when thou art nigh.
But between love and wine and sleep,
    So busy a life I live,
That even the time it would take to weep
    Is more than my heart can give.
Then wish me not to despair and pine,
    Fanny, dearest of all the dears!
The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine,
    Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
    Fanny dearest, thy image lies;
But ah! the mirror would cease to shine,
    If dimmed too often with sighs.
They lose the half of beauty's light,
    Who view it thro' sorrow's tear;
And 'tis but to see thee truly bright
    That I keep my eye-beams clear.<...

Sleep, sleep, you great and dim trees, sleeping on
The still warm, tender cheek of night,
And with her cloudy hair

Brushed: sleep, for the violent wind is gone;
Only remains soft easeful light,
And shadow everywhere,

And few pale stars. Hardly has eve begun
Dreaming of day renewed and bright
With beams than day's more fair;

Scarce the full circle of the day is run,
Nor the yellow moon to her full height
Risen through the misty air.

But from the increasing shadowiness is spun
A shadowy shape growing clear to sight,
And fading. Was it Hector there,

Great-helmed, severe?--and as the last sun shone
Seeming in solemn splendour dight
Such as dream heroes bear;

And such his shape as heroes stare upon
In sleep's tumul...

I leave the world to-morrow,
What news for Fairyland?
I’m tired of dust and sorrow
And folk on every hand.

A moon more calm and splendid
Moves there through deeper skies,
By maiden stars attended
She peaces goddes-wise.

And there no wrath oppresses,
And there no teardrops start,
There cool winds breathe caresses,
That soothe the weary heart.

The wealth the mad world follows
Turns ashes in the hand
Of him who sees the hollows
And glades of Fairyland.

And pine boughs sigh no sorrow
Where fairy rotas play,
I leave the world to-morrow
For ever and a day.

(See Note 21)

Our King is bereft of a trusty friend!
    And in dismay
We lower our banners and sad attend
    On his burial day.
But Denmark, in sorrow most deep thou waitest,
For fallen the life that was warmest, greatest,
    And fallen the tower
    Of mightiest power.
Bewailing the death of their kingly chief,
    Men voice their grief.

For Denmark's salvation the man was born
    Who now is dead.
When banished in youth from the court in scorn,
    To his people he fled.
There throve he right well, there grew he together
With peasants and sailors in foul and fair weather,
    While fullness of living
    Its schooling was giving;
When ready for Denmark was laid the snare,
    Then he was there!

Now soon it was pl...

Honour is flashed off exploit, so we say;
And those strokes once that gashed flesh or galled shield
Should tongue that time now, trumpet now that field,
And, on the fighter, forge his glorious day.
On Christ they do and on the martyr may;
But be the war within, the brand we wield
Unseen, the heroic breast not outward-steeled,
Earth hears no hurtle then from fiercest fray.

Yet God (that hews mountain and continent,
Earth, all, out; who, with trickling increment,
Veins violets and tall trees makes more and more)
Could crowd career with conquest while there went
Those years and years by of world without event
That in Majorca Alfonso watched the door.