They are rhymes rudely strung with intent less
Of sound than of words,
In lands where bright blossoms are scentless,
And songless bright birds;
Where, with fire and fierce drought on her tresses,
Insatiable Summer oppresses
Sere woodlands and sad wildernesses,
And faint flocks and herds.

Where in dreariest days, when all dews end,
And all winds are warm,
Wild Winter’s large flood-gates are loosen’d,
And floods, freed by storm,
From broken up fountain heads, dash on
Dry deserts with long pent up passion,
Here rhyme was first framed without fashion,
Song shaped without form.

Whence gather’d?, The locust’s glad chirrup
May furnish a stave;
The ring of a rowel and stirrup,
The wash of a wave.
The chaunt of the marsh frog in rushes,<...

Malâ soluta navis exit alite.

Hor.
Rigged with curses dark.

Milton.


I.

Gold, and fair marbles, and again more gold,
And space of halls afloat that glance and gleam
Like the green heights of sunset heaven, or seem
The golden steeps of sunrise red and cold
On deserts where dark exile keeps the fold
Fast of the flocks of torment, where no beam
Falls of kind light or comfort save in dream,
These we far off behold not, who behold
The cordage woven of curses, and the decks
With mortal hate and mortal peril paven;
From stem to stern the lines of doom engraven
That mark for sure inevitable wrecks
Those sails predestinate, though no storm vex,
To miss on earth and find in hell their haven.

II.

All cur...

The grass of fifty Aprils hath waved green
    Above the spent heart, the Olympian head,
The hands crost idly, the shut eyes unseen,
    Unseeing, the locked lips whose song hath fled;
Yet mystic-lived, like some rich, tropic flower,
His fame puts forth fresh blossoms hour by hour;
Wide spread the laden branches dropping dew
    On the low, laureled brow misunderstood,
    That bent not, neither bowed, until subdued
By the last foe who crowned while he o'erthrew.


Fair was the Easter Sabbath morn when first
    Men heard he had not wakened to its light:
The end had come, and time had done its worst,
    For the black cloud had fallen of endless night.
Then in the town, as Greek accosted Greek,
'T was not the wonted festal words to speak,
"Christ is ...

Dal dolcie pianto.


From happy tears to woeful smiles, from peace
        Eternal to a brief and hollow truce,
        How have I fallen!--when 'tis truth we lose,
        Sense triumphs o'er all adverse impulses.
I know not if my heart bred this disease,
        That still more pleasing grows with growing use;
        Or else thy face, thine eyes, which stole the hues
        And fires of Paradise--less fair than these.
Thy beauty is no mortal thing; 'twas sent
        From heaven on high to make our earth divine:
        Wherefore, though wasting, burning, I'm content;
For in thy sight what could I do but pine?
        If God himself thus rules my destiny,
        Who, when I die, can lay the blame on thee?

SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE BATTLE MONUMENT, JULY 4, 1837

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.

William was once a bashful youth,
His modesty was such,
That one might say, to say the truth,
He rather had too much.


Some said that it was want of sense,
And others, want of spirit
(So blest a thing is impudence),
While others could not bear it.


But some a different notion had,
And, at each other winking,
Observed that though he little said,
He paid it off with thinking.


Howe’er, it happen’d, by degrees,
He mended, and grew perter,
In company was more at ease,
And dress’d a little smarter;


Nay, now and then, could look quite gay,
As other people do;
And sometimes said, or tried to say,
A witty thing or so.


He eyed the women, and made free
To comment on their shapes,
So t...

To thee, we wretches of the Houyhnhnm band,
Condemn'd to labour in a barbarous land,
Return our thanks. Accept our humble lays,
And let each grateful Houyhnhnm neigh thy praise.

O happy Yahoo! purged from human crimes,
By thy sweet sojourn in those virtuous climes,
Where reign our sires; there, to thy country's shame,
Reason, you found, and virtue were the same.
Their precepts razed the prejudice of youth,
And even a Yahoo learn'd the love of truth.

Art thou the first who did the coast explore?
Did never Yahoo tread that ground before?
Yes, thousands! But in pity to their kind,
Or sway'd by envy, or through pride of mind,
They hid their knowledge of a nobler race,
Which own'd, would all their sires and sons disgrace.

You, like the Samian, vis...

"I DON'T believe that Santa Claus will come to you and me,"
Said little crippled Nell, "a'cause, we are so poor you see;
And then I don't believe the 'chimbley's' wide enough for him,
D'ye think that Santa Claus will come, when all the lights are dim."
"Of course he comes to every one, dear, whether rich or poor;
Now go to bed dear Nell," said Nan, "he'll come to-night I'm sure."



I don't know if by chimney or if by stair he crept,
But sure enough he visited the room where Nelly slept.
He brought a golden orange, and a monkey red and blue,
That climbed a little wooden stick in a way I couldn't do.
He hung them in Nell's stocking, and Nan was right, be sure,
That Santa Claus loves every one however rich or poor.

Dear, think not that they will forget you:
If craftsmanly art should be mine
I will build up a temple, and set you
Therein as its shrine.

They may say: "Why a woman such honour?"
Be told, "O, so sweet was her fame,
That a man heaped this splendour upon her;
None now knows his name."

Angel of love, for every grief
Its soothing balm thy mercy brings,
For every pang its healing leaf,
For homeless want, thine outspread, wings.

Enough for thee the pleading eye,
The knitted brow of silent pain;
The portals open to a sigh
Without the clank of bolt or chain.

Who is our brother? He that lies
Left at the wayside, bruised and sore
His need our open hand supplies,
His welcome waits him at our door.

Not ours to ask in freezing tones
His race, his calling, or his creed;
Each heart the tie of kinship owns,
When those are human veins that bleed.

Here stand the champions to defend
From every wound that flesh can feel;
Here science, patience, skill, shall blend
To save, to calm, to help, to heal.

Father of ...

L' aspettata virtù che 'n voi fioriva.

TO PAUDOLFO MALATESTA, LORD OF RIMINI.


    Sweet virtue's blossom had its promise shed
Within thy breast (when Love became thy foe);
Fair as the flower, now its fruit doth glow,
And not by visions hath my hope been fed.
To hail thee thus, I by my heart am led,
That by my pen thy name renown should know;
No marble can the lasting fame bestow
Like that by poets' characters is spread.
Dost think Marcellus' or proud Cæsar's name,
Or Africanus, Paulus--still resound,
That sculptors proud have effigied their deed?
No, Pandolph, frail the statuary's fame,
For immortality alone is found
Within the records of a poet's meed.

WOLLASTON.


    The flower, in youth which virtue's promise b...

We talked of yesteryears, of trails and treasure,
    Of men who played the game and lost or won;
Of mad stampedes, of toil beyond all measure,
    Of camp-fire comfort when the day was done.
We talked of sullen nights by moon-dogs haunted,
    Of bird and beast and tree, of rod and gun;
Of boat and tent, of hunting-trip enchanted
    Beneath the wonder of the midnight sun;
Of bloody-footed dogs that gnawed the traces,
    Of prisoned seas, wind-lashed and winter-locked;
The ice-gray dawn was pale upon our faces,
    Yet still we filled the cup and still we talked.

The city street was dimmed. We saw the glitter
    Of moon-picked brilliants on the virgin snow,
And down the drifted canyon heard the bitter,
    Relentless slogan of the winds of woe.
The ci...

Dear Reader, should you chance to go
To Hades, do not fail to throw
A "Sop to Cerberus" at the gate,
His anger to propitiate.
Don't say "Good dog!" and hope thereby
His three fierce Heads to pacify.
What though he try to be polite
And wag his Tail with all his might,
How shall one amiable Tail
Against three angry Heads prevail?
The Heads must win.--What puzzles me
Is why in Hades there should be
A Watch dog; 'tis, I should surmise,
The last place one would burglarize.

The sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower
In heaven's high bower,
With silent delight,
Sits and smiles on the night.

Farewell, green fields and happy grove,
Where flocks have ta'en delight.
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,
And each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nest
Where birds are covered warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm:
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.

When wolv...

Hard by I've a cottage that stands near the wood--
A stream glides in peace at the door--
Where all who will tarry, 'tis well understood,
Receive hospitality's store.
To cheer that the brook and the thicket afford,
The stranger we ever invite:
You're welcome to freely partake at the board,
And afterwards rest for the night.

The birds in the morning will sing from the trees,
And herald the young god of day;
Then, with him uprising, depart if you please--
We'll set you refreshed on the way:
You're coin for our service we sternly reject;
No traffic for gain we pursue,
And all the reward that we wish or expect
We take in the good that we do.

Mankind are all pilgrims on life's weary road,
And many would wander astray
In seeking Eternity's sile...

What mines the morning heavens unfold!
What far Alaskas of the skies!
That, veined with elemental gold,
Sierra on Sierra rise.

Heap up the gold of all the world,
The ore that makes men fools and slaves;
What is it to the gold, cloud-curled,
That rivers through the sunset's caves!

Search Earth for riches all who will,
The gold that soils, that turns to dust
Be mine the wealth no thief can steal,
The gold of God that can not rust.

Gift of the Hero, on his dying day,
    To her, whose pity watched, for ever nigh;
Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray,
    This relic lights up on her generous eye,
Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay
    A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy.

Paris, July, 1821

On The Memorable Victory Gained By The Duke Over The Hollanders, June 3, 1665. And On Her Journey Afterwards Into The North.

    Madam,
    When, for our sakes, your hero you resign'd
    To swelling seas, and every faithless wind;
    When you released his courage, and set free
    A valour fatal to the enemy;
    You lodged your country's cares within your breast
    (The mansion where soft love should only rest):
    And, ere our foes abroad were overcome,
    The noblest conquest you had gain'd at home.
    Ah, what concerns did both your souls divide!
    Your honour gave us what your love denied:
    And 'twas for him much easier to subdue
    Those foes he fought with, than to part from you.
    That glorious day, which two such navies saw,
    As each...