There is a place hung o'er with summer boughs
And drowsy skies wherein the gray hawk sleeps;
Where waters flow, within whose lazy deeps,
Like silvery prisms that the winds arouse,
The minnows twinkle; where the bells of cows
Tinkle the stillness, and the bob-white keeps
Calling from meadows where the reaper reaps,
And children's laughter haunts an old-time house;
A place where life wears ever an honest smell
Of hay and honey, sun and elder-bloom -
Like some dear, modest girl - within her hair:
Where, with our love for comrade, we may dwell
Far from the city's strife whose cares consume -
Oh, take my hand and let me lead you there.

As my little pot doth boil,
We will keep this level-coil,
That a wave and I will bring
To my God a heave-offering.

In Mather's Magnalia Christi,
    Of the old colonial time,
May be found in prose the legend
    That is here set down in rhyme.

A ship sailed from New Haven,
    And the keen and frosty airs,
That filled her sails at parting,
    Were heavy with good men's prayers.

"O Lord! if it be thy pleasure"--
    Thus prayed the old divine--
"To bury our friends in the ocean,
    Take them, for they are thine!"

But Master Lamberton muttered,
    And under his breath said he,
"This ship is so crank and walty
    I fear our grave she will be!"

And the ships that came from England,
    When the winter months were gone,
Brought no tidings of this vessel
    Nor of Master Lamberton.

This put the people to praying
    Tha...

Where may zeal due succour find,
Man, for thy unguarded mind?
To shield thee, when temptations reign,
From folly's snare, and vice's bane?

The law of God, a Saviour's law,
Justly heard with grateful awe,
That alone pure light supplies
To the simple, and the wise.

He, whose heart, however tried,
Keeps the word of God his guide,
He walks secure, and undismay'd
Amid misfortune's darkest shade.

He, tho' tempests round Him roll,
Feels a sacred calm of soul;
Breathing, to his latest breath,
Joy in life, and hope in death.

One day I sat me down to write,
And thought with might and main,
But neither subject fit, nor thoughts,
Came to my barren brain.

And then I laid my pen aside,
With sad, despairing mind,
And, fill'd with self-contemptuous scorn,
I thought of human kind.

I saw a trifling, feeble race,
With narrow thoughts and aims,
Each noble aspiration crush'd
By rigid duty's claims.

Selfish and hard, they toil'd along,
And, in the bitter strife,
Neglected all that sweeten'd toil,
Or that ennobl'd life.

Another day I sat me down;
A happy subject came,
And pleasant thoughts light up my mind
With bright and cheerful flame.

And, as I thought, with heart aglow,
Self-satisfied I grew,
And guag'd with ampler girt, my mind,

We read ov a man once possessed ov a devil,
An pity his sorrowful case;
But at this day we fancy we're free from sich evil,
An noa mooar have that trubble to face.
But dooan't be deceived, for yo're nooan aght o' danger,
Ther's a trap for yor feet ready set,
An if to sich sorrow yo'd still be a stranger,
Be careful to keep aght o' debt.

For debt is a demon 'at nivver shows pity,
An when once yor fast in his grip,
Yo may try to luk wise or appear to be witty,
But he'll drive yo to wreck wi' his whip.
He tempts yo to start wi' a little at furst,
An then deeper an deeper yo get,
Till at last yo find aght 'at yor life is accurst,
An yo grooan under th' burden o' debt.

Then sweet sleep forsakes yo an tossin wi' care,
Yo wearily wear neet away;

O gone are now those eager great glad days of days, but I remember
Yet even yet the light that turned the saddest of sad hours to mirth;
I remember how elate I swung upon the thrusting bowsprits,
And how the sun in setting burned and made the earth all unlike earth.

O gone are now those mighty ships I haunted days and days together,
And gone the mighty men that sang as crawled the tall craft out to sea;
And fallen ev'n the forest tips and changed the eyes that watched their burning,
But still I hear that shout and clang, and still the old spell stirs in me.

And as to some poor ship close locked in water dense and dark and vile
The wind comes garrulous from afar and sets the idle masts a-quiver;
And ev'n to her so foully docked, swift as the sun's first beam at dawn
The sea...

I.

    The noble Maxwells and their powers
        Are coming o'er the border,
    And they'll gae bigg Terreagle's towers,
        An' set them a' in order.
    And they declare Terreagles fair,
        For their abode they chuse it;
    There's no a heart in a' the land,
        But's lighter at the news o't.

II.

    Tho' stars in skies may disappear,
        And angry tempests gather;
    The happy hour may soon be near
        That brings us pleasant weather:
    The weary night o' care and grief
        May hae a joyful morrow;
    So dawning day has brought relief
        Fareweel our night o' sorrow!

SCENE: St. Petersburg. Period: the present time. A ballroom in the
winter palace of the Prince--. The ladies in character costumes and
masks. The gentlemen in official dress and unmasked, with the
exception of six tall figures in scarlet kaftans, who are treated with
marked distinction as they move here and there among the
promenaders. Quadrille music throughout the dialogue.
Count SERGIUS PAVLOVICH PANSHINE, who has just
arrived, is standing anxiously in the doorway of an antechamber
with his eyes fixed upon a lady in the costume of a maid of honor
in the time of Catherine II. The lady presently disengages herself
from the crowd, and passes near Count PANSHINE, who
impulsively takes her by the hand and leads her across the threshold
of the inner apartment, which is unoccupied.

The year declines, and yet there is
    A clearness, as of hinted spring;
And chilly, like a virgin's kiss,
    The cold light touches everything.

The world seems dazed with purity,
    There hangs, this spell-bound afternoon,
Beyond the naked cherry tree
    The new-wrought sickle of the moon.

What is this thraldom, pale and still,
    That holds so passionless a sway?
Lies death in this ethereal chill,
    New life, or prelude of decay?

In the frail rapture of the sky
    There bodes, transfigured, far aloof,
The veil that hides eternity,
    With life for warp and death for woof.

We see the presage - not with eyes,
    But dimly, with the shrinking soul -
Scarce guessing, in this fateful guise,
    The glory that enwra...

Vinse Annibal, e non seppe usar poi.

TO STEFANO COLONNA, COUNSELLING HIM TO FOLLOW UP HIS VICTORY OVER THE ORSINI.


    Hannibal conquer'd oft, but never knew
The fruits and gain of victory to get,
Wherefore, dear lord, be wise, take care that yet
A like misfortune happen not to you.
Still in their lair the cubs and she-bear,[Q] who
Rough pasturage and sour in May have met,
With mad rage gnash their teeth and talons whet,
And vengeance of past loss on us pursue:
While this new grief disheartens and appalls,
Replace not in its sheath your honour'd sword,
But, boldly following where your fortune calls,
E'en to its goal be glory's path explored,
Which fame and honour to the world may give
That e'en for centuries after death will live.

The silver and violet leopard of the night
Spotted with stars and smooth with silence sprang;
And though three doors stood open, the end of light
Closed like a trap; and stillness was a clang.

Under the leopard sky of lurid stars
I strove with evil sleep the hot night long,
Dreams dumb and swollen of triumphs without wars,
Of tongueless trumpet and unanswering gong.

I saw a pale imperial pomp go by,
Helmet and hornèd mitre and heavy wreath;
Their high strange ensigns hung upon the sky
And their great shields were like the doors of death.

Their mitres were as moving pyramids
And all their crowns as marching towers were tall;
Their eyes were cold under their carven lids
And the same carven smile was on them all.

Over a paven plain that se...

Cool shades and dews are round my way,
And silence of the early day;
Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed,
Glitters the mighty Hudson spread,
Unrippled, save by drops that fall
From shrubs that fringe his mountain wall;
And o'er the clear still water swells
The music of the Sabbath bells.

All, save this little nook of land
Circled with trees, on which I stand;
All, save that line of hills which lie
Suspended in the mimic sky,
Seems a blue void, above, below,
Through which the white clouds come and go,
And from the green world's farthest steep
I gaze into the airy deep.

Loveliest of lovely things are they,
On earth, that soonest pass away.
The rose that lives its little hour
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
Even love, lon...

The spirits of our fathers rise not from every wave,
They left the sea behind them long ago;
It was many years of “slogging,” where strong men must be brave,
For the sake of unborn children, and, maybe, a soul to save,
And the end a tidy homestead, and four panels round a grave,
And, the bones of poor old Someone down below.

Some left happy homes in old lands when they heard the New Land call
(Some were gentlemen and some were social wrecks)
Some left squalor and starvation, they were soldiers one and all,
And their weapons were the cross-cut and the wedges and the maul.
(How we used to run as children when we heard the big trees fall!
While they paused to wipe their faces and their necks.)

They were buried by our uncles where the ground was hard to dig
(It was l...

A lay sung in the Temple of Minerva Girtanensis.


[NOTE. - On Thursday, February 24th, 1881, three Graces were submitted to the Senate of the University of Cambridge, confirming the Report of The Syndicate appointed June 3rd, 1880, to consider four memorials relating to the Higher Education of Women.    The first two Graces were passed by majorities of 398 and 258 against 32 and 26 respectively; the third was unopposed.    The allusions in the following lay will probably be understood only by those who reside in Cambridge; but it may be stated that Professor Kennedy, Professor Fawcett, and Sir C. Dilke gave their votes and influence in favour of The Graces, while Dr. Guillemard, Mr. Wace, Mr. Potts, Professor Lumby, Dr. Perowne, Mr. Horne and Mr. Hamblin Smith voted against The Graces.]


    I
<...

Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,
On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;
In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark,
The deer, half-seen, are to the covert wending.
Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,
And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;
Thy numbers sweet with nature’s vespers blending,
With distant echo from the fold and lea,
And herd-boy’s evening pipe, and hum of housing bee.

Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp!
Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway,
And little reck I of the censure sharp
May idly cavil at an idle lay.
Much have I owed thy strains on life’s long way,
Through secret woes the world has never known,
When on the weary night dawned wearier day,
And bitterer was the grief devoured alone....

    This wearisome and this distressing sleep
    That we call life, O how dost thou support,
    My Pepoli? With what hopes feedest thou
    Thy heart? Say in what thoughts, and in what deeds,
    Agreeable or sad, dost thou invest
    The idleness thy ancestors bequeathed
    To thee, a dull and heavy heritage?
    All life, indeed, in every walk of life,
    Is idleness, if we may give that name
    To every work achieved, or effort made,
    That has no worthy aim in view, or fails
    That aim to reach. And if you idle call
    The busy crew, that daily we behold,
    From tranquil morn unto the dewy eve,
    Behind the plough, or tending plants and flocks,
    Because they live simply to keep alive,
    And life is worthless for itself alone,
    Th...

Songs are like painted window-panes!
In darkness wrapp'd the church remains,
If from the market-place we view it;
Thus sees the ignoramus through it.
No wonder that he deems it tame,
And all his life 'twill be the same.

But let us now inside repair,
And greet the holy Chapel there!
At once the whole seems clear and bright,
Each ornament is bathed in light,
And fraught with meaning to the sight.
God's children! thus your fortune prize,
Be edified, and feast your eyes!