Rolling through the gloomy gorges, comes the roaring southern blast,
With a sound of torrents flying, like a routed army, past,
And, beneath the shaggy forelands, strange fantastic forms of surf
Fly, like wild hounds, at the darkness, crouching over sea and earth;
Swooping round the sunken caverns, with an aggravated roar;
Falling where the waters tumble foaming on a screaming shore!
In a night like this we parted. Eyes were wet though speech was low,
And our thoughts were all in mourning for the dear, dead Long Ago!
In a night like this we parted. Hearts were sad though they were young,
And you left me very lonely, dark-haired Maid of Gerringong.

Said my darling, looking at me, through the radiance of her tears:
“Many changes, O my loved One, we will meet in after years;
C...

Sauntering hither on listless wings,
Careless vagabond of the sea,
Little thou heedest the surf that sings,
The bar that thunders, the shale that rings,
Give me to keep thy company.

Little thou hast, old friend, that’s new;
Storms and wrecks are old things to thee;
Sick am I of these changes, too;
Little to care for, little to rue,
I on the shore, and thou on the sea.

All of thy wanderings, far and near,
Bring thee at last to shore and me;
All of my journeyings end them here:
This our tether must be our cheer,
I on the shore, and thou on the sea.

Lazily rocking on ocean’s breast,
Something in common, old friend, have we:
Thou on the shingle seek’st thy nest,
I to the waters look for rest,
I on the shore, and thou on the sea.

Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith,
    All things are vanity. The eye and ear
    Cannot be filled with what they see and hear.
Like early dew, or like the sudden breath
Of wind, or like the grass that withereth,
    Is man, tossed to and fro by hope and fear:
    So little joy hath he, so little cheer,
Till all things end in the long dust of death.
To-day is still the same as yesterday,
    To-morrow also even as one of them;
And there is nothing new under the sun:
Until the ancient race of Time be run,
    The old thorns shall grow out of the old stem,
And morning shall be cold and twilight grey.

Here'sa song to mi brave old friend,
A friend who has allus been true;
His day's drawin near to its end,
When he'll leeav me, as all friends mun do.
His teeth have quite wasted away,
He's grown feeble an blind o' one ee,
His hair is all sprinkled wi' gray,
But he's just as mich thowt on bi me.

When takkin a stroll into th' taan,
He's potterin cloise at mi heels;
Noa matter whearivver aw'm baan,
His constancy nivver once keels.
His feyts an his frolics are o'er,
But his love nivver offers to fail;
An altho' some may fancy us poor,
They could'nt buy th' wag ov his tail.

If th' grub is sometimes rayther rough,
An if prospects for better be dark;
He nivver turns surly an gruff,
Or shows discontent in his bark.
Ther's nubdy can tice ...

Hold up yer heeads, tho' at poor workin men
Simple rich ens may laff an may scorn;
Maybe they ne'er haddled ther riches thersen,
Somdy else lived befooar they wor born.
As noble a heart may be fun in a man,
Who's a poor ragged suit for his best,
(An who knows he mun work or else he mun clam,)
As yo'll find i' one mich better drest.
Soa here's to all th' workers whearivver they be,
I'th' land or i'th' loom or i'th' saddle;
An the dule tak all them who wod mak us less free,
Or rob us o'th' wages we haddle!

The woods waved welcome in the breeze,
    When, many years ago,
Lured by the songs of birds and bees,
    I sought the dell below;
And there, in that secluded spot,
    Where silver streamlets roved,
Twined the green ivy round the cot
    Of her I fondly loved.

In dreams still near that porch I stand
    To listen to her vow!
Still feel the pressure of her hand
    Upon my burning brow!
And here, as in the days gone by,
    With joy I meet her yet,
And mark the love-light of her eyes,
    Fringed with its lash of jet.

O fleeting vision of the past!
    From memory glide away!
Ye were too beautiful to last,
    Too good to longer stay!
But why, attesting evening star,
    This sermon sad recall:
"THAN LOVE AND LOSE 'TI...

Hot blows the wild simoom across the waste,
    The desert waste, amid the dreary sand,
    With fiery breath swift burning up the land,
O'er the scared pilgrim, speeding on in haste,
    Hurling fierce death-drifts with broad-scorching hand.

O weary Wilderness! No shady tree
    To spread its arms around the fainting soul;
    No spring to sparkle in the parchèd bowl;
No refuge in the drear immensity,
Where lies the Past, wreck'd 'neath a sandy sea,
    Where o'er its glories blighting billows roll.

Ho! Sea, yield up thy buried dead again;
    Heave back thy waves, and let the Past arise;
    Restore Time's relics to the startled skies,
Till giant shadows tremble on the plain,
    And awe the heart with old-world mysteries!

Old Menmon! Once ...

To every man there openeth
A Way, and Ways, and a Way.
And the High Soul climbs the High way,
And the Low Soul gropes the Low,
And in between, on the misty flats,
The rest drift to and fro.
But to every man there openeth
A High Way, and a Low.
And every man decideth
The Way his soul shall go.

("Pendant que dans l'auberge.")

[Bk. IV. xiii., Jersey, November, 1852.]


While in the jolly tavern, the bandits gayly drink,
Upon the haunted highway, sharp hoof-beats loudly clink?
Yea; past scant-buried victims, hard-spurring sturdy steed,
A mute and grisly rider is trampling grass and weed,
And by the black-sealed warrant which in his grasp shines clear,
I known it is the Future - God's Justicer is here!

Little All-Aloney's feet
Pitter-patter in the hall,
And his mother runs to meet
And to kiss her toddling sweet,
Ere perchance he fall.
He is, oh, so weak and small!
Yet what danger shall he fear
When his mother hovereth near,
And he hears her cheering call:
"All-Aloney"?

Little All-Aloney's face
It is all aglow with glee,
As around that romping-place
At a terrifying pace
Lungeth, plungeth he!
And that hero seems to be
All unconscious of our cheers -
Only one dear voice he hears
Calling reassuringly:
"All-Aloney!"

Though his legs bend with their load,
Though his feet they seem so small
That you cannot help forebode
Some disastrous episode
In that noisy hall,
Neither threatening bump nor fall
Little A...

He was the man, Pope Sixtus, that Fifth, that swineherd’s son:
He knew the right thing, did it, and thanked God when ’t was done:
But of all he had to thank for, my fancy somehow leans
To thinking, what most moved him was a certain meal on beans.

For one day, as his wont was, in just enough disguise
As he went exploring wickedness, to see with his own eyes
If law had due observance in the city’s entrail dark
As well as where, i’ the open, crime stood an obvious mark,

He chanced, in a blind alley, on a tumble-down once house
Now hovel, vilest structure in Rome the ruinous:
And, as his tact impelled him, Sixtus adventured bold,
To learn how lowliest subjects bore hunger, toil, and cold.

There sat they at high-supper man and wife, lad and lass,
Poor as you ple...

Fair city by the famed Batrachian Pool,
Wise in the teachings of the Concord School;
Home of the Eurus, paradise of cranks,
Stronghold of thrift, proud in your hundred banks;
Land of the mind-cure and the abstruse book,
The Monday lecture and the shrinking Cook;
Where twin-lensed maidens, careless of their shoes,
In phrase Johnsonian oft express their views;
Where realistic pens invite the throng
To mention "spades," lest "shovels" should be wrong;
Where gaping strangers read the thrilling ode
To Pilgrim Trousers on the West-End road;
Where strange sartorial questions as to pants
Offend our "sisters, cousins, and our aunts;"
Where men expect by simple faith and prayer
To lift a lid and find a dollar there;
Where labyrinthine lanes that sinuous creep
Make ...

Man I am and man would be, Love, merest man and nothing more.
Bid me seem no other! Eagles boast of pinions, let them soar!
I may put forth angel's plumage, once unmanned, but not before.

Now on earth to stand suffices, nay, if kneeling serves, to kneel:
Here you front me, here I find the all of heaven that earth can feel:
Sense looks straight, not over,under, perfect sees beyond appeal.

Good you are and wise, full circle: what to me were more outside?
Wiser wisdom, better goodness? Ah, such want the angel's wide
Sense to take and hold and keep them! Mine at least has never tried.

O gentle vision in the dawn:
My spirit over faint cool water glides.
Child of the day,
To thee;
And thou art drawn
By kindred impulse over silver tides
The dreamy way
To me.

I need thy hands, O gentle wonder-child,
For they are moulded unto all repose;
Thy lips are frail,
And thou art cooler than an April rose;
White are thy words and mild:
Child of the morning, hail!

Breathe thus upon mine eyelids, that we twain
May build the day together out of dreams.
Life, with thy breath upon my eyelids, seems
Exquisite to the utmost bounds of pain.
I cannot live, except as I may be
Compelled for love of thee.
O let us drift,
Frail as the floating silver of a star,
Or like the summer humming of a bee,
Or stream-reflected sunl...

Thro' changing Months a well-attemper'd Mind
    Welcomes their gentle or terrific pace. -
    When o'er retreating Autumn's golden grace
    Tempestuous Winter spreads in every wind
Naked asperity, our musings find
    Grandeur increasing, as the Glooms efface
    Variety and glow. - Each solemn trace
    Exalts the thoughts, from sensual joys refin'd.
Then blended in our rapt ideas rise
    The vanish'd charms, that summer-suns reveal,
    With all of desolation, that now lies
Dreary before us; - teach the Soul to feel
    Awe in the Present, pleasure in the Past,
    And to see vernal Morns in Hope's perspective cast.

October 27th, 1782.

1.

Could Love for ever
Run like a river,
And Time's endeavour
Be tried in vain -
No other pleasure
With this could measure;
And like a treasure[ik]
We'd hug the chain.
But since our sighing
Ends not in dying,
And, formed for flying,
Love plumes his wing;
Then for this reason
Let's love a season;
But let that season be only Spring.


2.

When lovers parted
Feel broken-hearted,
And, all hopes thwarted,
Expect to die;
A few years older,
Ah! how much colder
They might behold her
For whom they sigh!
When linked together,
In every weather,[il]
They pluck Love's feather
From out his wing -
He'll stay for ever,[im]
But sadly shiver
Without h...

Give me that man that dares bestride
The active sea-horse, and with pride
Through that huge field of waters ride.

Who with his looks, too, can appease
The ruffling winds and raging seas,
In midst of all their outrages.

This, this a virtuous man can do,
Sail against rocks, and split them too;
Ay, and a world of pikes pass through.

Whatever a man pray for, he prays for a miracle. Every prayer reduces to this: 'Great God, grant that twice two be not four.'

Only such a prayer is a real prayer from person to person. To pray to the Cosmic Spirit, to the Higher Being, to the Kantian, Hegelian, quintessential, formless God is impossible and unthinkable.

But can even a personal, living, imaged God make twice two not be four?

Every believer is bound to answer, he can, and is bound to persuade himself of it.

But if reason sets him revolting against this senselessness?

Then Shakespeare comes to his aid: 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,' etc.

And if they set about confuting him in the name of truth, he has but to repeat the famous question, 'What is truth?' And so, let us drink and be ...