"Blessed are they who expect nothing, for they shall net be disappointed."

Aw once knew a chap they called old Sammy; he used ta gaa wi a donkey, an th' mooast remarkable things abaat him wor his clogs an' his rags. Sammy had niver been wed, tho' he war fifty years old, but it wor allus believed he'd managed ta save a bit a' brass. One day he war gain up Hepenstull Bunk, Jenny o' Jooans a' th' Long Lover wor goin up befoor him, an' whether it wor at her clogs were made a' his favrite pattern, or her ancles had summat abaat 'em different to what he'd iver seen befoor, aw cannot tell, but it seems a feelin coom ovver him all at once, sich as he'd niver had befoor, an' when he'd managed ta overtak her, he sed, "It's loaning for heeat aw think, Jenny." "Eea, aw think its likely for bein wut," shoo sed. "Awve just been thinkin," sed...

Look from thy lattice, love--
    Listen to me!
The cool, balmy breeze
    Is abroad on the sea!
The moon, like a queen,
    Roams her realms above,
And naught is awake
    But the spirit of love.
Ere morn's golden light
    Tips the hills with its ray,
Away o'er the waters--
    Away and away!
Then look from thy lattice, love--
    Listen to me.
While the moon lights the sky,
    And the breeze curls the sea!
Look from thy lattice, love--
    Listen to me!
In the voyage of life,
    Love our pilot will be!
He'll sit at the helm
    Wherever we rove,
And steer by the load-star
    He kindled above!
His gem-girdled shallop
    Will cut the bright spray,
Or skim, like a bird,
    O'er the waters away!
T...

Come listen, O Love, to the voice of the dove,
Come, hearken and hear him say,
There are many To-morrows, my Love, my Love,
There is only one To-day.

And all day long you can hear him say
This day in purple is rolled,
And the baby stars of the milky-way
They are cradled in cradles of gold.

Now what is thy secret, serene gray dove,
Of singing so sweetly alway?
“There are many To-morrows, my Love, my Love,
There is only one To-day.”

Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,
Such aid from heaven as some have feign’d they drew,
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
And undebased by praise of meaner things,
That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings,
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalizes whom it sings.
But thou hast little need. There is a book
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright;


There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,
And, since thou own’st that praise, I spare thee mine.

Superb in white and red, and white and gold,
And white and violet, the French unfold
Their blazoned banners on the Autumn air,
While cymbols clash and brazen trumpets blare:
Steeds fret and foam, and spurs with scabbards clank
As far they form, in many a shining rank.
Deux-Ponts is there, as hilt to sword blade true,
And Guvion rises smiling on the view;
And the brave Swede, as yet untouched by Fate,
Rides 'mid his comrades with a mien elate;
And Duportail - and scores of others glance
Upon the scene, and all are worthy France!
And for those Frenchmen and their splendid bands,
The very Centuries shall clap their hands,
While at their head, as all their banners flow,
And all their drums roll out, and trumpets blow,
Rides first and foremost splendid Rochambeau!<...

Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief
To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools;
This moment's a flower too fair and brief,
To be withered and stained by the dust of the schools.
Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue,
But, while they are filled from the same bright bowl,
The fool, who would quarrel for difference of hue,
Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul.
Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side
In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried,
If he kneel not before the same altar with me?
From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly,
To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss?
No, perish the hearts, and the laws that try
Truth, valor, or love, by a standard like th...

The body grows outside, --
The more convenient way, --
That if the spirit like to hide,
Its temple stands alway

Ajar, secure, inviting;
It never did betray
The soul that asked its shelter
In timid honesty.

Lasso me, ch i' non so in qual parte pieghi.

HE WOULD CONSOLE HIMSELF WITH SONG, BUT IS CONSTRAINED TO WEEP.


    Me wretched! for I know not whither tend
The hopes which have so long my heart betray'd:
If none there be who will compassion lend,
Wherefore to Heaven these often prayers for aid?
But if, belike, not yet denied to me
That, ere my own life end,
These sad notes mute shall be,
Let not my Lord conceive the wish too free,
Yet once, amid sweet flowers, to touch the string,
"Reason and right it is that love I sing."

Reason indeed there were at last that I
Should sing, since I have sigh'd so long and late,
But that for me 'tis vain such art to try,
Brief pleasures balancing with sorrows great;
Could I, by some sweet verse, bu...

My fates had destined me to rove
A long, long pilgrimage of love;
And many an altar on my way
Has lured my pious steps to stay;
For if the saint was young and fair,
I turned, and sung my vespers there.
This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire,
Is what your pretty saints require:
To pass, nor tell a single bead,
With them would be profane indeed!
But, trust me, all this young devotion
Was but to keep my zeal in motion;
And, every humbler altar past,
I now have reached THE SHRINE at last!

I

The eyes of heaven were on her bent,
In a rapture of loving wonderment,
As her song with the nightingale's was blent:
And one yearn'd for a love, and one sigh'd for a soul!

Moonlight and starlight alike seemed cold,
As their silver glanced on her locks of gold;
And the dream on her face was a dream of old,
Whose sorrow no sunrise might smile away.

I read her yearning and weary smile,
As her song rang sadder and sadder the while,
With its weird refrain of a magic isle,
Where some might have rest, but never might she!

She, the darling of Sky and Stream,
She was but as wind, or as wave, or as dream,
To play for a while in life's glory and gleam:
But what would be left at the end of the day?

II

The sun smiles down up...

They're praying for the soldier lads in grim old London town;
Last night I went, myself, and heard a bishop in his gown
Confiding to the Lord of Hosts his views of this affair.
"We do petition Thee," he said, "to have a watchful care
Of all the stalwart men and strong who at their country's call
Went sailing off to Africa to fight, perchance to fall!"
"Amen!" a thousand voices cried. I whispered low: "Dear Lord,
A host is praying for the men, I want to say a word
For those who stay at home and wait - the mothers and the wives.
Keep close to them and help them bear their cheerless, empty lives!"

The Bishop prayed: "Our cause is good, our quarrel right and just;
The God of battles is our God, and in His arm we trust."
He never got that prayer of his in any printed book,
...

Lullaby on the wing
Of my song, O my own!
Soft airs of evening
Join my song's murmuring tone.

Lullaby, O my love!
Close your eyes, lake-like clear;
Lullaby, while above
Wake the stars, with heaven near.

Lullaby, sweet, so still
In arms of death; I alone
Sing lullaby, like a rill,
To your form, cold as a stone.

Lullaby, O my heart!
Sleep in peace, all alone;
Night has come, and your part
For loving is wholly done!

I.

    I round the threshold wandering here,
    Vainly the tempest and the rain invoke,
    That they may keep my lady prisoner.

    And yet the wind was howling in the woods,
    The roving thunder bellowing in the clouds,
    Before the dawn had risen in the sky.

    O ye dear clouds! O heaven! O earth! O trees!
    My lady goes! Have mercy, if on earth
    Unhappy lovers ever mercy find!

    Awake, ye whirlwinds! storm-charged clouds, awake,
    O'erwhelm me with your floods, until the sun
    To other lands brings back the light of day!

    Heaven opens; the wind falls; the grass, the leaves
    Are motionless, around; the dazzling sun
    In my tear-laden eyes remorseless shines.


II.

    The light of d...

For you, I could forget the gay
Delirium of merriment,
And let my laughter die away
In endless silence of content.
    I could forget, for your dear sake,
    The utter emptiness and ache
    Of every loss I ever knew. -
    What could I not forget for you?

I could forget the just deserts
Of mine own sins, and so erase
The tear that burns, the smile that hurts,
And all that mars or masks my face.
    For your fair sake I could forget
    The bonds of life that chafe and fret,
    Nor care if death were false or true. -
    What could I not forget for you?

What could I not forget? Ah me!
One thing, I know, would still abide
Forever in my memory,
Though all of love were lost beside -
    I yet would feel how first the wine
  ...

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?
The sun above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach ...

Our Order, like the ark of yore,
    Upon the raging sea was tossed;
Secure amid the billow's roar,
    It moved, and nothing has been lost.

When elements discordant seek
    To wreck what God in mercy saves,
The struggle is as vain and weak
    As that of the retiring waves.

The Power who bade the waters cease,
    The Pilot of the Pilgrim Band,
He gave the gentle dove of peace
    The branch she bore them from the land.

In him alone we put our trust,
    With heart and hand and one accord,
Ascribing, with the true and just,
    All "holiness unto the Lord."

Absent from thee, I languish still;
Then ask me not, When I return?
The straying fool ’twill plainly kill
To wish all day, all night to mourn.

Dear, from thine arms then let me fly,
That my fantastic mind may prove
The torments it deserves to try,
That tears my fix’d heart from my love.

When, wearied with a world of woe,
To thy safe bosom I retire,
Where love, and peace, and truth does flow,
May I contented there expire!

Lest, once more wandering from that heaven,
I fall on some base heart unblest;
Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven,
And lose my everlasting rest.

Oh, who in creation would fail to descend
    That wonderful hole in the ground? -
That, feeling its way like a hypocrite-friend
In sinuous fashion, seems never to end;
    While thunder and lightning abound.

Oh, who in creation would dare to go down
    That great subterranean hole -
The tunnel, the terror, the talk of the town,
That gives to the city a mighty renown
    And a shaking as never before?

A serpent, a spider, its mouth at the top
    Where the flies are all buzzing about;
Down into its maw where the populace drop,
Who never know where they are going to stop,
    Or whether they'll ever get out.

Why is it, with millions of acres untrod
    Where never the ploughshare hath been,
That man must needs burrow miles under the sod,...