Hark, hearer, hear what I do; lend a thought now, make believe
We are leafwhelmed somewhere with the hood
Of some branchy bunchy bushybowered wood,
Southern dene or Lancashire clough or Devon cleave,
That leans along the loins of hills, where a candycoloured, where a gluegold-brown
Marbled river, boisterously beautiful, between
Roots and rocks is danced and dandled, all in froth and water- blowballs, down.
We are there, when we hear a shout
That the hanging honeysuck, the dogeared hazels in the cover
Makes dither, makes hover
And the riot of a rout
Of, it must be, boys from the town
Bathing: it is summer's sovereign good.

By there comes a listless stranger: beckoned by the noise
He drops towards the river: unseen
Sees the bevy of them, how the boys
With ...

Fairfax, whose name in armes through Europe rings
Filling each mouth with envy, or with praise,
And all her jealous monarchs with amaze,
And rumors loud, that daunt remotest kings,
Thy firm unshak'n vertue ever brings
Victory home, though new rebellions raise
Their Hydra heads, & the fals North displaies
Her brok'n league, to impe their serpent wings,
O yet a nobler task awaites thy hand;
Yet what can Warr, but endless warr still breed,
Till Truth, & Right from Violence be freed,
And Public Faith cleard from the shamefull brand
Of Public Fraud.    In vain doth Valour bleed
While Avarice, & Rapine share the land.

"They tell me in a sunny land
    Our Willie is at play;
And with him is a happy band
    Of children, good and gay.

"They say their shining robes of white
    Are free from spot or stain;
That there, where it is never night,
    They feel no grief or pain.

"But Willie shunned the stranger's face,
    When he was with us here;
And in that new, though lovely place,
    He will be sad, I fear.

"He'll miss me,--though the fields are fair,
    His bright eyes will grow dim;
He has no little sister there;
    O let me go to him!"

"Our Willie is not sad, my child;
    For in that heavenly home
There dwells the blessed Saviour mild,
    Who bids the children come.

"He loves them with a purer love,
    A holier, t...

Chloe, you shun me like a hind
That, seeking vainly for her mother,
Hears danger in each breath of wind,
And wildly darts this way and t' other;

Whether the breezes sway the wood
Or lizards scuttle through the brambles,
She starts, and off, as though pursued,
The foolish, frightened creature scrambles.

But, Chloe, you're no infant thing
That should esteem a man an ogre;
Let go your mother's apron-string,
And pin your faith upon a toga!

To bear the yoke not yet your love's submissive neck is bent,
To share a husband's toil, or grasp his amorous intent;
Over the fields, in cooling streams, the heifer longs to go,
Now with the calves disporting where the pussy-willows grow.

Give up your thirst for unripe grapes, and, trust me, you shall learn
How quickly in the autumn time to purple they will turn.
Soon she will follow you, for age steals swiftly on the maid;
And all the precious years that you have lost she will have paid.

Soon she will seek a lord, beloved as Pholoe, the coy,
Or Chloris, or young Gyges, that deceitful, girlish boy,
Whom, if you placed among the girls, and loosed his flowing locks,
The wondering guests could not decide which one decorum shocks.

Tornami al tempo.


Bring back the time when glad desire ran free
        With bit and rein too loose to curb his flight,
        The tears and flames that in one breast unite,
        If thou art fain once more to conquer me!
Bring back those journeys ta'en so toilsomely,
        So toilsome-slow to him whose hairs are white!
        Give back the buried face once angel-bright,
        That taxed all Nature's art and industry.
O Love! an old man finds it hard to chase
        Thy flying pinions! Thou hast left thy nest;
        Nor is my heart as light as heretofore.
Put thy gold arrows to the string once more:
        Then if Death hear my prayer and grant me grace,
        My grief I shall forget, again made blest.

    The room is full of you!--As I came in
    And closed the door behind me, all at once
    A something in the air, intangible,
    Yet stiff with meaning, struck my senses sick!--

    Sharp, unfamiliar odors have destroyed
    Each other room's dear personality.
    The heavy scent of damp, funereal flowers,--
    The very essence, hush-distilled, of Death--
    Has strangled that habitual breath of home
    Whose expiration leaves all houses dead;
    And wheresoe'er I look is hideous change.
    Save here.    Here 'twas as if a weed-choked gate
    Had opened at my touch, and I had stepped
    Into some long-forgot, enchanted, strange,
    Sweet garden of a thousand years ago
    And suddenly thought, "I have been here before!"

    You are not...

Whither did my fancy stray?
By what magic drawn away
Have I left my studious theme?
From this philosophic page,
From the problems of the sage,
Wandering thro' a pleasing dream?
'Tis in vain alas! I find,
Much in vain, my zealous mind
Would to learned wisdom's throne
Dedicate each thoughtful hour:
Nature bids a softer power
Claim some minutes for his own.

Let the busy or the wise
View him with contemptuous eyes;
Love is native to the heart:
Guide its wishes as you will;
Without Love you'll find it still
Void in one essential part.
Me though no peculiar fair
Touches with a lover's care;
Though the pride of my desire
Asks immortal friendship's name,
Asks the palm of honest fame,
And the old heroic lyre;
Though the day...

"Come, if thy magic Glass have power
    "To call up forms we sigh to see;
"Show me my, love, in that, rosy bower,
    "Where last she pledged her truth to me."

The Wizard showed him his Lady bright,
    Where lone and pale in her bower she lay;
"True-hearted maid," said the happy Knight,
    "She's thinking of one, who is far away."

But, lo! a page, with looks of joy,
    Brings tidings to the Lady's ear;
"'Tis," said the Knight, "the same bright boy,
    "Who used to guide me to my dear."
The Lady now, from her favorite tree,
    Hath, smiling, plucked a rosy flower:
"Such," he exclaimed, "was the gift that she
    "Each morning sent me from that bower!"

She gives her page the blooming rose,
    With looks that say, "Like lightning, fl...

I.

    True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow,
        And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr,
    But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river,
        Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair:
    To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over;
        To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain;
    Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover,
        And maidenly modesty fixes the chain.

II.

    O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning,
        And sweet is the lily at evening close;
    But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie
        Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose.
    Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring;
        Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law:
    And still to her charms she al...

In our hearts is the Great One of Avon
Engraven,
And we climb the cold summits once built on
By Milton.

But at times not the air that is rarest
Is fairest,
And we long in the valley to follow
Apollo.

Then we drop from the heights atmospheric
To Herrick,
Or we pour the Greek honey, grown blander,
Of Landor;

Or our cosiest nook in the shade is
Where Praed is,
Or we toss the light bells of the mocker
With Locker.

Oh, the song where not one of the Graces
Tight-laces,--
Where we woo the sweet Muses not starchly,
But archly,--

Where the verse, like a piper a-Maying,
Comes playing,--
And the rhyme is as gay as a dancer
In answer,--

It will last till men weary of pleasure
In measure!

Meek Maid! that sitting on yon lofty tower,
View'st the calm floods that wildly beat below,
Be off! yon sunbeam veils a heavy shower,
Which sets my heart with joy a aching, oh!
For why, O maid, with locks of jetty flax,
Should grief convulse my heart with joyful knocks?
It is but reasonable you should ax,
Because it soundeth like a paradox.
Hear, then, bright virgin! if the rain comes down,
'Twill wet the roads, and spoil my morning ride;
But it will also spoil thy bran-new gown,
And therefore cure thee of thy cursed pride.
Moral this sonnet, if well understood,
Shows the same thing may bring both harm and good.

There is a country in my mind,
Lovelier than a poet blind
Could dream of, who had never known
This world of drought and dust and stone
In all its ugliness: a place
Full of an all but human grace;
Whose dells retain the printed form
Of heavenly sleep, and seem yet warm
From some pure body newly risen;
Where matter is no more a prison,
But freedom for the soul to know
Its native beauty. For things glow
There with an inward truth and are
All fire and colour like a star.
And in that land are domes and towers
That hang as light and bright as flowers
Upon the sky, and seem a birth
Rather of air than solid earth.

Sometimes I dream that walking there
In the green shade, all unaware
At a new turn of the golden glade,
I shall see her, and ...

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,
    With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,
    Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,
    And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!
Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,
    Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand
    Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land,
    Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended
    So long beneath the heaven's o'er-hanging eaves;
    Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended;
Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;
    And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,
    Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!

They sunk a post into the ground
Where their leaders bade them stop;
It was a man’s height, and they spiked
A crosspiece to the top.
They bound it well with thongs of hide,
To make it firm and good;
Then roughly, with His back to this,
Their enemy they stood.
They held His hands upon the piece,
And they spiked them to the wood.

They mocked Him then, the while He rocked
In agony His head,
With things that He had never done,
And He had never said,
With that which He had never been,
And in His face they spat.
They placed a plank beside the post,
And they spiked His feet to that.

They pelted Him, but not with stones,
Lest He should die too soon;
They stayed to mock His agony
All through the blazing noon.
They did not pelt ...

There was a young girl named O'Neill,
Who went up in the great Ferris wheel;
    But when half way around
    She looked at the ground,
And it cost her an eighty-cent meal.

A winter garden in an alder swamp,
Where conies now come out to sun and romp,
As near a paradise as it can be
And not melt snow or start a dormant tree.

It lifts existence on a plane of snow
One level higher than the earth below,
One level nearer heaven overhead,
And last year's berries shining scarlet red.

It lifts a gaunt luxuriating beast
Where he can stretch and hold his highest feat
On some wild apple tree's young tender bark,
What well may prove the year's high girdle mark.

So near to paradise all pairing ends:
Here loveless birds now flock as winter friends,
Content with bud-inspecting. They presume
To say which buds are leaf and which are bloom.

A feather-hammer gives a double knock.
This Eden day is done at two o'clock.

If to her eyes' bright lustre I were blind,

No longer would they serve my life to gild.

The will of destiny must be fulfilid,
This knowing, I withdrew with sadden'd mind.

No further happiness I now could find:

The former longings of my heart were still'd;

I sought her looks alone, whereon to build
My joy in life, all else was left behind.

Wine's genial glow, the festal banquet gay,

Ease, sleep, and friends, all wonted pleasures glad

I spurn'd, till little there remain'd to prove.

Now calmly through the world I wend my way:

That which I crave may everywhere be had,

With me I bring the one thing needful love.