Bet wor a stirrin, strappin lass,
Shoo lived near Woodus Moor; -
An varry keen shoo wor for brass,
Tho little wor her stoor.
Shoo'd wed for love - and as luck let,
It proved a lucky hit;
A finer chap yo've seldom met,
Or one wi better wit.

His name awm net inclined to tell,
But he'd been kursend John;
An he wor rayther praad hissel,
An anxious to get on.
At neet they'd sit an tawk, an plan,
Some way to mend ther state;
"What one chap's done another can,"
Sed Bet, "let's get agate."

"This morn wol darnin socks for thee
This thowt coom i' mi nop,
An do't we will if tha'll agree; -
Let's start a little shop.
We'll sell all sooarts o' useful things
'At ivverybody needs;
Like scaarin-stooan, an tape an pins,
An buttons...

O city of the world, with sacred splendor blest,
My spirit yearns to thee from out the far-off West,
A stream of love wells forth when I recall thy day,
Now is thy temple waste, thy glory passed away.
Had I an eagle's wings, straight would I fly to thee,
Moisten thy holy dust with wet cheeks streaming free.
Oh, how I long for thee! albeit thy King has gone,
Albeit where balm once flowed, the serpent dwells alone.
Could I but kiss thy dust, so would I fain expire,
As sweet as honey then, my passion, my desire!

Abul Hassan Judah Ben Ha-Levi. (Born Between 1080-90.)

(A. S.) 1845.


We met--he was a stranger,
    His foot was free to roam;
I was a simple maiden,
    Who had never left my home.

He was a noble scion
    Of the green Highland pine,
To a strange soil transplanted,
    Far from his native clime

And well his bearing pleased me,
    For I had never seen
Keener eye, or smile more sunlit,
    Or more dignity of mien.

His brow was fair and lofty,
    Bright was his clustering hair;
I marvelled that to other eyes
    He seemed not half so fair

His it was to plead with men,
    With "Thus my Lord hath said;"
He stood God's messenger between
    The living and the dead

When I heard how earnestly
    His pleading message ran,
I said, "Here God ha...

The principle whence everything
To life and shape ascended--
The pulley whereon Zeus the ring
Of Earth, which else in sherds would spring,
Has carefully suspended--
To genius I yield him a claim
Who fathoms for me what its name,
Save I withdraw its curtain:
It is--ten is not thirteen.

That snow makes cold, that fire burns,
That man on two feet goeth,
That in the heavens the sun sojourns--
This much the man who logic spurns
Through his own senses knoweth;
But metaphysics who has got,
Knows he that burneth, freezeth not;
Knows 'tis the moist that wetteth,
And 'tis the rough that fretteth.

Great Homer sings his epic high;
The hero fronts his dangers;
The brave his duty still doth ply--
And did it while, I won't deny,
Phil...

        'Tis noble for to fight for home,
            But some nations fight to plunder,
        For conquest o'er the world to roam,
            To tear peaceful lands asunder.

        For to give wealth and a great name
            To some aspiring commander,
        Who wishes to acquire great fame
            As a modern Alexander.

        Statesmen and kings a war will wage,
            And many thousands strew the plain,
        Covered with gore in the carnage,
            Where brave and noble men are slain.

        Leaving their families to mourn,
            Now who can soothe the ills of life,
        To them they never shall return,
            No one can now cheer the poor wife.

        Or the sweet little orphans dear

Stand forth, brave man, since fate has made thee here
The Hector over aged Exeter,
Who for a long, sad time has weeping stood
Like a poor lady lost in widowhood,
But fears not now to see her safety sold,
As other towns and cities were, for gold
By those ignoble births which shame the stem
That gave progermination unto them:
Whose restless ghosts shall hear their children sing,
"Our sires betrayed their country and their king".
True, if this city seven times rounded was
With rock, and seven times circumflank'd with brass,
Yet if thou wert not, Berkley, loyal proof,
The senators, down tumbling with the roof,
Would into prais'd, but pitied, ruins fall,
Leaving no show where stood the capitol.
But thou art just and itchless, and dost please
Thy Genius with tw...

Up there, upon yonder mountain,
Stands a castle old, in the gorse,
Where once, behind doors and portals,
Lurking lay knight and horse.

Burnt are the doors and the portals;
All round it is very still;
Its old walls, tumbled in ruins,
I scramble about at my will.

Close hereby lay a cellar
Full of wine that was old and rare;
But the cheery maid with the pitchers
No more comes down the stair;

No more in the hall, sedately
Sets the beaker before the guest;
No more at the festival stately,
The flagon fills for the priest;

No more to the page so thirsty
Gives a draught in the corridor;
And receives for the hurried favour
The hurried thanks no more.

For every rafter and ceiling
Long ago were to ashes burned,
...

    My mind is sad and weary thinking how
        The griffins of the Gael went over the sea
    From noble Eiré, and are fighting now
        In France and Flanders and in Germany.

    If they, 'mid whom I sported without dread,
        Were home I would not mind what foe might do,
    Or fear tax-man Odell would seize my bed
        To pay the hearth-rate that is overdue.

    I pray to Him who, in the haughty hour
        Of Babel, threw confusion on each tongue,
    That I may see our princes back in power,
        And see Odell, the tax-collector, hung.

"Tie stille, barn min!
Imorgen kommer Fin,
Fa'er din,
Og gi'er dich Esbern Snares öine og hjerte at lege med!"
- Zealand Rhyme.


"Build at Kallundborg by the sea
A church as stately as church may be,
And there shalt thou wed my daughter fair,"
Said the Lord of Nesvek to Esbern Snare.

And the Baron laughed. But Esbern said,
"Though I lose my soul, I will Helva wed!"
And off he strode, in his pride of will,
To the Troll who dwelt in Ulshoi hill.

"Build, O Troll, a church for me
At Kallundborg by the mighty sea;
Build it stately, and build it fair,
Build it quickly," said Esbern Snare.

But the sly Dwarf said, "No work is wrought
By Trolls of the Hills, O man, for naught.
What wilt thou give for thy church so fair...

For all thy many courtesies to me,
Nothing I have, my Crofts, to send to thee
For the requital, save this only one
Half of my just remuneration.
For since I've travell'd all this realm throughout
To seek and find some few immortals out
To circumspangle this my spacious sphere,
As lamps for everlasting shining here;
And having fix'd thee in mine orb a star,
Amongst the rest, both bright and singular,
The present age will tell the world thou art,
If not to th' whole, yet satisfi'd in part.
As for the rest, being too great a sum
Here to be paid, I'll pay't i' th' world to come.

Unbind thee, love, unbind thee, love,
    From those dark ties unbind thee;
Tho' fairest hand the chain hath wove,
    Too long its links have twined thee.
Away from earth!--thy wings were made
    In yon mid-sky to hover,
With earth beneath their dove-like shade,
    And heaven all radiant over.

Awake thee, boy, awake thee, boy,
    Too long thy soul is sleeping;
And thou mayst from this minute's joy
    Wake to eternal weeping.
Oh, think, this world is not for thee;
    Tho' hard its links to sever;
Tho' sweet and bright and dear they be,
    Break or thou'rt lost for ever.

The house had gone to bring again
To the midnight sky a sunset glow.
Now the chimney was all of the house that stood,
Like a pistil after the petals go.

The barn opposed across the way,
That would have joined the house in flame
Had it been the will of the wind, was left
To bear forsaken the place’s name.

No more it opened with all one end
For teams that came by the stony road
To drum on the floor with scurrying hoofs
And brush the mow with the summer load.

The birds that came to it through the air
At broken windows flew out and in,
Their murmur more like the sigh we sigh
From too much dwelling on what has been.

Yet for them the lilac renewed its leaf,
And the aged elm, though touched with fire;
And the dry pump flung up an awk...

(Lines on the loss of the "Titanic")

I

    In a solitude of the sea
    Deep from human vanity,
And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.

II

    Steel chambers, late the pyres
    Of her salamandrine fires,
Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.

III

    Over the mirrors meant
    To glass the opulent
The sea-worm crawls grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.

IV

    Jewels in joy designed
    To ravish the sensuous mind
Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.

V

    Dim moon-eyed fishes near
    Gaze at the gilded gear
And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?" . . .

VI

    Well: while was fash...

        An old man who had charge of field,
        With pride he saw two birds did build,
        A broad capacious warm nest,
        So full of young with speckled breast,

        And when the old man there did pass,
        They soon ran merry 'mong the grass,
        But of the youth they were so shy,
        They made strong efforts for to fly.

        Youths tried with old man to prevail,
        To let them blaze away at quail,
        But though they longed for a fat pot,
        At them they never got a shot.

        No more the old man doth them shield,
        For they have flown to broader field,
        Long may they spread their wings and tail,
        And may no foe them 'ere assail.

Boy, I detest the Persian pomp;
I hate those linden-bark devices;
And as for roses, holy Moses!
They can't be got at living prices!
Myrtle is good enough for us,--
For you, as bearer of my flagon;
For me, supine beneath this vine,
Doing my best to get a jag on!

'Our little babe,' each said, 'shall be
Like unto thee' - 'Like unto thee!'
'Her mother's' - 'Nay, his father's' - 'eyes,'
'Dear curls like thine' - but each replies,
'As thine, all thine, and nought of me.'

What sweet solemnity to see
The little life upon thy knee,
And whisper as so soft it lies, -
'Our little babe!'

For, whether it be he or she,
A David or a Dorothy,
'As mother fair,' or 'father wise,'
Both when it's 'good,' and when it cries,
One thing is certain, - it will be
Our little babe.

When the vexed hubbub of our world of gain
Roars round about me as I walk the street,
The myriad noise of Traffic, and the beat
Of Toil's incessant hammer, the fierce strain
Of struggle hand to hand and brain to brain,
Ofttimes a sudden dream my sense will cheat,
The gaudy shops, the sky-piled roofs retreat,
And all at once I stand enthralled again
Within a marble minster over-seas.
I watch the solemn gold-stained gloom that creeps
To kiss an alabaster tomb, where sleeps
A lady 'twixt two knights' stone effigies,
And every day in dusky glory steeps
Their sculptured slumber of five centuries.

I wandered through Scoglietto's far retreat,
The oranges on each o'erhanging spray
Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;
Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet
Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet
Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:
And the curved waves that streaked the great green bay
Laughed i' the sun, and life seemed very sweet.
Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,
'Jesus the son of Mary has been slain,
O come and fill His sepulchre with flowers.'
Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours
Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,
The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the Spear.