Here's to the Clock!
Whose hands, we pray heaven,
When we come home at three,
Have stopped at eleven!

("Sara, belle d'indolence.")

[XIX., August, 1828.]


In a swinging hammock lying,
    Lightly flying,
Zara, lovely indolent,
O'er a fountain's crystal wave
    There to lave
Her young beauty - see her bent.

As she leans, so sweet and soft,
    Flitting oft,
O'er the mirror to and fro,
Seems that airy floating bat,
    Like a feather
From some sea-gull's wing of snow.

Every time the frail boat laden
    With the maiden
Skims the water in its flight,
Starting from its trembling sheen,
    Swift are seen
A white foot and neck so white.

As that lithe foot's timid tips
    Quick she dips,
Passing, in the rippling pool,
(Blush, oh! snowiest ivory!)
    Frolic, she
Laughs to feel th...

        Do not despise the humble weed,
        For the Lord He first sowed the seed,
        Perhaps it bears most precious fruit,
        And useful leaves and potent root.

        Though it seems now a useless weed,
        Countless millions it yet may feed,
        Or future ages it may prize,
        Finding in it beauteous dyes.

        Or a valued healing balm,
        Will make the heated pulse beat calm,
        And the future men of science,
        May place on it strong reliance.

        And it may play important part,
        In advancing skill and art,
        And no person now doth know
        How useful are the weeds that grow.

        Weeds we now look on with loathing,
        They may yet be used for clothing,<...

    Rain, rain, go away,
    Come again another day;
    Little Arthur wants to play.

"Ah me!    O Satan!    Satan!" loud exclaim'd
Plutus, in accent hoarse of wild alarm:
And the kind sage, whom no event surpris'd,
To comfort me thus spake: "Let not thy fear
Harm thee, for power in him, be sure, is none
To hinder down this rock thy safe descent."
Then to that sworn lip turning, "Peace!"    he cried,

"Curs'd wolf! thy fury inward on thyself
Prey, and consume thee!    Through the dark profound
Not without cause he passes.    So 't is will'd
On high, there where the great Archangel pour'd
Heav'n's vengeance on the first adulterer proud."

As sails full spread and bellying with the wind
Drop suddenly collaps'd, if the mast split;
So to the ground down dropp'd the cruel fiend.

Thus we, descending to the fourth steep ledge,
Gain'd o...

Go, then--'tis vain to hover
    Thus round a hope that's dead;
At length my dream is over;
    'Twas sweet--'twas false--'tis fled!
Farewell! since naught it moves thee,
    Such truth as mine to see--
Some one, who far less loves thee,
    Perhaps more blest will be.

Farewell, sweet eyes, whose brightness
    New life around me shed;
Farewell, false heart, whose lightness
    Now leaves me death instead.
Go, now, those charms surrender
    To some new lover's sigh--
One who, tho' far less tender,
    May be more blest than I.

OCTOBER 13TH, 1859.*

One voice, one people, one in heart
And soul, and feeling, and desire!
Re-light the smouldering martial fire,
Sound the mute trumpet, strike the lyre,
The hero deed can not expire,
    The dead still play their part.

Raise high the monumental stone!
A nation's fealty is theirs,
And we are the rejoicing heirs,
The honored sons of sires whose cares
We take upon us unawares,
    As freely as our own.

We boast not of the victory,
But render homage, deep and just,
To his - to their - immortal dust,
Who proved so worthy of their trust
No lofty pile nor sculptured bust
    Can herald their degree.

No tongue need blazon forth their fame -
The cheers that stir the sacred hill
Are but mere promptings ...

Good-morning, sun, 'mid the leaves so green -
Mind of youth in the dales' deep reaches,
Smile that brightens their somber speeches,
Heaven's gold on our earth-dust seen!

Good-morning, sun, o'er the royal tower!
Kindly thou beckonest forth each maiden;
Kindle each heart as a star light-laden,
Twinkling so clear, though a sad night lower!

Good-morning, sun, o'er the mountain-side!
Light the land that still sleep disguises
Till it awakens and fresh arises
For yonder day in thy warmth's full tide!

To roll the rock you fought
takes your courage, Sisyphus!
No matter what effort from us,
Art is long, and Time is short.

Far from the grave of celebrity,
my heart, like a muffled drum,
taps out its funereal thrum
towards some lonely cemetery.

Many a long-buried gem
sleeps in shadowy oblivion
far from pickaxes and drills:

in profound solitude set,
many a flower, with regret,
its sweet perfume spills.

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate
Upon the braes of Kirtle,
Was lovely as a Grecian maid
Adorned with wreaths of myrtle;
Young Adam Bruce beside her lay,
And there did they beguile the day
With love and gentle speeches,
Beneath the budding beeches.

From many knights and many squires
The Bruce had been selected;
And Gordon, fairest of them all,
By Ellen was rejected.
Sad tidings to that noble Youth!
For it may be proclaimed with truth,
If Bruce hath loved sincerely,
That Gordon loves as dearly.

But what are Gordon's form and face,
His shattered hopes and crosses,
To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes,
Reclined on flowers and mosses?
Alas that ever he was born!
The Gordon, couched behind a thorn,
Sees them and their caress...

        "And those things do best please me,
        That befall preposterously."
        PUCK Junior, Midsummer Night's Dream.


Who wants old Puck? for here am I,
A mongrel imp, 'twixt earth and sky,
Ready alike to crawl or fly;
Now in the mud, now in the air,
And, so 'tis for mischief, reckless where.

As to my knowledge, there's no end to't,
For, where I haven't it, I pretend to't:
And, 'stead of taking a learned degree
At some dull university,
Puck found it handier to commence
With a certain share of impudence,
Which passes one off as learned and clever,
Beyond all other degrees whatever;
And enables a man of lively sconce
To be Master of all the Arts at once.
No matter what the science may be--
Ethics, Physics,...

With fall on fall, from wood to wood,
The brook pours mossy music down
Or is it, in the solitude,
The murmur of a Faery town?

A town of Elfland filled with bells
And holiday of hurrying feet:
Or traffic now, whose small sound swells,
Now sinks from busy street to street.

Whose Folk I often recognize
In wingéd things that hover 'round,
Who to men's eyes assume disguise
When on some elfin errand bound.

The bee, that haunts the touchmenot,
Big-bodied, making braggart din
Is fairy brother to that sot,
Jack Falstaff of the Boar's Head Inn.

The dragonfly, whose wings of black
Are mantle for his garb of green,
Is Ancient to this other Jack,
Another Pistol, long and lean.

The butterfly, in royal tints,
Is Hal, mad...

An artist toiled over his pictures;
    He labored by night and by day.
He struggled for glory and honor,
    But the world, it had nothing to say.
His walls were ablaze with the splendors
    We see in the beautiful skies;
But the world beheld only the colors
    That were made out of chemical dyes.

Time sped. And he lived, loved, and suffered;
    He passed through the valley of grief.
Again he toiled over his canvas,
    Since in labor alone was relief.
It showed not the splendor of colors
    Of those of his earlier years,
But the world? the world bowed down before it,
    Because it was painted with tears.

A poet was gifted with genius,
    And he sang, and he sang all the days.
He wrote for the praise of the people,
    But the...

To a young physician, with Dore's picture of Christ healing the sick.


So stood of old the holy Christ
Amidst the suffering throng;
With whom His lightest touch sufficed
To make the weakest strong.

That healing gift He lends to them
Who use it in His name;
The power that filled His garment's hem
Is evermore the same.

For lo! in human hearts unseen
The Healer dwelleth still,
And they who make His temples clean
The best subserve His will.

The holiest task by Heaven decreed,
An errand all divine,
The burden of our common need
To render less is thine.

The paths of pain are thine. Go forth
With patience, trust, and hope;
The sufferings of a sin-sick earth
Shall give thee ample scope.

Beside th...

I.

A little soul scarce fledged for earth
Takes wing with heaven again for goal
Even while we hailed as fresh from birth
A little soul.

Our thoughts ring sad as bells that toll,
Not knowing beyond this blind world's girth
What things are writ in heaven's full scroll.

Our fruitfulness is there but dearth,
And all things held in time's control
Seem there, perchance, ill dreams, not worth
A little soul.

II.

The little feet that never trod
Earth, never strayed in field or street,
What hand leads upward back to God
The little feet?

A rose in June's most honied heat,
When life makes keen the kindling sod,
Was not so soft and warm and sweet.

Their pilgrimage's period
A few swift moons have seen comple...

How can we kill the long, the old Remorse
That lives, writhes, twists itself
And mines us as the worm devours the dead,
The cankerworm the oak?
How can we choke the old, the long Remorse?

And what brew, or what philtre, or what wine
Could drown this enemy,
As deadly as the avid courtesan,
And patient as the ant?
In what brew? in what philtre? in what wine?

Oh, say it if you know, sweet sorceress!
To this my anguished soul,
Like one who's dying, crushed by wounded men,
Stamped, trampled by a horse's hoof.
Oh, say it if you know, sweet sorceress,

To this man whom the wolf already sniffs
And whom the crow surveys,
This broken soldier! Must he then despair
Of having cross and tomb,
This dying man the wolf already sniffs!

Winter has a joy for me,
While the Saviour’s charms I read,
Lowly, meek, from blemish free,
In the snowdrop’s pensive head.


Spring returns, and brings along
Life-invigorating suns:
Hark! the turtle’s plaintive song
Seems to speak his dying groans!


Summer has a thousand charms,
All expressive of his worth;
‘Tis his sun that lights and warms,
His the air that cools the earth.


What! has Autumn left to say
Nothing of a Saviour’s grace?
Yes, the beams of milder day
Tell me of his smiling face.


Light appears with early dawn,
While the sun makes haste to rise;
See his bleeding beauties drawn
On the blushes of the skies.


Evening with a silent pace,
Slowly moving in the west,
Show...

Good! said the Padre, believe me still,
“Don Giovanni,” or what you will,
The type’s eternal! We knew him here
As Don Diego del Sud. I fear
The story’s no new one! Will you hear?

One of those spirits you can’t tell why
God has permitted. Therein I
Have the advantage, for I hold
That wolves are sent to the purest fold,
And we’d save the wolf if we’d get the lamb.
You’re no believer? Good! I am.

Well, for some purpose, I grant you dim,
The Don loved women, and they loved him.
Each thought herself his last love! Worst,
Many believed that they were his first!
And, such are these creatures since the Fall,
The very doubt had a charm for all!

You laugh! You are young, but I indeed
I have no patience . . . To proceed:
You saw, as you p...