I cannot loiter on my way,
        The ice is drifting through Belle Isle,
    And far to seaward by Cape Ray
        Broad leagues of open water smile.
    Unheeded now, the inland barge
        Creeps heavily, the fisher dips
    His meshes in my brimming marge;
        I go to meet the coming ships.

    They steam from Thames by Dover Strait,
        They cleave the Bristol Channel's tide,
    They pass the Mersey's thronging gate,
        And issue from the crowded Clyde.
    Out past the homing craft they sheer,
        The Irish coastline by them slips;
    Ere many days they will be here:
        I go to meet the coming ships.

    Full-fraught with wealth of merchandise,
        They plough the main with furrows deep;
    Upon ...

Written during the Civil War in the United States.


O when will it end, this appalling strife,
With its reckless waste of human life,
Its riving of highest, holiest ties,
Its tears of anguish and harrowing sighs,
Its ruined homes from which hope has fled,
Its broken hearts and its countless dead?

In fair Virginia the new-made graves
Lie crowded thick as old ocean's caves;
Whether sword or sickness dealt the blow,
What matters it? - They lie cold and low;
And Maryland's heights are crimsoned o'er,
And its green vales stained, with human gore.

The stalwart man in the prime of life,
Sole stay of frail children and helpless wife;
The bright-eyed, ardent, and beardless boy,
Of some mother's fond breast the pride and joy,
And the soldier-...

Adown the grass-grown paths we strayed,
The evening cowslips ope’d
Their yellow eyes to look at her,
The love-sick lilies moped
With envy that she rather chose
To take a creamy-petalled rose
And lean it ’gainst her ebon hair,
All in that garden fair.

A languid breeze, with stolen scent
Of box-bloom in his grasp,
Sighed out his longing in her ear,
And with his dying gasp
Scattered the perfume at her feet
To blend with others not less sweet;
He loved her, but she did not care,
All in that garden fair.

The rose she honoured nodded down,
His comrades burst with spite:
Poor fool! he knew not he was doomed
To barely last the night;
Are hearts to her but as that flower,
The plaything of a careless hour,
To lacerate and never ...

Amor che meco al buon tempo ti stavi.

HE VENTS HIS SORROW TO ALL WHO WITNESSED HIS FORMER FELICITY.


    Love, that in happier days wouldst meet me here
Along these meads that nursed our kindred strains;
And that old debt to clear which still remains,
Sweet converse with the stream and me wouldst share:
Ye flowers, leaves, grass, woods, grots, rills, gentle air,
Low valleys, lofty hills, and sunny plains:
The harbour where I stored my love-sick pains,
And all my various chance, my racking care:
Ye playful inmates of the greenwood shade;
Ye nymphs, and ye that in the waves pursue
That life its cool and grassy bottom lends:--
My days were once so fair; now dark and dread
As death that makes them so. Thus the world through
On each as soon as bo...

Not knowing when the dawn will come
I open every door;
Or has it feathers like a bird,
Or billows like a shore?

Few get enough, -- enough is one;
To that ethereal throng
Have not each one of us the right
To stealthily belong?

Yet, yet, Biscayans! we must meet our Foes
With firmer soul, yet labour to regain
Our ancient freedom; else 'twere worse than vain
To gather round the bier these festal shows.
A garland fashioned of the pure white rose
Becomes not one whose father is a slave:
Oh, bear the infant covered to his grave!
These venerable mountains now enclose
A people sunk in apathy and fear.
If this endure, farewell, for us, all good!
The awful light of heavenly innocence
Will fail to illuminate the infant's bier;
And guilt and shame, from which is no defense,
Descend on all that issues from our blood.

Once a dream did weave a shade
O'er my angel-guarded bed,
That an emmet lost its way
Where on grass methought I lay.

Troubled, wildered, and forlorn,
Dark, benighted, travel-worn,
Over many a tangle spray,
All heart-broke, I heard her say:

"Oh my children! do they cry,
Do they hear their father sigh?
Now they look abroad to see,
Now return and weep for me."

Pitying, I dropped a tear:
But I saw a glow-worm near,
Who replied, "What wailing wight
Calls the watchman of the night?

"I am set to light the ground,
While the beetle goes his round:
Follow now the beetle's hum;
Little wanderer, hie thee home!"

Around the castle turrets fiercely moaned the autumn blast,
And within the old lords daughter seemed dying, dying fast;
While o'er her couch in frenzied grief the stricken father bent,
And in deep sobs and stifled moans his anguish wild found vent.

"Oh cheer thee up, my daughter dear, my Maude, he softly said,
As tremblingly he strove to raise that young and drooping head;
'I'll deck thee out in jewels rare in robes of silken sheen,
Till thou shalt be as rich and gay as any crowned queen."

"Ah, never, never!" sighed the girl, and her pale cheek paler grew,
While marble brow and chill white hands were bathed in icy dew;
"Look in my face - there thou wilt read such hopes are folly all,
No garment shall I wear again, save shroud and funeral pall."

"My Maude thou'rt...

NAPOLEON.

Is it this, then, O world-warrior,
That, exulting, through the folds
Of the dark and cloudy barrier
Thine enfranchised eye beholds?
Is, when blessed hands relieve thee
From the gross and mortal clay,
This the heaven that should receive thee?
                ‘Tête d’armée.’

Now the final link is breaking,
Of the fierce, corroding chain,
And the ships, their watch forsaking,
Bid the seas no more detain,
Whither is it, freed and risen,
The pure spirit seeks away,
Quits for what the weary prison?
                ‘Tête d’armée.’

Doubtless angels, hovering o’er thee
In thine exile’s sad abode,
Marshalled even now before thee,
Move upon that chosen road!
Thither they, ere friends have laid thee
Where sad willo...

Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?
For these red lips, with all their mournful pride,
Mournful that no new wonder may betide,
Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam,
And Usna's children died.
We and the labouring world are passing by:
Amid men's souls, that waver and give place
Like the pale waters in their wintry race,
Under the passing stars, foam of the sky,
Lives on this lonely face.
Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode:
Before you were, or any hearts to beat,
Weary and kind one lingered by His seat;
He made the world to be a grassy road
Before her wandering feet.

They're coming! And it seems so long
Since sadly autumn laid them low.
They left us with the robin's song,
They left us to the ice and snow.

They're coming! So the March wind saith.
Though singing songs with icy breath,
He's chanting of another May,
He's chanting of King Winter's death.

They're coming! 'Neath the forest's mold,
In mossy beds of ferny soil,
Slowly their tiny robes unfold,
Yet do they neither spin nor toil.

They're coming! With their influence pure,
Their emblematic power again
Of him who would our steps allure
To realms of love, devoid of pain.

They're coming! With the summer's breeze,
With azure skies and sunny showers,
With notes of birds and hum of bees
Who will not welcome back the flowers?

The dawn is breaking o'er us,
    See, heaven hath caught its hue!
We've day's long light before us,
What sport shall we pursue?
The hunt o'er hill and lea?
The sail o'er summer sea?
Oh let not hour so sweet
Unwinged by pleasure fleet.
The dawn is breaking o'er us,
    See, heaven hath caught its hue!
We've days long light before us,
    What sport shall we pursue?

But see, while we're deciding,
    What morning sport to play,
The dial's hand is gliding,
    And morn hath past away!
Ah, who'd have thought that noon
    Would o'er us steal so soon,--
That morn's sweet hour of prime
    Would last so short a time?
But come, we've day before us,
    Still heaven looks bright and blue;
Quick, quick, ere eve comes o'er us,
 ...

A song in a cornfield
    Where corn begins to fall,
Where reapers are reaping,
    Reaping one, reaping all.
Sing pretty Lettice,
    Sing Rachel, sing May;
Only Marian cannot sing
    While her sweetheart's away.

Where is he gone to
    And why does he stay?
He came across the green sea
    But for a day,
Across the deep green sea
    To help with the hay.

His hair was curly yellow
    And his eyes were grey,
He laughed a merry laugh
    And said a sweet say.
Where is he gone to
    That he comes not home?
To-day or to-morrow
    He surely will come.
Let him haste to joy
    Lest he lag for sorrow,
For one weeps to-day
    Who'll not weep to-morrow:
To-day she must weep
    For gnawing sorrow...

- His Own Words

IN MEMORY OF KIFFIN ROCKWELL

    *        *        *        *        *

Eagle, whose fearless
Flight in vast spaces
Clove the inane,
While we stood tearless,
White with rapt faces
In wonder and pain. ...

Heights could not awe you,
Depths could not stay you.
Anguished we saw you,
Saw Death way-lay you
Where the storm flings
Black clouds to thicken
Round France's defender!
Archangel stricken
From ramparts of splendor -
Shattered your wings! ...

But Lafayette called you,
Rochambeau beckoned.
Duty enthralled you.
For France you had reckoned
Her gift and your debt.
Dull hearts could harden
Half-gods could palter.
For you never pardon
If Liberty's altar
Yo...

Tune - "Last time I cam o'er the muir."


I.

    Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass,
        Her blush is like the morning,
    The rosy dawn, the springing grass,
        With early gems adorning:
    Her eyes outshone the radiant beams
        That gild the passing shower,
    And glitter o'er the crystal streams,
        And cheer each fresh'ning flower.

II.

    Her lips, more than the cherries bright,
        A richer dye has graced them;
    They charm th' admiring gazer's sight,
        And sweetly tempt to taste them:
    Her smile is, as the evening mild,
        When feather'd tribes are courting,
    And little lambkins wanton wild,
        In playful bands disporting.

III.

    Were...

There’s not a nook within this solemn Pass,
But were an apt confessional for one
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass
Wither’d at eve. From scenes of art which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it ’mid Nature’s old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouch’d, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,
If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October’s workmanship to rival May)
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!

At midnight, in the room where he lay dead
Whom in his life I had never clearly read,
I thought if I could peer into that citadel
His heart, I should at last know full and well

What hereto had been known to him alone,
Despite our long sit-out of years foreflown,
"And if," I said, "I do this for his memory's sake,
It would not wound him, even if he could wake."

So I bent over him. He seemed to smile
With a calm confidence the whole long while
That I, withdrawing his heart, held it and, bit by bit,
Perused the unguessed things found written on it.

It was inscribed like a terrestrial sphere
With quaint vermiculations close and clear -
His graving. Had I known, would I have risked the stroke
Its reading brought, and my own heart nigh broke!