He that hath no mistress, must not wear a favour,
He that woos a mistress, must serve before he have her,
He that hath no bedfellow, must lie alone,
And he that hath no lady, must be content with Joan,
And so must I, for why alas my love and I am parted,
False Cupid, I will have thee whipt, and have thy mother carted.

He stood before the Sanhedrim;
The scowling rabbis gazed at him.
He recked not of their praise or blame;
There was no fear, there was no shame,
For one upon whose dazzled eyes
The whole world poured its vast surprise.
The open heaven was far too near,
His first day's light too sweet and clear,
To let him waste his new-gained ken
On the hate-clouded face of men.

But still they questioned, Who art thou?
What hast thou been? What art thou now?
Thou art not he who yesterday
Sat here and begged beside the way;
For he was blind.

He snuggles his fingers
In the blacker loam
The lean months are done with,
The fat to come.

— — His eyes are set
— — On a brushwood-fire
— — But his heart is soaring
— — Higher and higher.

Though he stands ragged
An old scarecrow,
This is the way
His swift thoughts go,

" Butter beans fo' Clara
Sugar corn fo' Grace
An' fo' de little feller
Runnin' space.

" Radishes and lettuce
Eggplants and beets
Turnips fo' de winter
An' candied sweets.

— — " Homespun tobacco

He sleeps at last—a hero of his race.
Dead!—and the night lies softly on his face,
While the faint summer stars, like sentinels,
Hover above his lonely resting-place.

A soldier, yet less soldier than a man,
Who gave to justice what a soldier can,—
The courage of his arm, a patient heart,
And the fire-soul that flamed when wrong began.

Not Caesar, Alexander, Antonine,
No despot born of the old warrior line,
Napoleons of the sword, whose cruel hands
Caught at the throat of love upon its shrine,—

Hurra, hurra, away they go
Far over the hills and fields of snow;
Away they go with mirth and glee,
Like the prison'd bird that's just let free.

Away, away, away they fly
Swiftly beneath the bright spangled sky;
The mirthful laugh chimes in full well
With the merry gingle of many a bell.

And many an eye is laughing there,
That would with those isles of light compare;
That glance from under the brow of night,
And kindle the heart with soft delight.

And there full many a cheek now glows,

HE SHALL not hear the bittern cry
In the wild sky, where he is lain,
Nor voices of the sweeter birds
Above the wailing of the rain.

Nor shall he know when loud March blows
Thro' slanting snows her fanfare shrill,
Blowing to flame the golden cup
Of many an upset daffodil.

But when the Dark Cow leaves the moor,
And pastures poor with greedy weeds,
Perhaps he'll hear her low at morn,
Lifting her horn in pleasant meads.

He sees the rosy apples cling like flowers to the bough:
He plucks the purple plums and spills the cherries on the grass;
He wanted peace and silence,—God gives him plenty now—
His feet upon the mountain and his shadow on the pass.

He built himself a cabin from red cedars of his own;
He blasted out the stumps and twitched the boulders from the soil;
And with an axe and chisel he fashioned out a throne
Where he might dine in grandeur off the first fruits of his toil.

His orchard is a treasure-house alive with song and sun,

He seemed to know the harbour,
So leisurely he swam;
His fin,
Like a piece of sheet-iron,
Three-cornered,
And with knife-edge,
Stirred not a bubble
As it moved
With its base-line on the water.

His body was tubular
And tapered
And smoke-blue,
And as he passed the wharf
He turned,
And snapped at a flat-fish
That was dead and floating.
And I saw the flash of a white throat,
And a double row of white teeth,
And eyes of metallic grey,
Hard and narrow and slit.

Then out of the harbour,

He says, My reign is peace, so slays
A thousand in the dead of night.
Are you all happy now? he says,
And those he leaves behind cry quite.
He swears he will have no contention,
And sets all nations by the ears;
He shouts aloud, No intervention!
Invades, and drowns them all in tears.

All hail new year! though clad in storms thou com'st,
To me thou art a welcome guest.
'Tis sweet to struggle with the wintry blast,
And, as the cruel storm is raging round,
To feel within the breast a calm as soft & sweet
As summer's eve; to see the snow whirling
In eddies, like the wide world in passion's
Eddies mingled, to see and smile is sweet.
To feel the breast as snow-flake pure, which falls
Upon the cheek; or if within anger
Should rise, to know 'twill melt as soon into
The tide of warm and ever-flowing love.