Hail to you, green hymn, that in superb
and starry rhymes exalt your glorious
divinity and stir the soul to song!

On the rigidly prolific peak
of your elegant and plumy spire
a garrulous blackbird sobs his welladay.

And I spread Parnassian wing and toss
it on the wild wind of the rugged Cofre,
and salute you with barbaric measure.

In guise of foliage, bifid tipped, you crook
your prongs, menacing, as from the tails
of some unheard of breed of savage snakes.

And if the flames of rancour hem about

1. Hail to the Sabbath day, The day divinely given;
2. Lord in this sacred hour Within thy courts we bend,
When men to God their homage pay, And earth draws near to heaven.
And bless thy love, and own thy power, Our Father and our Friend.

3. But thou art not alone
In courts by mortals trod;
Nor only is the day thine own
When man draws near to God.

4. Thy temple is the arch
Of yon unmeasured sky;
Thy Sabbath, the stupendous march
Of grand eternity.

5. Lord, may that holier day
Dawn on thy servants' sight;

Hail to the land whereon we tread,
Our fondest boast!
The sepulchre of mighty dead,
The truest hearts that ever bled,
Who sleep on glory's brightest bed,
A fearless host:
No slave is here; — our unchained feet
Walk freely, as the waves that beat
Our coast.

Our fathers crossed the ocean's wave
To seek this shore;
They left behind the coward slave
To welter in his living grave;
With hearts unbent, high, steady, brave,
They sternly bore
Such toils as meaner souls had quelled;

1. Hail to the brightness of Zion's glad morning;
2. Hail to the brightness of Zion's glad morning,
Joy to the lands that in darkness have lain;
Long by the prophets of Israel foretold;
Hushed be the accents of sorrow and mourning
Hail to the millions from bondage returning;
Zion in triumph begins his glad reign.
Gentiles and Jews the blest vision behold.

3. Lo, in the desert rich flowers are springing;
Streams ever copious are gliding along;
Loud from the mountain-tops echoes are ringing;
Wastes rise in verdure, and mingle in song.

Hail thou most sacred venerable thing!
What Muse is worthy thee to sing?
Thee, from whose pregnant universal womb
All things, even Light thy rival, first did come.
What dares he not attempt that sings of thee,
Thou first and greatest mystery?
Who can the secrets of thy essence tell?
Thou like the light of God art inaccessible.

Before great Love this monument did raise,
This ample theatre of praise.
Before the folding circles of the sky
Were tun'd by Him who is all harmony.
Before the morning stars their hymn began,

Hail , old patrician trees, so great and good!
Hail ye Plebeian under wood!
Where the Poetique Birds rejoyce,
And for their quiet Nests and plentious Food,
Pay with their grateful voice.

Hail, the poor Muses richest Manor Seat!
Ye Country Houses and Retreat,
Which all the happy Gods so Love,

Hail Mary, full of grace, it once was said,
And by an angel, to the blessed'st maid,
The mother of our Lord: why may not I
(Without profaneness) yet, a poet, cry
Hail Mary, full of honours, to my queen,
The mother of our prince? When was there seen
(Except the joy that the first Mary brought,
Whereby the safety of mankind was wrought)
So general a gladness to an isle,
To make the hearts of a whole nation smile,
As in this prince? Let it be lawful, so
To compare small with great, as still we owe
Glory to God. Then, hail to Mary! Spring

Hail lovely flower, first honour of the year!
Hail beautious earnest of approaching spring!
Whose early buds unusual glories wear,
And of a fruitfull year fair omens bring.

Be thou the favorite of the indulgent sky,
Nor feel the inclemencies of wintry air;
May no rude blasts thy sacred bloom destroy;
May storms howl gently o'er and learn to spare.

May lambent zephyrs gently wave thy head,

Hail! King I thee call,
Hail! most of might,
Hail! the worthest of all,
Hail! duke, hail! knight.
Of greatt and small
Thou art Lorde by right.
Hail! perpetual,
Hail! farest wight.
Here I offer—
I pray thee to take,
If thou wold for my sake;
With this may thou lake—
This litill spruse cofer. Second shepherd:

Hail! litill tiny mop,
Rewarder of mede.
Hail! bot oone drop
Of grace at my nede.
Hail! litill milk sop,
Hail! David sede,
Of oure crede thou art crop.
Hail! in god hede,
This ball

Hail, Jesus' Virgin-Mother ever Blest,
Alone of women Mother eke and Maid,
Others to thee their several offerings make;
This one brings gold, that silver, while a third
Bears to thy shrine his gift of costly gems.
For these, each craves his boon — one strength of limb —
One wealth — one, through his spouse's fruitfulness,
The hope a father's pleasing name to bear —
One Nestor's eld would equal. I, poor bard,
Rich in goodwill, but poor in all beside,
Bring thee my verse — nought have I else to bring —
And beg, in quital of this worthless gift,