Grasping my flying cane, several feet of wood,
in an instant I am among the white clouds.
But my drunken eyes are hazy—I don't know where I am,
I think I'm going down the mountain when I'm really going up!

Grant, Lord, that through the printed page
Thy Word will yet be spread
To every nation, race, and tribe,
Which now in sin is dead.
Oh, let not Satan's lies be sown
Among the literate;
But let Thy Word to them be given
Who for the Truth await.
Arise, O Lord, and let Thy Church
Be victor in the field.
Teach every Christian warrior
His heavenly sword to wield.
Sound forth Thy trumpet loud and clear,
Thy sleeping church awake;
Teach us to sacrifice our best,
And every effort make.

A granite cliff on either shore:
A highway poised in air;
Above, the wheels of traffic roar;
Below, the fleets sail fair; —
And in and out, forevermore,
The surging tides of ocean pour,
And past the towers the white gulls soar,
And winds the sea-clouds bear.

O peerless this majestic street,
This road that leaps the brine!
Upon its heights twin cities meet,
And throng its grand incline, —
To east, to west, with swiftest feet,
Though ice may crash and billows beat,
Though blinding fogs the wave may greet

This is a portrait. Here one can
Descry those purely human features
Whereby, since first the world began,
Man has with ease distinguished Man
From humbler fellow-creatures
And seldom, whatsoe'er his shape,
Mistaken him for Dog or Ape.

Inspect this subject well, and note
The whiskers centrally divided,
The silken stock about his throat,
The loose but elegant frock-coat,
The boots (elastic-sided),
And you'll at once remark: " Ah, ha!

Grandmother's mother: her age, I guess,
Thirteen summers, or something less;
Girlish bust, but womanly air;
Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair;
Lips that lover has never kissed;
Taper fingers and slender wrist;
Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade;
So they painted the little maid.

On her hand a parrot green
Sits unmoving and broods serene.
Hold up the canvas full in view,--
Look! there's a rent the light shines through,
Dark with a century's fringe of dust,--
That was a Red-Coat's rapier-thrust!
Such is the tale the lady old,

G RANDMITHER , think not I forget, when I come back to town,
An' wander the old ways again, an' tread them up and down.
I never smell the clover bloom, nor see the swallows pass,
Without I mind how good ye were unto a little lass.
I never hear the winter rain a-pelting all night through,
Without I think and mind me of how cold it falls on you.
And if I come not often to your bed beneath the thyme,
Mayhap 'tis that I'd change wi' ye, and gie my bed for thine,
Would like to sleep in thine.

I never hear the summer winds among the roses blow,

The grandeur of this earthly round,
Where Theon would forever be,
Is but a name, is but a sound —
Mere emptiness and vanity.

Give me the stars, give me the skies,
Give me the heaven's remotest sphere,
Above these gloomy scenes to rise
Of desolation and despair.

These native fires that warmed the mind,
Now languid grown, too dimly glow;
Joy has to grief the heart resigned,
And love itself is changed to woe.

The joys of wine are all you boast, —
These for a moment damp your pain;

Grand-dad, they say you're old and frail,
Your stocked legs begin to fail:
Your knobbed stick (that was my horse)
Can scarce support your bended corse;
While back to wall you lean so sad,
I'm vexed to see you, dad.

You used to smile and stroke my head,
And tell me how good children did;
But now, I wot not how it be,
You take me seldom on your knee;
Yet ne'ertheless I am right glad
To sit beside you, dad.

How lank and thin your beard hangs down!
Scant are the white hairs on your crown;
How wan and hollow are your cheeks!

Gramercy , Death, as you've my love to win,
Just be impartial in your next assault;
And that you may not find yourself in fault,
Whate'er you do, be quick now and begin.
As oft may I be pounded flat and thin
As in Grosseto there are grains of salt,
If now to kill us both you be not call'd, —
Both me and him who sticks so in his skin.
Or better still, look here; for if I'm slain
Alone, — his wealth, it's true, I'll never have,
Yet death is life to one who lives in pain:
But if you only kill Saldagno's knave,

Even one
with no heart could not help
but know pathos:
a snipe takes flight in a marsh
this autumn evening.