The fruit of all the service that I serve
Despair doth reap, such hapless hap have I.
But though he have no power to make me swerve,
Yet, by the fire, for cold I feel I die.
In paradise, for hunger still I sterve;
And, in the flood, for thirst to death I dry.
So Tantalus am I, and in worse pain
Amids my help, and helpless doth remain.

The frugal snail, with forecast of repose,
Carries his house with him where'er he goes;
Peeps out,—and if there comes a shower of rain,
Retreats to his small domicile amain.
Touch but a tip of him, a horn,—'tis well,—
He curls up in his sanctuary shell.
He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay
Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day.
Himself he boards and lodges; both invites
And feasts himself; sleeps with himself o' nights.
He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure
Chattels; himself is his own furniture,

Frost-sad, clouds of white hair,
locked behind iron doors:
tea-fragrance or dogwood wine —
none of them for me!
In southern hat, old and weak,
I yearn to wear black cap;
the jailor's footsteps, stumbling sound,
I take for the white-robed messenger.
My wife, like the chrysanthemum,
how gaunt has she become?
Myself, like a wild goose up north,
when will I fly home?
Far away, I know throughout the world
are mountain-climbing gatherings;
many men point to the Yen Mountains,
pour libations in the setting sun.

Frost in the air and music in the air,
And the singing is sweet in the street.
She wakes from a dream to a dream — O hark!
The singing so faint in the dark.

The musicians come and stand at the door,
A fiddler and singers three,
And one with a bright lamp thrusts at the dark,
And the music comes sudden — O hark!

She hears the singing as sweet as a dream
And the fiddle that climbs to the sky,
With head 'neath the curtain she stares out — O hark!
The music so strange in the dark.

She listens and looks and sees but the sky,

From Wynyard's Gap the livelong day,
The livelong day,
We beat afoot the northward way
We had travelled times before.
The sun-blaze burning on our backs,
Our shoulders sticking to our packs,
By fosseway, fields and turnpike tracks
We skirted sad Sedge-Moor.

Full twenty miles we jaunted on,
We jaunted on,--
My fancy-man and jeering John,
And Mother Lee, and I.
And, as the sun drew down to west,
We climbed the toilsome Poldon crest,
And saw, of landskip sights the best,
The inn that beamed thereby.

And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Mak haste, lay by your wheel;
Is this the time to spin a thread
When Colin's at the door?
Reach me my cloak, I'll to the quay
And see him come ashore.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa.

And gie to me my bigonet,
My bishop's satin gown;
For I maun tell the bailie's wife
That Colin's come to town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,

1. From whence doth this union arise, That
2. It cannot in Eden be found, Nor
hatred is conquered by love?
yet in a Paradise lost;
It fastens our
It grows on Im-
That distance and time can't remove.
And Jesus' dear blood it did cost.
souls with such ties,
manuel's ground,

3. My friends once so dear unto me,
Our souls so united in love;
Where Jesus is gone we shall be,
In yonder blest mansions above.

4. With Jesus we ever shall reign,
And all his bright glories shall see;
We'll sing Alleluia, Amen!

From three dark places Christ came forth this day:
First from his Father's bosom, where he lay
Concealed till now; then from the typic Law,
Where we his manhood but by figure saw;
And lastly from his Mother's womb he came
To us a perfect God and perfect man.
Now in a Manger lies the eternal Word,
The Word he is, yet can no speech afford.
He is the Bread of Life, yet hungry lies,
The living Fountain, yet for drink he cries.
He cannot help or clothe himself at need,
Who did the lilies clothe and ravens feed.

From this valley they say you are going,
I shall miss your sweet face and your smile;
Because you are weary and tired,
You are changing your range for a while.
Chorus:

Then come sit here awhile ere you leave us,
Do not hasten to bid us adieu,
Just remember the Red River Valley
And the cowboy who loves you so true.

I've been thinking a long time, my darling,
Of the sweet words you never would say;
Now, alas, must my fond hopes all vanish?
For they say you are going away.

I have promised you, darling, that never

XLVII

From these high hills as when a spring doth fall
It trilleth down with still and subtle course,
Of this and that it gathers ay and shall
Till it have just off flowed the stream and force,
Then at the foot it rageth over all —
So fareth love when he hath ta'en a source:
His rein is rage; resistance vaileth none;
The first eschew is remedy alone.