From the top of Dragon Gate
I gaze down at West Lake:
Wu Tzu-hsü's hill, townsman's retreat,
props me from behind.
A sound of flute wafts on fragrant breeze
from amongst the lotus:
my soul melts, bit by bit,
at this scene within a painting.

From the time of our old Revolution,
When we threw off the yoke of the King,
Has descended this phrase to remember —
To remember, to say, and to sing;
'Tis a phrase that is full of a lesson;
It can comfort and warm like a fire;
It can cheer us when days are the darkest:
"That things are no worse, O my sire!"

'Twas King George's prime minister said it,
To the King, who had questioned, in heat,
What he meant by appointing Thanksgiving
In such days of ill-luck and defeat.
"What's the cause of your day of Thanksgiving?

From the soul of a man who was homeless
Came the deathless song of home.
And the praises of rest are chanted best
By those who are forced to roam.

In a time of fast and hunger,
We can talk over feasts divine;
But the banquet done, why, where is the one
Who can tell you the taste of the wine?

We think of the mountain's grandeur
As we walk in the heat afar—
But when we sit in the shadows of it
We think how at rest we are.

With the voice of the craving passions
We can picture a love to come.

From the laurel's fairest bough,
Let the muse her garland twine,
To adorn our Porter's brow,
Who, beyond the burning line,
Led his caravan of tars o'er the tide.
To the pilgrims fill the bowl,
Who, around the southern pole,
Saw new constellations roll,
For their guide.

From the gray woods they come, on silent feet
Into a cone of light.
A moment poised,
A lifting note,
O fair! O fleet!
Whence did you come in your amazing flight?
And whither now
Do you, reluctant, wistfully retreat?
Oh surely you have danced upon the hills
With the immortals.
As an arrow thrills
Through the blue air and sings,
You join with the proud wind, your fluent limbs
As tameless as his wings.
Within your hollowed hand you hold the draught
That wakes us from our lingering lethargy
To skyey joy

From the elm-tree's topmost bough,
Hark! the Robin's early song!
Telling one and all that now
Merry spring-time hastes along;
Welcome tidings dost thou bring,
Little harbinger of spring,
Robin's come!

Of the winter we are weary,
Weary of the frost and snow,
Longing for the sunshine cheery,
And the brooklet's gurgling flow;
Gladly then we hear thee sing
The reveille of spring,
Robin's come!

Ring it out o'er hill and plain,
Through the garden's lonely bowers,
Till the green leaves dance again,

DISAPPOINTMENT

From the drear wastes of unfulfilled desire,
 We harvest dreams that never come to pass,
Then pour our wine amid the dying fire,
 And on the cold hearth break the empty glass.

Ode.

I.

From the dire Monument of thy black roome
Wher now that vestal flame thou dost intombe
As in the inmost Cell of all Earths Wombe,

II.

Sacred L UCASTA like the pow'rfull ray
Of Heavenly Truth passe this Cimmerian way,
Whilst all the Standards of your beames display.

III.

Arise and climbe our whitest highest Hill,
There your sad thoughts with joy and wonder fill,
And see Seas calme as Earth, Earth as your Will.

IV.

Behold how lightning like a Taper flyes

From the commandant's quarters on West-chester height
The blue hills of Ramapo lie in full sight;
On their slope gleam the gables that shield his heart's queen,
But the redcoats are wary — the Hudson's between.
Through the camp runs a jest: " There's no moon — 't will be dark;
'T is odds little Aaron will go on a spark! "
And the toast of the troopers is: " Pickets, lie low,
And good luck to the colonel and Widow Prevost! "

Eight miles to the river he gallops his steed,
Lays him bound in the barge, bids his escort make speed,

From the bathing machine came a din
As of jollification within;
It was heard far and wide,
And the incoming tide
Had a definite flavour of gin.