English

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.

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.

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.

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

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,

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.

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,