English

Once one year, and I don't know when,
so lonely I could not stand it,
I became a wanderer and spent the year
roaming the mountain district,
and as I did I broke and gathered
a handful of flowers I
gave to some child by the roadside.

That child by the roadside
by now must have grown,
and perhaps being lonely he too
has plucked a handful of flowers
to give to some other child.

And after some tens of years have passed,
crossing over yet one more bridge,
might that present of the bouquet

Eternall mover, whose diffused glory,
To shew our grovelling reason what thou art,
Unfolds itself in clouds of nature's story,
Where man, thy proudest creature, acts his part,
Whom yet, alas! I know not why, we call
The world's contracted sum, the little all;

For what are we but lumps of walking clay?
Why should we swel? whence should our spirits rise?
Are not bruit beasts as strong, and birds as gay,
Trees longer liv'd, and creeping things as wise?
Only our souls was left an inward light,

1. Eternal Spirit, source of light, Enlivening, conse-
2. In our cold breasts O strike a spark Of the pure flame which
crating fire, Descend, and with celes
seraphs feel, Nor let us wander in
tial heat Our dull, our frozen hearts inspire.
the dark Or lie benumbed and stupid still.
Our souls refine, our dross consume! Come, condescending Spirit, come!
Come vivifying Spirit, come, And make our hearts thy constant home!

3. Whatever guilt and madness dare,
We would not quench the heavenly fire;
Our hearts as fuel we prepare,

Eternal Lord! eased of a cumbrous load,
And loosened from the world, I turn to Thee;
Shun, like a shattered bark, the storm, and flee
To thy protection for a safe abode.
The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon the tree,
The meek, benign, and lacerated face,
To a sincere repentance promise grace,
To the sad soul give hope of pardon free.
With justice mark not Thou, O Light divine,
My fault, nor hear it with thy sacred ear;
Neither put forth that way thy arm severe;
Wash with thy blood my sins; thereto incline

There is a vice which oft
I've heard men praise; and divers forms it has;
And it is this. Whereas
Some, by their wisdom, lordship, or repute,

When tumults are afoot,
Might stifle them, or at the least allay,—
These certain ones will say,
‘The wise man bids thee fly the noise of men.’

One says, ‘Wouldst thou maintain
Worship,—avoid where thou mayst not avail;
And do not breed worse ail
By adding one more voice to strife begun.’

Another, with this one,
Avers, ‘I could but bear a small expense,

I.

Eastrich! Thou featherd Foole, and easie prey,
 That larger sailes to thy broad Vessell needst;
Snakes through thy guttur-neck hisse all the day,
 Then on thy I'ron Messe at supper feedst.

II.

Oh what a glorious transmigration
 From this, to so divine an edifice
Hast thou straight made! neere from a winged stone
 Transform'd into a Bird of Paradice!

III.

Escorted by two policemen, little doubting
they guard and quiet a ferocious monster,
I arrive, saluted by heart-rending
cries and clutched by epileptic arms.

I halt trembling and speechless on the threshold.
A long thick taper reveals and aggravates
with faint gleam the horrible retreat.
The flame flickers in the draught, slant and yellow. . . .
From the wick it strives to wrench itself
and flee the misery that it slavish lights!

On the wretched and funereal bed,
in a black garment alien of aspect,

Erewhile , before the world was old,
When violets grew and celandine,
In Cupid's train we were enrolled:
Erewhile!
Your little hands were clasped in mine,
Your head all ruddy and sun-gold
Lay on my breast which was your shrine,
And all the tale of love was told:
Ah, God, that sweet things should decline,
And fires fade out which were not cold,

Ere the long roll of the ages end
—And the days of time are done,
The Lord shall unto Erin send
—His own appointed One,
Whose soul must wait the hour of Fate,
—His name be known to none;
But his feet shall stand on the Irish land
—In the rising of the sun.

In darkness of our captive night,
—Whilst storms the watch-tower shake,
Some shall not sleep, but vigil keep
—Until the morning break;
Until through clouds of threatening hate,
—The seas of sorrow o'er,
The first red beam of the sun-burst gleam

Ere famous Winthrops bones are laid to rest
The pagans Chelmsford with sad flames arrest,
Making an artificial day of night
By that plantations formidable light.
Here's midnight shrieks and Soul-amazing moanes,
Enough to melt the very marble stones:
Fire-brands and bullets, darts and deaths and wounds
Confusive outcryes every where resounds:
The natives shooting with the mixed cryes,
With all the crueltyes the foes devise
Might fill a volume, but I leave a space
For mercyes still successive in there place