Dear, farewell, a little while,
Easy parting with a smile;
Ev'ry object in thy way
Makes thee innocently gay;
All that thou can'st hear or see,
All is novelty to thee.
Thoughts of parents left behind
Vex not yet thine infant mind;
Why should then their hearts repine,
Mournful theirs, and merry thine?
'Tis the world, the seeming wise
Toil to make their children rise;
While the heir that reaps their gains
Thankless thinks not of their pains.
Sportive youth in haste to live
Heeds not ills that years may give:

Dear Dove, that bear'st to my sole-laboring ark
The olive branch of so long wished rest,
When the white solace glimmers through my dark
Of nearing wings, what comfort in my breast!
Oh, may that doubted day not come, not come,
When you shall fail, my heavenly messenger,
And drift into the distance and the doom
Of all my impermissible things that were!
Rather than so, now make the sad farewell,
Which yet may be with not too-pained pain,
Lest I again the acquainted tale should tell
Of sharpest loss that pays for shortest gain.

Dear Cynthia, though thou bear'st the name
— Of the pale queen of night,
Who changing yet is still the same,
— Renewing still her light:
Who monthly doth herself conceal,
— And her bright face doth hide,
That she may to Endymion steal,
— And kiss him unespied:

Do not thou so, not being sure,
— When this thy beauty 's gone,
Thou such another canst procure
— And wear it as thine own;
For the by-sliding silent hours,
— Conspirators with grief,
May crop thy beauty's lovely flowers,
— Time being a sly thief:

1. Dear brethren, are your harps in tune? Come, then, and let us sing A
3. Whoever tasted heavenly love Should sing the heavenly song, Un-
song of honour and of praise To Zion's lovely king.
til our souls shall join above With all the heavenly throng.
2. Dear sisters, also come and join And let our hearts be one, To
4. Behold the lovely lamb of God Descending from above! Be
try to send a note of praise To God's beloved Son! Son!
hold what pains he underwent To manifest his love! love!

5. Come, then, and let us watch and pray,

Dear, back my wounded heart restore,
And turn away thy powerful eyes;
Flatter my willing soul no more,
Love must not hope what Fate denies.

Take, take away thy smiles and kisses,
Thy Love wounds deeper then Disdain,
For he that sees the Heaven he misses,
Sustains two Hels, of losse and pain.

Shouldst thou some others suit prefer,
I might return thy scorn to thee,
And learn Apostasie of her
Who taught me first Idolatry.

Or in thy unrelenting breast
Should I disdain or coynesse move,

In Reply to his Solicitation to Write with him in a Literary Work

Dear architect of fine Chateaux en l'air ,
Worthier to stand for ever, if they could,
Than any built with stone, or yet with wood
For back of royal elephant to bear! —
Oh for my youth again, that I might share,
Much to my own, tho' little to thy good,
With thee, not subject to the jealous mood,
A partnership of literary ware!
But I am bankrupt now, and doom'd henceforth
To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays,
Bards, I acknowledge, of unequall'd worth,

Dean-bourn, farewell; I never look to see
Dean, or thy warty incivility.
Thy rocky bottom, that doth tear thy streams,
And makes them frantic, ev'n to all extremes,
To my content I never should behold,
Were thy streams silver, or thy rocks all gold.
Rocky thou art; and rocky we discover
Thy men; and rocky are thy ways all over.
O men, O manners; now, and ever known
To be a rocky generation!
A people currish, churlish as the seas,
And rude (almost) as rudest savages--
With whom I did, and may re-sojourn when

‘Nature I loved; and next to Nature, Art.’

Dean , adult education may seem silly.
What of it, though? I got some willy-nilly
The other evening at your college deanery.
And grateful for it (let's not be facetious!)
For I thought Epicurus and Lucretius
By Nature meant the Whole Goddam Machinery.
But you say that in college nomenclature
The only meaning possible for Nature
In Landor's quatrain would be Pretty Scenery.
Which makes opposing it to Art absurd
I grant you—if you're sure about the word.

Dead is Columba: the world's arch
Gleams with a lighting of strange fires.
They flash and run, they leap and march,
Signs of a Saint's fulfilled desires.

Live is Columba: golden crowned,
Sceptred with Mary lilies, shod
With angel flames, and girded round
With white of snow, he goes to God.

No more the gray eyes long to see
The oakwoods of their Inisfail;
Where the white angels hovering be:
And ah, the birds in every vale!

No more for him thy fierce winds blow,
Iona of the angry sea!
Gone, the white glories of thy snow,

Dead in the cold, a song-singing thrush,
Dead at the foot of a snowberry bush--
Weave him a coffin of rush,
Dig him a grave where the soft mosses grow,
Raise him a tombstone of snow.