English

Clubby ! thou surely art, I ween,
A Puss of most majestic mien,
—So stately all thy paces!
With such a philosophic air
Thou seek'st thy professorial chair,
—And so demure thy face is!

And as thou sit'st, thine eye seems fraught
With such intensity of thought
—That could we read it, knowledge
Would seem to breathe in every mew,
And learning yet undreamt by you
—Who dwell in Hall or College.

Oh! when in solemn taciturnity
Thy brain seems wandering through eternity,
—What happiness were mine

The clouds grow clear, the pine-wood glooms and stills
With brown reflections in the silent bay,
And far beyond the pale blue-misted hills
The rose and purple evening dreams away
The thrush, the veery, from mysterious dales
Rings his last round; and outward like a sea
The shining, shadowy heart of heaven unveils
The starry legend of eternity.
The day's long troubles lose their sting and pass.
Peaceful the world, and peaceful grows my heart
The gossip cricket from the friendly grass

Cloodburst an' soarin' mune
And 'twixt the twa a taed
That loupit oot upon me
As doon the loan I gaed.

Noo I gang white an' lanely
But hoo I'm wishin', faith,
And clood aine mair cam' owre me
Wi' Jock the byreman's braith.

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,
— A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
Long had I watched the glory moving on
— O'er the still radiance of the lake below.
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow!
— Even in its very motion there was rest;
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow
— Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west.
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul!
— To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,
And by the breath of mercy made to roll

Cloud-capped peaks fill the eyes
In the spring sunshine.
Their names are written in beautiful characters
And posted in order of merit.
How I hate this silk dress
That conceals a poet.
I lift my head and read their names
In powerless envy.

Closest to men, thou pitying Son of man,
And thrilled from crown to foot with fellowship,
Yet most apart and strange and lonely as God—
Dwell in my heart, remote and intimate One!
Brother of all the world, I come to Thee!

Gentle as she who nursed Thee at her breast
(Yet what a lash of lightnings once thy tongue
To scourge the hypocrite and Pharisee!)—
Nerve Thou mine arm, O meek, O mighty One!
Champion of all who fail, I fly to Thee!

O Man of Sorrows with the wounded hands—
For chaplet, for throne, a pagan cross;

Close to the sod
There can be seen
A thought of God
In white and green.
Unmarred, unsoiled,
It cleft the clay;
Serene, unspoiled,
It views the day.

It is so holy
And yet so lowly,
Would you enjoy
Its grace and dower
And not destroy
The living flower?
Then you must, please,
Fall on your knees.

Close the dim eyes, for expression hath left them;
Arrange the limp hands, ere stiffness ensue;
Cover her o'er, with a cloth of pure whiteness;
Reverence her clay, it is all we can do.

Never again shall those calm lips be parted,
Displaying the pearl in the sunshine of mirth;
Never those dim eyes in sympathy kindle,
Nature hath claimed her dust for the earth.

Ever her image is bright in our vision,
Recalling so vividly, days that are fled;
Days, when her light step, her smile, and her beauty,

Cloe, blooming, sweet as May ,
We must tempt Mamma away;
Still the jealous Dame destroys
All our Schemes of future Joys:
All the Projects we have try'd,
Vainly yet have been apply'd;
At my Bait she now must bite ,
If I guess her Temper right:
She shall have her Lover too;
Trust me, Cloi , this will do.

The clock within us, speaking time
By heart-beat seconds and by mental years,
Is garrulous in any gear,
So life at once seems short and endless.
Who is not glad to find the hour later than he thought?
For so he has killed, not time
But the inward timing of the ceaseless rote.
Its beat, which makes him count the cost
Of that creation which, loving, he cannot resist,
Hurries him on to end whatever was begun —
The child, to be grown, the poem, to be done.

But in each other's arms,
Or on the tide of prayer, when we