Kun-shih, my pride, my son,
Is handsome and bright without a match.
In swaddling clothes, less than a year old,
He already could tell six from seven.
In his fourth year he knew his name,
And never cast his eyes on pears and chestnuts.
My friends and acquaintances often look at him
And say, “This child is a young phoenix!
Even in a previous age when looks were esteemed,
He would have been placed in the first class!”
Or else, “He has the air of an immortal!”
Or, “He has the bone structure of a swallow or a crane!”

A bloody and a sudden end,
Gunshot or a noose,
For death who takes what man would keep,
Leaves what man would lose.
He might have had my sister,
My cousins by the score,
But nothing satisfied the fool
But my dear Mary Moore,
None other knows what pleasures man
At table or in bed.

(Ha Korol ar C'Hleze.)

Blood, wine, and glee,
Sun, to thee, —
Blood, wine, and glee!
Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel!
Fire, fire! steel and fire!
Oak! oak, earth, and waves!
Waves, oak, earth and oak!

Glee of dance and song,
And battle-throng, —
Battle, dance, and song!
Fire! fire! steel, etc.

Let the sword blades swing
In a ring, —
Let the sword blades swing!

Blindest and most frantic prayer,
Clutching at a senseless boon,
His that begs, in mad despair,
Death to come; — he comes so soon!

Like a reveler that strains
Lip and throat to drink it up —
The last ruby that remains,
One red droplet in the cup,

Like a child that, sullen, mute,
Sulking spurns, with chin on breast,
Of the Tree of Life the fruit,
His gift of whom he is the guest,

Outcast on the thither shore,
Open scorn to him shall give
Souls that heavier burdens bore:
" See the wretch that dared not live! "

Blind man lay beside the way,
He could not see the light of day.
The Lord passed by and heard him say:
" O Lord, won't you help-a me!
O Lord, won't you help-a me! "

A man he died, was crucified,
They hung a thief on either side;
One lifted up his voice and cried:
" O Lord, won't you help-a me!
O Lord, won't you help-a me! "

A blind man lay by the way and cried,
" O Lord, won't you help-a me. "
And the thief cried out before he died,
" O Lord, won't you help-a me!
O Lord, won't you help-a me! "

Blest Statesman He, whose Mind's unselfish will
Leaves him at ease among grand thoughts: whose eye
Sees that, apart from magnanimity,
Wisdom exists not; nor the humbler skill
Of Prudence, disentangling good and ill
With patient care. What though assaults run high,
They daunt not him who holds his ministry,
Resolute, at all hazards, to fulfil
Its duties; — prompt to move, but firm to wait, —
Knowing, things rashly sought are rarely found;
That, for the functions of an ancient State —
Strong by her charters, free because imbound,

1. Blest is the man whose tender breast, Has for the
2. His heart contrives for their relief, More good than
suffering mourner felt, And while his hand relieves th'oppressed,
thousands could perform, This man in times of general grief,
He feels his soul with pity melt.
Shall find a shelter from the storm.

3. The Lord shall keep his soul alive,
Long shall he live, the blest of earth,
And like a plant celestial thrive,
Amid the pestilence and dearth.

4. When sick, the Lord shall stir his bed,
And make the hard affliction soft,

Of an Infant.

Blest Infant Bud, whose Blossome-life
Did only look about, and fal,
Wearyed out in a harmles strife
Of tears, and milk, the food of all;

Sweetly didst thou expire: Thy soul
Flew home unstain'd by his new kin,
For ere thou knew'st how to be foul,
Death wean'd thee from the world, and sin.

Softly rest all thy Virgin-Crums!
Lapt in the sweets of thy young breath,
Expecting till thy Saviour Comes
'To dresse them, and unswadle death.

1. Blest be the wondrous grace, That gives my soul a place With-
2. All good desires I owe, And mercies here below, And
in the mansions of thy love! That pardons all my sin, And
thoughts of grace, and hopes of heaven, To Him, whose suffering breath Still
makes me pure within, And writes my name in heaven above.
prayed for me in death, Whose precious blood for me was given.

3. Lord, bind me to thy sway,
And keep me every day,
Weaned from the world by thy dear cross,
May I, redeemed by grace,
Behold thy glorious face

Blessed are your north parts, for all this long time
My sun is with you, cold and dark is our clime;
Heaven's sun, which stayed so long from us this year,
Stayed in your north (I think) for she was there,
And hither by kind nature drawn from thence,
Here rages, chafes and threatens pestilence;
Yet I, as long as she from hence doth stay,
Think this no south, no summer, nor no day.
With thee my kind and unkind heart is run,
There sacrifice it to that beauteous sun:
And since thou art in paradise and needst crave