I LIKE the man who faces what he must
With step triumphant and a heart of cheer;
Who fights the daily battle without fear;
Sees his hopes fail, yet keeps unfaltering trust
That God is God,—that somehow, true and just
His plans work out for mortals; not a tear
Is shed when fortune, which the world holds dear,
Falls from his grasp—better, with love, a crust
Than living in dishonor; envies not,
Nor loses faith in man; but does his best,
Nor ever murmurs at his humbler lot;
But, with a smile and words of hope, gives zest
To every toiler. He alone is great

All day low clouds and slanting rain
Have swept the woods and dimmed the plain.
Wet winds have swayed the birch and oak,
And caught and swirled away the smoke,
But, all day long, the wooden clock
Went on, Nic-noc, nic-noc.

When deep at night I wake with fear,
And shudder in the dark to hear
The roaring storm's unguided strength,
Peace steals into my heart at length,
When, calm amid the shout and shock,
I hear, Nic-noc, nic-noc.

And all the winter long 't is I
Who bless its sheer monotony—
Its scorn of days, which cares no whit

I Wonder and admire oft,
How great that God must be,
That makes and governs all this Croud,
What Numbers do I see!

He knows the wish of every Heart,
And every Thought can tell;
The Name and Surname of them all,
And where each one does dwell.

And does he open wide his hand,
And give to all their Bread?
Oh! may I ne'er unmindfull be,
That thus I have been fed!

And do we ask our Bread of God?
For this some often pray:
And yet in Action contradict,
What thus in Word they say.

Will not the prosp'rous often say,

Ten Lilies and ten Virgins,
And, O mild marvel to mine eyes,
Five of the Virgins were foolish,
But all of the Lilies were wise.

No promises—yet I wait,
thinking perhaps you'll come.
If only the night
wouldn't dwindle away
but be over all at once!

Candish deriv'd from Noble Parentage
Adorn'd with Vertuous and heroicke partes
Most learned bountifull Devout and Sage
Grac'd with the graces Muses and the Artes
Deer to his Prince in English Court admird
Beloved of great and Honourable Peeres
Of all estemed embraced and desired
Till Death Cut of his well employed yeeres.
Within this earth his earth entombed lies
Whose heavenly part Surmounted has the skies.

See wond'rous Man! with what Success,
Indulgent Heav'n your Art does bless;
See how Disease your Presence flies,
Or lurking in some new Disguise,
Attempts to 'scape your piercing Eyes.
While you the baleful Hag pursue,
And all her dark Recesses view,
And she, by you thus drag'd to Light,
Flies trembling from your awful Sight.

Nor need you Drugs of foreign Store,
Or native Plants of sov'reign Pow'r;
Meer Water when prescrib'd by you,
Can Nature's strongest Foe subdue:
Such pow'rfull Accents from you flow,
Your Voice alone does Health bestow.

The whitening orchard scarcely stirs,
While through it roam and sing
Those mild melodious pillagers,
The breezes of late Spring.

In meadowy reaches, far and wide,
No balmier May was born;
The expectant world is like a bride
Upon her wedding morn!

All nature speaks its joy profuse,
To see chill hours retreat,
Save, in their lethargy obtuse,
These grim rocks at my feet.

Here timid mosses film their gray;
Here starts the unfolding fern;
But still they bide, from day to day,
Impenetrably stern.

Ug was a hairy but painstaking artist,
—Back in a simple and primitive age.
Listen, young Poet! And ere thou departest,
—Haply thou'lt learn something. (Haply thou'lt rage!)
Ug fashioned arrowheads, slowly and neatly,
—Chipping all day at the hardest of stone;
Made them symmetrical, polished them sweetly,
—Sharpened their points with a skill all his own.

Long ones and short ones and fat ones or narrow,
—Bolts of obsidian, spearheads of flint;
Some that could crash through a mastodon's marrow,
—Some that were prized for their beautiful tint;

We swing ungirded hips,
And lightened are our eyes;
The rain is on our lips,
We do not run for prize.
We know not whom we trust
Nor whitherward we fare,
But we run because we must
Through the great wide air.

The waters of the seas
Are troubled as by storm.
The tempest strips the trees
And does not leave them warm.
Does the tearing tempest pause?
Do the tree-tops ask it why?
So we run without a cause
'Neath the big bare sky.

The rain is on our lips,
We do not run for prize.
But the storm the water whips