From the Isle of the West the captive came,
Downcast his eyes, but not with shame;
The soldier is sad at the captive's chain,
As he thinks of his own far home again:
The fortune of battle hath chained his hand,
And led him away to a southern land;
But his lofty soul is unconquered still—
Fetters cannot subdue that brave one's will;
Though his chain is deep in his dungeon floor,
And the bolts are brass of his triple door,
And darkness is round him, and racks are nigh,
His heart is not craven, he fears not to die.

The conies had their hiding-place,
The wily fox with stealthy tread
A covert found, but Christ, the Lord,
Had not a place to lay his head.

The eagle had an eyrie home,
The blithesome bird its quiet rest,
But not the humblest spot on earth
Was by the Son of God possessed.

Princes and kings had palaces,
With grandeur could adorn each tomb,
For Him who came with love and life,
They had no home, they gave no room.

The hands whose touch sent thrills of joy
Through nerves unstrung and palsied frame,

I had ma clothes cleaned
Just like new.
I put 'em on but
I still feels blue.

I bought a new hat,
Sho is fine,
But I wish I had back that
Old gal o' mine.

I got new shoes,—
They don't hurt ma feet,
But I ain't got nobody
For to call me sweet.

Light ! for the stars are pale; light! for the high moon wanes;
Whither now hides the sun, that all we stricken blind,
Feel not his eyes, hear not the thunders of the wind
Flung round him trumpet-toned about his clear domains?
Morn's rose along night's verge with folded wing disdains
Our twilight miserable and hopes of humankind,
Hardly we catch its breath: is the great sun less kind,
Than falling stars, frail moons, than night's cloud hurricanes?

Darkling we dwindle deathward, and our dying sight
Strains back to pierce the living gloom; ere night be done

Lord, come away!
Why dost Thou stay?
Thy road is ready; and Thy paths made straight
With longing expectations wait
The consecration of Thy beauteous feet.
Ride on triumphantly; behold, we lay
Our lusts and proud wills in Thy way!

Hosanna! Welcome to our hearts! Lord, here
Thou hast a temple too; and full as dear
As that of Sion, and as full of sin:
Nothing but thieves and robbers dwell therein:

Enter, and chase them forth, and cleanse the floor:
Crucify them, that they may never more
Profane That holy place

A CERTAIN young woman, named Hannah,
Slipped down on a piece of banana;
She shrieked, and oh - my'd!
And more stars she spied
Than belongs to the star - spangled banner.

A gentleman sprang to assist her,
And picked up her muff and her wrister.
“Did you fall, ma'am?” he cried;
“Do you think,” she replied,
“I sat down for the fun of it, Mister?”

Three gipsy men I saw one day
Stretched out on the grass together,
As wearily o'er the sandy way
My wagon brushed the heather.

The first of the three was fiddling there
In the glow of evening pallid,
Playing a wild and passionate air,
The tune of some gipsy ballad.

From the second's pipe the smoke-wreaths curled,
He watched them melt at his leisure.
So full of content, it seemed the world
Had naught to add to his pleasure.

And what of the third!—He was fast asleep,
His harp to a bough confided;

I drink champagne early in the morning
instead of leaving my house
with an M16 and nowhere to go.

I'm dying twice as fast
as any other American
between eighteen and thirty-five.
This disturbs me,
but I try not to show it in public.
Each morning I open my eyes is a miracle.
The blessing of opening them
is temporary on any given day.
I could be taken out.
I could go off.
I could forget to be careful.
Even my brothers, hunted, hunt me.
I am the only one who values my life
and sometimes I don't give a damn.
My love life can kill me.

When the sunbeams of joy gild the morn of our days,
And the soft heart is warm'd both with hope and with praise,
New pleasures, new prospects, still burst on the view,
And the phantom of bliss in our walks we pursue:
What tho' tangl'd in brakes, or withheld by the thorn,
Such sorrows of youth are but pearls of the morn;
As they “gem the light leaf” in the fervour of day,
The warmth of the season dissolves them away.

In the noon-tide of life, though not robb'd of their fire,
The warm wishes abate, and the spirits retire;

Methuselah ate what he found on his plate,
And never, as people do now,
Did he note the amount of the calory count;
He ate it because it was chow.
He wasn't disturbed as at dinner he sat,
Devouring a roast or a pie,
To think it was lacking in granular fat
Or a couple of vitamins shy.
He cheerfully chewed each species of food,
Unmindful of troubles or fears
Lest his health might be hurt
By some fancy dessert;
And he lived over nine hundred years.