Loyal hearts, the century through,
Back to you our blessings turn;
Veins within us filled by you
Yet with righteous ardor burn!

Down the years hot truth has run
Purest in your earthen mould—
Bunker Hill and Lexington
Leave us models from of old.

We who till the fervent West—
How ye would have loved the land!—
Feel the fire of your unrest
By the breath of danger fanned.

Not diminished, farmer sires,
Runs our yet-indignant blood—
Waked to sympathetic fires
And more watchful hardihood.

'T is a stealthier alien we

‘There is not much that I can do,
For I've no money that's quite my own!’
Spoke up the pitying child—
A little boy with a violin
At the station before the train came in,—
‘But I can play my fiddle to you,
And a nice one 'tis, and good in tone!’

The man in the handcuffs smiled;
The constable looked, and he smiled, too,
As the fiddle began to twang;
And the man in the handcuffs suddenly sang
With grimful glee:
‘This life so free
Is the thing for me!’
And the constable smiled, and said no word,
As if unconscious of what he heard;

Wild honeysuckle throws across
The hazel-trees its gold and white,
And from its curving flutes and spurs,
Unfettered, sun-dyed revellers,
Such essence importunes the night
That roses are but dross.

The hazel-tree within my mind
Fruit good and bad will bear, and men
May vilify or praise me when
They crack the nuts that grew forgot,
Some kernelled white, some brown with rot;
No matter what they find.

No matter what they find, if still
Known but to me, the wild spikes fling
Their radiance over each small thing

CATESBY : Rescue, my Lord of Norfolk, rescue, rescue!
The king enacts more wonders than a man,
Daring an opposite to every danger:
His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights,
Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death.
Rescue, fair lord, or else the day is lost!
KING RICHARD : A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!
CATESBY : Withdraw, my lord; I'll help you to a horse.
KING RICHARD : Slave, I have set my life upon a cast,
And I will stand the hazard of the die.
I think there be six Richmonds in the field;
Five have I slain to-day instead of him.

FIRST MURDERER : Who made thee then a bloody minister,
When gallant-springing, brave Plantagenet,
That princely novice, was struck dead by thee?
CLARENCE : My brother's love, the devil, and my rage.
FIRST MURD : Thy brother's love, our duty, and thy fault,
Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee.
CLAR : If you do love my brother, hate not me;
I am his brother, and I love him well.
If you be hir'd for meed, go back again,
And I will send you to my brother Gloucester,
Who shall reward you better for my life
Than Edward will for tidings of my death.

Give me another horse! Bind up my wounds!
Have mercy, Jesu!--Soft, I did but dream.
O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight.
Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.
What do I fear? Myself? There's none else by.
Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I.
Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, I am.
Then fly. What, from myself? Great reason why:
Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself?
Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? For any good
That I myself have done unto myself?
O, no! Alas, I rather hate myself

Erroneous vassals! The great King of kings
Hath in the table of his law commanded
That thou shalt do no murder. Will you then
Spurn at his edict, and fulfill a man's?
Take heed; for he holds vengeance in his hand
To hurl upon their heads that break his law.

Methought that I had broken from the Tower
And was embarked to cross to Burgundy,
And in my company my brother Gloucester,
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk
Upon the hatches. Thence we looked toward England
And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the wars of York and Lancaster,
That had befall'n us. As we paced along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
Methought that Gloucester stumbled, and in falling
Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard
Into the tumbling billows of the main.

O Lord, methought what pain it was to drown!

I'd not speak nor
Utter the pulse
That lowly travels
Blindly its course.

Sad, and many years …
Can soul, the instinct,
With love and fears,
Prop its burdened link?

March . . . Someone has walked across the snow,
Someone looking for he knows not what.

It is like a boat that has pulled away
From a shore at night and disappeared.

It is like a guitar left on a table
By a woman, who has forgotten it.

It is like the feeling of a man
Come back to see a certain house.

The four winds blow through the rustic arbor,
Under its mattresses of vines.