For the tie is snapt asunder,
Trust and loving hope are fled;
Can I tell, in fear and wonder,
With what dangers now bested,
I, cut off from friend and brother,
Like the widow in her woe,
With the one and not the other,
On and on, my way must go!

Word slowly understood;
Thought finding gradual form;
And power applied;
These are the gains of good;
Bold breath and life-blood warm;
Darkness denied.

To carve the stubborn stone;
With sense intense explore,
And inward sight.
Thus make they earth their own,
Whose deeds their dream adore,
Leaving us light.

Immortal Newton never spoke
More truth than here you'll find;
Nor Pope himself e'er penned a joke
More cruel on mankind.

This picture, placed the busts between,
Gives Satire all his strength:
Wisdom and Wit are little seen,
But Folly at full length.

At sixteen months, when they start to walk.
And a few brief words is their sum of talk,
When their smile is a marvelous joy to see
And they want to ride on their daddy's knee,
When you get tired but they never do—
For everything in this world is new—
It's then, I say, that a baby pays
For all of her care in her helpless days.

At sixteen months, when they crow with glee
And their arms reach up for the things they see,
When a smile breaks out on that cherub face
The minute you call from your hiding place.

I travel far in a little boat,
the green mountains following behind.
The radiance of the woods shimmers blue-green colors;
the water's surface is clear as glass.
As I lie on my pillow, clouds enter the cabin;
I open the door—vines hang before my eyes!
Bring on the dangers of the rapids—
with our master boatmen, I feel secure.

With the heart and the heels of a hunted hare
He took the track by Foulbarn Gair
And over Coldburn Hill,
With many a twist and many a turn
Through the rimy bent and the bracken-fern—
But they followed him, followed him still.

With many a twist and many a turn
He scrambled down to the Lambden Burn
And up the Bellyside Hill.
He dropped his knife as he climbed the brae,
He dropped his gully, but could not stay,
For they followed him, followed him still.

He dropped his knife as he climbed the brae,
He dropped his gully, but could not stay,

Spare him, you say! So be it, then!
But I think it a maudlin kindliness,
And fear some day for better men
'Twill breed a villainous excess!

'Tis easy enough to be merciful,
But to be just is an excellence
Beyond all flight of sentiment!

G OD'S spice I was, and pounding was my due,
In fading breath my incense savoured best;
Death was my mean my kernel to renew,
By lopping shot I up to heavenly rest.

Some things more perfect are in their decay,
Like spark that going out gives clearest light;
Such was my hap whose doleful dying day
Began my joy and termèd Fortune's spite.

Alive a Queen, now dead I am a Saint;
Once Mary called, my name now Martyr is;
From earthly reign debarrèd by restraint,
In lieu whereof I reign in heavenly bliss.

My scaffold was the bed where ease I found,

In eastern lands a servile race
May bow to thrones and diadems;
And hide in dust the abject face,
Before the glare of gold and gems.

For us, we kneel to One alone;
And freemen worship only Him
Before the brightness of whose throne
The proudest pomps of earth are dim.

And therefore to his children here
This bright and blooming land He gave,
Where famine never blasts the year,
Nor plagues, nor earthquakes glut the grave;

A land where all the gifts unite
That Heaven bestows to make life sweet;
A land of peace, a land of light,

“Brothers,” St. Francis called the Brutes,
But in Dean Inge his sermon,
The blind Darwinian struggle gives
Us Cousins—very German.