English

“There's been an accident,” they said.
“Your servant's cut in half; he's dead.”
“Too bad,” said Mr. Jones, “but please
Send me the half that's got my keys.”

They tell me Simpkin is a saint
I've often wish'd he wasn't,
If 'tis a note of that complaint
To look so d—d unpleasant.

The world's no doubt a sorry place
For Simpkin; and, by Jabez,
The merest glimpsing of his face
Will wring and writhe a baby's.

A lout he is, a kill-joy loon
Where wit and mirth forgather;
In company I'd just as soon
Sit by an old bell-wether.

But Simpkin, I have heard men state,
Is kindly and well-meaning;
'Tis that his goodness is so great

Can this be thou who, lean and pale,
With such immitigable eye
Didst look upon those writhing souls in bale,
And note each vengeance, and pass by
Unmoved, save when thy heart by chance
Cast backward one forbidden glance,
And saw Francesca, with child's glee,
Subdue and mount thy wild-horse knee
And with proud hands control its fiery prance?

With half-drooped lids, and smooth, round brow,
And eye remote, that inly sees
Fair Beatrice's spirit wandering now
In some sea-lulled Hesperides,

Jehovah! God of justice! come,
Shine forth, most righteous God!
Come, strike the proud oppressor dumb,
Arise, lift up thy rod.

How long shall slavery, Lord! prevail?
How long shall crime abound?
How long shall haughty tyrants rail?
How long their boasts resound?

See, Lord! a helpless race they grind,
And tread them in the dust!
The widow and her babes they bind,
To feed their cruel lust!

Hear how the vile oppressor cries—
“The Lord will not behold;
The God of Jacob will not rise,

Sweete ar the thoughtes, wher Hope persuadeth Happe,
Great ar the Joyes, wher Harte obtaynes requeste,
Dainty the lyfe, nurst still in Fortunes lappe.
Much is the ease, wher troubled mindes finde rest.
These ar the fruicts, that valure doth advaunce,
And cutes of Dread, by Hope of happy chaunce.

Thus Hope bringes Hap; but to the worthy wight,
Thus Pleasure comes; but after hard assay,
Thus Fortune yeldes, in mauger of her spight,
Thus happy state is none without delay.
Then must I needes advaunce my self by skyll,

Miserable ant
climbing up a house pillar
higher and higher.

As I went down from Trenton
By a strip of canal sword-blade blue in the dusk,
I suddenly remembered
That this was the way to Camp Dix
And I remembered
Troop trains travelling in the night.

Strange is the influence that clings
To treasured tokens of the past,
And gives to most familiar things
Enchantments that shall hold us fast.

A splinter, any trifle small
From Shakespeare's house, has more, to-day,
Of deep suggestiveness than all
His best biographers can say.

With what devout idolatry,
What holy love, what tender care,
The mourning mother guards for aye
A tress of her dead darling's hair!

A maiden takes her jewel box
To while an idle hour away;
Or choose a bauble for her locks,

Oh, ye children of the Father,
Born of him in faith and love,
Sons of God, and heirs of glory,
Your inheritance above;
Some are high, and some are lowly,
Some are poor, and some are great;
Some are daily, some are hourly,
Going in the pearly gate
Kings and prophets, priest and people,
Jew and Gentile, bond and free,
Ev'ry tribe, and ev'ry nation,
Gather in from land and sea.
Oh, beloved of the Father,
Dry your tears, and march along;
Soon, oh, soon the happy meeting,
And the everlasting song.

Not thine but ours this day shall prove.
All others in the year that be
Thou makest thine by deeds of love:
This day is ours—to give to thee.