English

Now to the Ting! his course the courier fleet
O'er hill and vale pursues:
King Ring is dead; the people now must meet,
Another king to chuse.

Each peasant now his sword unsheathes; the steel
Glitters so bright and blue.
Now with his finger he the edge doth feel,
And finds it sharp and true.

The very boys cast looks of eager joy
The shining blade upon;
Now two by two they lift the dangerous toy,
Too heavy far for one.

And now the daughter must her work begin
The helm to polish bright:

With sword by side,
And buckler bright,
In the tomb upright
Sits the high-born hero Ring!
His charger champs the chain
Of the bit, while the ground
He paws, and around
The vaults with his neighings ring!

Over Bifrost's bridge in pride
Now behold Ring rapid ride!
Hark the heavy hollow sound
Echoing arches spread around,
While beneath the burden bending!
Valhall's portal open flies!
Asas from their thrones arise!
Each with salutation meet
Joys the glorious guest to greet,

The station platform, clean and broad, his stage
for push-ups, sit-ups, hamstring stretch,
as he laid aside his back pack, from which
his necessaries bulged, as he bulged
through jeans torn at butt, knee and thigh,
in deep palaver with himself—sigh,
chatter, groan. Deranged but common.
We sat at a careful distance to spy
on his performance, beside a woman
in her thirties, dressed as in her teens—
this is L.A.—singing to herself.
How composed, complete and sane
she seemed. A book by the Dalai Lama

Miss Lloyd has now sent to Miss Green,
As, on opening the box, may be seen,
Some yards of a Black Ploughman's Gauze,
To be made up directly, because
Miss Lloyd must in mourning appear—
For the death of a Relative dear—
Miss Lloyd must expect to receive
This license to mourn & to grieve,
Complete, er'e the end of the week—
It is better to write than to speak—

Salvation comes by Jesus Christ alone,
The only Son of God;
Redemption now to every one,
That love his holy Word.
Dear Jesus we would fly to Thee,
And leave off every Sin,
Thy tender Mercy well agree;
Salvation from our King.
Salvation comes now from the Lord,
Our victorious King;
His holy Name be well ador'd,
Salvation surely bring.
Dear Jesus give they Spirit now,
Thy Grace to every Nation,
That han't the Lord to whom we bow,
The Author of Salvation.
Dear Jesus unto Thee we cry,

Ah ! why with tell-tale tongue reveal
What most her blushes would conceal?
Why lift that modest veil to trace
The seraph-sweetness of her face?
Some fairer, better sport prefer;
And feel for us, if not for her.
For this presumption, soon or late,
Know thine shall be a kindred fate.
Another shall in vengeance rise—
Sing Harriet's cheeks, and Harriet's eyes:
And, echoing back her wood-notes wild,
—Trace all the mother in the child!

‘O Jesus Christ! I'm hit,’ he said; and died.
Whether he vainly cursed, or prayed indeed,
The Bullets chirped—In vain! vain! vain!
Machine-guns chuckled,—Tut-tut! Tut-tut!
And the Big Gun guffawed.

Another sighed,—‘O Mother, mother! Dad!’
Then smiled, at nothing, childlike, being dead.
And the lofty Shrapnel-cloud
Leisurely gestured,—Fool!
And the falling splinters tittered.

‘My Love!’ one moaned. Love-languid seemed his mood,
Till, slowly lowered, his whole face kissed the mud.

Then spoke the Spirit of the Earth,
Her gentle voice like a soft water's song;—
None from my loins have ever birth,
But what to joy and love belong;
I faithful am, and give to thee
Blessings great, and give them free.
I have woven shrouds of air
In a loom of hurrying light,
For the trees which blossoms bear,
And gilded them with sheets of bright;
I fall upon the grass like love's first kiss,
I make the golden flies and their fine bliss.
I paint the hedge-rows in the lane,

Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet;
Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet.
There, wrapped in cloud of sorrow, pity move,
And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love.
But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain,
Then burst with sighing in her sight, and ne'er return again.

All that I sung still to her praise did tend.
Still she was first, still she my songs did end.
Yet she my love and music both doth fly,
The music that her echo is, and beauty's sympathy.
Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight;