Stand by your noblest stocke; and euer grow
In loue, and grace of vertue most admir'd;
And we will pay the sacrifice we owe
Of prayre and honour, with all good desir'd
To your diuine soule; that shall euer liue
In height of all blisse prepar'd here beneath,
In that ingenuous and free grace you giue
To knowledge; onely Bulwarke against Death.
Whose rare sustainers here, her powres sustaine
Hereafter. Such reciprocall effects
Meet in her vertues. Where the loue doth raigne,
The Act of knowledge crownes our intellects.

1
Rise O days from your fathomless deeps, till you loftier, fiercer sweep,
Long for my soul hungering gymnastic I devour'd what the earth gave me,
Long I roam'd the woods of the north, long I watch'd Niagara pouring,
I travel'd the prairies over and slept on their breast, I cross'd the Nevadas, I cross'd the plateaus,
I ascended the towering rocks along the Pacific, I sail'd out to sea,
I sail'd through the storm, I was refresh'd by the storm,
I watch'd with joy the threatening maws of the waves,
I mark'd the white combs where they career'd so high, curling over,

These two pieces, written during the suspense of a great nation's agony, aim at expressing human sympathy, not political bias.
1.
“THY BROTHER'S BLOOD CRIETH.”
All her corn-fields rippled in the sunshine,
?All her lovely vines, sweets-laden, bowed;
Yet some weeks to harvest and to vintage:
?When, as one man's hand, a cloud
Rose and spread, and, blackening, burst asunder
In rain and fire and thunder.
Is there nought to reap in the day of harvest?
?Hath the vine in her day no fruit to yield?
Yea, men tread the press, but not for sweetness,

And what shall be the song to-night,
If song there needs must be?
If every year that brings us here
Must steal an hour from me?
Say, shall it ring a merry peal,
Or heave a mourning sigh
O'er shadows cast, by years long past,
On moments flitting by?

Nay, take the first unbidden line
The idle hour may send,
No studied grace can mend the face
That smiles as friend on friend;
The balsam oozes from the pine,
The sweetness from the rose,
And so, unsought, a kindly thought
Finds language as it flows.

Three lords sat drinking at the wine
I the bonny braes o Yarrow,
An there cam a díspute them between,
Who was the Flower o Yarrow.

‘I 'm wedded to your sister dear,
Ye coont nae me your marrow;
I stole her fae her father's back,
An made her the Flower o Yarrow.’

‘Will ye try hearts, or will ye try hans,
I the bonnie braes o Yarrow?
Or will ye try the weel airmt sword,
I the bonnie braes o Yarrow?’

‘I winna try hearts, I winna try hans,
I the bonnie braes o Yarrow,
But I will try the weel airmt sword,

Fair of the ruddy cheek, and russet vest,
With eye that beams the sunshine of thy breast,
That tripping light yon heathy cliffs among,
Pour'st to the source of good, thine artless song.

Yet, thou canst quit awhile the leafy glen,
Thy thoughts of solitude's still charms divest,
To wander playful, thro' the haunts of men,
And revel in the busy, blameless, breast!

Where'er thou art, associate of the good,
Unheard, where vacant Mirth is laughing loud;
Or calm, amidst a city's noisy crowd,
Or list'ning to the warblers of the wood:

In Aprell and in May,
When hartes be all mery,
Besse Bunting, the millaris may,
Withe lippes so red as chery,
She cast in hir remembrance
To passe hir time in daliance
And to leve hir thought driery.
Right womanly arayd
In a peticote of whit,
She was nothing dismayd—
Hir countenance was full light.

Over the meadows of June
The plovers are crying
All night under the moon
That silvers with ghostly light
The thatch of the little old cottage, so lonely to-night.
Lonely and empty it stands
By the signpost that stretches white hands,
Pointing to far-away lands
Where alone and apart we are lying.

Lonely and empty of all delight
It stands in the blind white night;
And under the thatch there is no one to hark to the crying,
The restless voices of plovers flying and crying
Over the meadows of June,
All night under the moon

They say she flirts; sore news that she
Should flirt at all and not with me.
Sam Rogers—so the tale expands—
Has gone for good to foreign lands,
And left her free to go and live
In whichsoever State will give
Release from matrimonial gyves
With least display of jarring lives.
The trouble? Oh, some say Sam beat her.
But others claim that what's the matter
Is that he didn't. Some, again,
Hear rumors about “other men,”
And add, explaining all that's hid—
“She flirts; you know she always did.”
Flirt! Well, perhaps she did, and yet

To be or not to be; that is the bare bodkin
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would fardels bear, till Birnam Wood do come to Dunsinane,
But that the fear of something after death
Murders the innocent sleep,
Great nature's second course,
And makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune
Than fly to others that we know not of.
There's the respect must give us pause:
Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,