Christ, dear Christ, were the wood-ways sweet
By the long, white highway bare,
Where the hot road dust made grey Thy feet?
Ay,—but the woman's hair!

Brother, my Christ, when thou camest down
The cup of water to give,
Did a poet die on the mount's cool crown?
Ay,—and for that dost thou live!

What of the night? O watchman! tell,
Who on the watchtower high doth stand;
What of the night? I hear it swell
In every tongue, from every land.

Lo! half the earth in darkness lies,
Millions to idols bend the knee;
When shall the day-spring bless their eyes,
And the deep gloom before it flee?

Nations that boast the Christian name,
Still meet as foes in bloody fight;
When shall they own their deeds with shame,
And in the ways of Peace delight?

When shall they use the talents lent,
To elevate and bless mankind;

Child of my many thoughts and soul-wrapt nights
And intricate researches unconfined!
Child of my many fancies and delights,
Hopes, fears, and retrospections of the mind!
What happiness must thy fond parent find,
To see thee now a comely modelled child?
And know how many hours thou hast disjoined
From Care and Sorrow, by thy visage mild.
Yes—thou hast devious murmurings beguiled;
Which doubtless would have lingered in the heart;
For when thou on those worldly carkings smiled,
They melted into shadows by thine art.

At three o'clock in the afternoon
On a hot September day,
I began to dream of a highland stream
And a frostbit russet tree;

Of the swashing dip of a clipper ship
(White canvas wet with spray)
And the swirling green and milk-foam clean
Along her canted lee.

I heard the quick staccato click
Of the typist's pounding keys,
And I had to brood of a wind more rude
Than that by a motor fanned—
And I lay inert in a flannel shirt
To watch the rhyming seas
Deploy and fall in a silver sprawl
On a beach of sun-blanched sand.

Among the numbers who employ
Their tongues and pens to give you joy,
Dear Harley, generous youth, admit
What friendship dictates more than wit.

Forgive me, when I fondly thought
(By frequent observation taught)
A spirit so informed as yours
Could never prosper in amours.
The god of wit, and light, and arts,
With all acquired and natural parts,
Whose harp could savage beasts enchant,
Was an unfortunate gallant.
Had Bacchus after Daphne reeled,
The nymph had soon been brought to yield;
Or, had embroidered Mars pursued,

It is the dead sex of the earth
On which the sun still gazes.

It is all the mountains of love,
Into whose sarcophagus
Peers

Don't you love me now,
After all my sighing,
Swearing to you how
I'm dying, dying, dying?

Don't you love me now,
After I have set you
On love's topmost bought?—
God, then, I'll forget you.

We poor Agawams
are so stiff in the hams
that we cannot make Anagrams,
But Mr John Wilson
the great Epigrammatist
Can let out an Anagram
even as he list.

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,
Give us the Preparation;

I chase a shadow through the night,
A shadow unavailingly;
Out of the dark, into the light,
I follow, follow: is it she?

Against the wall of sea outlined,
Outlined against the windows lit,
The shadow flickers, and behind
I follow, follow after it.

The shadow leads me through the night
To the grey margin of the sea;
Out of the dark, into the light,
I follow unavailingly.