English

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.

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.

Crown me with Roses whilest I Live,
Now your Wines and Oyntments give.
After Death I nothing crave,
Let me Alive my pleasures have,
All are Stoicks in the Grave.

Not Thunders o'er the sea-boy's head,
Whose sounds impetuous roll,
And mark him for a wat'ry bed,
Can shake his stedfast soul.

Still fondly warm'd with patriot fire
He tempts the dang'rous strand,
Still meets aloft the whirlwind's ire,
To guard his native land.

What though beneath the rolling wave
Lies many a dauntless boy,
And many a sailor bold and brave,
The tender fair one's joy;

Though vanquish'd by the billow's pow'r
The valiant yield their breath,
Fame shall record their latest hour,

Long we'd sought for Avalon,
Avalon the rest place;
Long, long we'd laboured
The oars—yea, for years.

Late, late one eventide
Saw we o'er still waters
Turrets rise and roof-frets
Golden in a glory,
Heard for a heart-beat
Women choirs and harpings
Waft down the wave-ways.

Saw we long-sought Avalon
Sink thro' still waters:
Long, long we'd laboured
The oars—yea, and yearned.

We loved so well in that old time;
But we and Love grew old together:
Old age forgets youth's golden prime
We loved so well in that old time;
But youth and truth it is that rhyme,
And winter follows summer weather.
We loved so well in that old time;
But we and Love grew old together.

S ARED , O God, to Thee,
This home of ours,
Its sunny slopes and fields,
Its peaceful bowers;
Sacred, O God, to Thee,
Thine may it ever be,—
Both Thine and ours.

Here may the children learn
To lisp Thy praise;
Here infant hearts grow strong
In wisdom's ways;
All that is evil spurn,
For all true goodness yearn,—
All to Thy praise.

And let Thy favor rest
On those whose love
Opened this rural home,
Garden, and grove;
As all, the good are blest,
Thy blessing on them rest,

Man, hef in mind and mend thy mis,
Whil thou are heir in lif livand,
And think apone this warldis blis,
Sa oftsyis is variand.
For Fortonis wheill is ay turnand,
Whil to weil and whil to wa,
Whil oup, whil downe, I onderstand—
Memor esto novissima.

Thou seis thy sampil everilk day,
And thou tak heid, withouten les,
How sone that thou may pas away:
For bald Hector and Achilles,
And Alexander the proud in pres,
Hes tane thare leif, and mony ma,
That Ded hes drawene onetil his des—
Memor esto novissima.

In my tired, helpless body
I feel my sunk heart ache;
But suddenly, loudly
The far, the great guns shake.

Is it sudden terror
Burdens my heart? My hand
Flies to my head. I listen …
And do not understand.

Is death so near, then?
From this blaze of light
Do I plunge suddenly
Into Vortex? Night?

Guns again! the quiet
Shakes at the vengeful voice. . . .
It is terrible pleasure.
I do not fear: I rejoice.