English

Where are the brave men, where are the strong men?
Pygmies rise
And spawn the earth.
Weak-kneed, weak-hearted, and afraid,
Afraid to face the counsel of their timid hearts,
Afraid to look men squarely,
Down they gaze—
With fatal fascination
Down, down—
Into the whirling maggot sands

Bewar, squier, yeman, and page,
For servise is non heritage!

If thou serve a lord of prise,
Be not too boistous in thine servise:
Damne not thine soule in none wise,
For servise is non heritage.

Winteres wether, and wommanes thought,
And lordes love chaungeth oft:
This is the sothe, if it be sought,
For servise is non heritage.

Now thou art gret, tomorwe shall I,
As lordes chaungen here baly:
In thine welthe werk sekirly,
For servise is non heritage.

Than serve we God in alle wise:

I come in the little things,
Saith the Lord;
Not borne on morning wings
Of majesty; but I have set my feet
Amidst the delicate and bladed wheat
That springs triumphant in the furrowed sod—
There do I dwell, in weakness and in power;
Not broken or divided, said our God!
In your straight garden plot I come to flower;
About your porch my vine,
Meek, fruitful, doth entwine,
Waits, at the threshold, Love's appointed hour.

I come in the little things,
Saith the Lord;
Yea, on the glancing wings

“Study the mournful hours away,
Lest in dull sloth thy spirit pine.”
Hard words thou writest: verse is gay,
And asks a lighter heart than mine.

No calms my stormy life beguile,
Than mine can be no sadder chance;
You bid bereaved Priam smile,
And Niobe the childless dance.

In grief or study more my part,
Whose life is doomed to wilds like these,
Though you should make my feeble heart
Strong with the strength of Socrates.

Such ruin would crush wisdom down;
Stronger than man is wrath divine.

We are talkative proud, and assured, and self-sufficient,
The quick of the earth this day;
This inn is ours, and its courtyard, and English history,
And the Post Office up the way.

The stars in their changes, and heavenly speculation,
The habits of birds and flowers,
And character bred of poverty and riches,
All these are ours.

The world is ours, and these its themes and its substance,
And of these we are free men and wise;
Among them all we move in possession and judgment,
For a day, till it dies.

Nothing remaineth; for the snow
Hath blotted out both moor and hill.

Castle Builder
In short, convince you that however wise
You may have grown from convent libraries,
I have, by many yards at least, been carding
A longer skein of wit in Convent Garden.

Bernardine
A very Eden that same place must be!
Pray what demesne? Whose lordship's legacy?
What, have you convents in that Gothic isle?
Pray pardon me, I cannot help but smile.

Castle Builder
Sir, Convent Garden is a monstrous beast:
From morning, four o'clock, to twelve at noon,
It swallows cabbages without a spoon,

All quiet along the river now,
And winter reigneth there.
The ground is carpeted with snow,
And chill the evening air.
Above the snow-clad earth arise
The stones which mark the spots
Where rest the forms of those we prize,
Our martyred patriots.

On yonder highland stands to-night
The sentinel alone,
His musket gleaming in the light
Of the pale winter moon.
How oft to him at midnight hour,
Above the noble dead,
Doth Memory come with magic power
To speak of those who bled,—

We've reached the land of desert sweet,
Where nothing grows for man to eat.
The wind it blows with feverish heat
Across the plains so hard to beat.

O Dakota land, sweet Dakota land,
As on thy fiery soil I stand
I look across the plains
And wonder why it never rains,
Till Gabriel blows his trumpet sound
And says the rain's just gone around.

We have no wheat, we have no oats,
We have no corn to feed our shoats;
Our chickens are so very poor
They beg for crumbs outside the door.

When Champlain with his faithful band
Came o'er the stormy wave
To dwell within this lonely land,
Their hearts were blithe as brave;
And Winter, by their mirth beguiled,
Forgot his sterner mood,
As by the prattling of a child
A churl may be subdued.

Among the company there came
A dozen youths of rank,
Who in their eager search for fame
From no adventure shrank;
But, with the lightness of their race
That hardship laughs to scorn,
Pursued the pleasures of the chase
'Till night from early morn.