English

On Bunker-shore a village stands,
Where salt-sea waters flow,
Between sand-hills and scrub-oak lands,
And winds know how to blow.

The town was built upon some whales,
In prosperous years of yore,
Swept from the seas by boisterous gales,
And cast upon the shore.

A fishy smell is all around,—
“An ancient, fish-like smell;”
Upon, and in, and under ground,
In every spring and well.

The houses there of fish are built;
And all the people own,
From whale-ship down to cradle-quilt,

Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again!
Let the high word “Castile” go resounding through Spain!
And thou, free Asturias, encamp'd on the height,
Pour down thy dark sons to the vintage of fight!
Wake, wake! the old soil where thy children repose
Sounds hollow and deep to the trampling of foes!

The voices are mighty that swell from the past,
With Arragon's cry on the shrill mountain blast;
The ancient sierras give strength to our tread,
Their pines murmur song where bright blood hath been shed.

Alas! the pow'rs of life decay;
My hairs are fall'n, or chang'd to grey;
The smiling bloom and youthful grace
Is banish'd from my faded face.
Thus man beholds with weeping eyes
Himself half dead before he dies.
For this, and for the grave I fear,
And pour the never-ceasing tear.
A dreadful prospect strikes my eye;
I soon must sicken, soon must die;
For this the mournful groan I shed,
I dread—alas! the hour I dread!
What eye can stedfastly survey
Death and its dark tremendous way?
For soon as Fate has clos'd our eyes

'T WAS a beautiful morning in Spring,
Bud and blossom were everywhere,
Glad youth, on its newly-tried wing,
Blithe renewal on earth and in air.

And one immature fledgling had come,
Enfranchised that day from the nest,
Like our children who, parting from home,
Fly far to the East or the West.

What a spreading of fluttering wings!
What chirpings, what pride in their child!
As, forgetting terrestrial things,
The parents for gladness grow wild.

'Tis a lesson in flight, they essay,

Today a celebrity chimpanzee went postal,
tearing up a woman’s face in Connecticut.
And as the Taliban were given the suburbs
of Swat in which to stone to death women
taken in adultery, a Muslim in New York
whose radio station promoted Islam
as the most humane religion cut off
his wife’s head. Tomorrow, of course,
will be another day, but we live one day
at a time. Yesterday I uncovered the ribbon
snake in the woodpile, stiff and cold
in its winter sleep. A new urgency for spring:
I put the split log back and took my wood

Give Isaac the nymph who no beauty can boast;
But health and good humour to make her his toast,
If strait, I don't mind whether slender or fat,
And six feet or four--we'll ne'er quarrel for that.

Whate'er her complexion, I vow I don't care,
If brown it is lasting, more pleasing if fair;
And tho' in her cheeks I no dimples should see,
Let her smile, and each dell is a dimple to me.

Let her locks be the reddest that ever were seen,
And her eyes may be e'en any colour but green,
For in eyes, tho' so various in lustre and hue,

Umbrellas that are up when Days are duller,
Instead of being Dark should glow with Color.

I N Pleasant Houses Cheerfulness abides;
The Trout in Sunny Pools have Silver Sides.

Few Pleasant Visitors are theirs
Who have no Comfortable Chairs.

I F all the World looks drear, perhaps the meaning
Is that your Windows need a little Cleaning.

M Y Room shall be an Easy Room to Chat In,
With Chairs that look as if they had been Sat In.

The taper wastes within yon window-pane,
And the blind flutters, where his fever'd hand
Has raised the sash, to cool his burning brain;
But he has pass'd away from house and land.
Cheerly and proudly through the gusty dark
The red cock crows! the new-dropt lambkin tries
His earliest voice in the home-field, while stark
And stiff, on his own bed, the drunkard lies;
O'erdone by that steep ride, his weary horse
Poises his batter'd feet and cannot feed;
From the near moorland hill, the brawling force

Whenever, Chloe, I begin
Your heart, like mine, to move,
You tell me of the crying sin
Of unchaste lawless love.

How can that passion be a sin,
Which gave to Chloe birth?
How can those joys but be divine,
Which make a heaven on earth?

To wed, mankind the priests trepanned
By some sly fallacy,
And disobeyed God's great command,
Increase and multiply.

You say that love's a crime; content:
Yet this allow you must,
More joy's in heav'n if one repent,
Than over ninety just.

Sir , I have read and much admire
Your Muse's gay and easy flow,
Warm'd with that true Idalian fire
That gives the bright and cheerful glow.

I conn'd each line with joyous care,
As I can such from sun to sun,
And, like the glutton o'er his fare
Delicious, thought them too soon done.

The witty smile, nature and art,
In all your numbers so combine,
As to complete their just desert,
And grace them with uncommon shine.

Delighted we your Muse regard
When she, like Pindar's, spreads her wings;