English

Before my lady's window gay,
The little birds they sing all day,
The lark, the mavis and the dove;
But the sweet nightingale of May,
She whiles the silent hours away,
Chanting of sorrow, joy, and love.

Alas, poor heart, I pity thee
For all the grief thou hast and care.
My love I see not anywhere;
He is so far away from me.
Until once more his face I see
I shall be sad by night and day;

And if his face I may not see
Then I shall die most certainly:
For other pleasures have I none,
And all my hope is this alone.
No ease I take by night and day:
O Love, my love, to thee I pray
Have pity upon me!

Dear nightingale of woodland gay,
Who singest on the leafy tree,
Go, take a message I thee pray,

light cursed falling in a singular block
her, rain-warm-naked
exquisitely hashed

(little careful hunks-of-lilac laughter splashed
from the world prettily upward, mock
us....)
and there was a clock. tac-tic. tac-toc.

Time and lilacs....minutes and love....do you? and
always
(i simply understand
the gnashing petals of sex which lock
me seriously.
Dumb for a while-my

god—a patter of kisses, the chewed stump

of a mouth, huge dropping of a flesh from
hinging thighs

No charms are wanting to thy artful song,
Soft as Corelli, but as Virgil strong:
From words so sweet new grace the notes receive,
And Music borrows helps she us'd to give.
Thy style hath match'd what ancient Romans knew,
Thy flowing numbers far excel the new,
Their cadence in such easy sound convey'd,
That height of thought may seem superfluons aid;
Yet in such charms the noble thoughts abound,
That needless seem the sweets of easy sound.
Accept, great Monarch of the British lays!
The tribute-song an humble subject pays:

SAINT ANTHONY the eremite
He wandered in the wold,
And there he saw a hoofèd wight
That blew his hands for cold.

“What dost thou here in misery,
That better far wert dead?”
The eremite Saint Anthony
Unto the Satyr said.

“Lorn in the wold,” the thing replied,
“I sit and make my moan,
For all the gods I loved have died,
And I am left alone.

“Silent, in Paphos, Venus sleeps,
Jove, on Mount Ida, mute;
And every living creature weeps
Pan and his perished flute.

From Earth's low prospects and deceitful aims,
From wealth's allurements, and ambition's dreams,
The lovers raptures, and the hero's views,
All the false joys mistaken man pursues;
The schemes of science, the delights of wine,
Or the more pleasing follies of the Nine!
Recal, fond bard, thy long-enchanted sight
Deluded with the visionary light!
A nobler theme demands thy sacred song,
A theme beyond or man's or angel's tongue!
But oh, alas! unhallow'd and profane,
How shall thou dare to raise the heav'nly strain?

Low as the distant Waterfall,
The melody began;
But swelled till through the festal hall,
The loudest echo ran:—
Each eye dilated, flashed around,
Expressive of surprise;
And Silence reigned in awe profound,
Except disturbed by sighs.

Soft on the sable wing of night,
The music passed away,—
Like warblings of a happy sprite,
Relieved from cumbrous clay.
Soft as the tones the lover pours
Upon his mistress' ear,
In Memory's most enchanting hours,
When all is fond and dear.

O human hearts,
——Beating through fear, through jealousy,
——Through pride, through avarice, through bitterness,
Through agony, through death.
——Beating, beating,
——Shame and forgiveness,
——Bewilderment and love,
O my own country,
——My new world,
——Prepare,
——Prepare—
Not to avenge wrong
But to exalt right,
Not to display honor
But to prove humility,
Not to bring wrath
——But vision,
Not to win war
——But a people,
And not people only,
But all peoples,

It was a pity about Dickens'
Insane jealousy of chickens,
And one could really almost weep
At his morbid mistrust of sheep.

Bontin's man
To the town ran;
He coffed and sold,
And a penny down told;
The kirk was ane, and the choir was twa,
And a great muckle thump doon aboon a',
Doon aboon a', doon aboon a'.