The summer sun was soft and bland,
As they went through the meadow land.

The little wind that hardly shook
The silver of the sleeping brook
Blew the gold hair about her eyes,—
A mystery of mysteries!
So he must often pause, and stoop,
And all the wanton ringlets loop
Behind her dainty ear—emprise
Of slow event and many sighs.

Across the stream was scarce a step,—
And yet she feared to try the leap;
And he, to still her sweet alarm,
Must lift her over on his arm.

She could not keep the narrow way,

Discreet and prudent we that Discord call,
That either profits, or not hurts at all.

O nameless warrior, whose feet
Have borne thee to thy goal,
Pray thou for me, while dust and heat
Lie heavy on my soul!

Here, in what heritage of ease,
The years give rest to them,
Because of old thy crossèd knees
Knelt in Jerusalem!

And tell me, were the gates of pear?
And were the streets of gold?
And did the Tree of Life unfurl
Leaves lovely to behold?

Shone she with jewels round about
Her deeply-founded wall,
Making her very stones cry out
Of Love who died for all?

And did the vision of that Mount

What poor little fellows are we!
Tho' we manage to make a great show,
Yet death has a claim on us all,
And the king and the beggar must go.
How vain the distinctions we make!
Neither wisdom nor wealth can us save,
But the prince and the peasant alike
Are journeying on to the grave.

Then why should we listen to aught
Which pride or which vanity saith?
We're all on the current of time,
And bound for the narrows of death.
The shafts of misfortune and fate
Know neither the high nor the low;
We're brothers to sorrow alike—

Dear is my little native vale,
The ring-dove builds and murmurs there;
Close by my cot she tells her tale
To every passing villager
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours
With my loved lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurel weave,
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay

Heap high the board with plenteous cheer and gather to the feast,
And toast that sturdy Pilgrim band whose courage never ceased.
Give praise to that All-Gracious One by whom their steps were led,
And thanks unto the harvest's Lord who sends our daily bread.

Heap high the board with plenteous cheer and gather to the feast,
And toast that sturdy Pilgrim band whose courage never ceased.
Give praise to that All-Gracious One by whom their steps were led,
And thanks unto the harvest's Lord who sends our daily bread.

A SUPERCILIOUS NABOB of the East—
Haughty, being great—purse-proud, being rich—
A governor, or general, at the least,
I have forgotten which—

Had in his family a humble youth,
Who went from England in his patron's suite,
An unassuming boy, in truth
A lad of decent parts, and good repute.

This youth had sense and spirit;
But yet, with all his sense,
Excessive diffidence
Obscured his merit.

One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine,
His Honor, proudly free, severely merry,
Conceived it would be vastly fine

“H OW long shall Man be Nature's fool?” Man cries;
“Be like those great, gaunt oxen, drilled and bound,
Inexorably driven round and round
To turn the water-wheel with bandaged eyes?
And as they trudge beneath Egyptian skies,
Watering the wrinkled desert's beggared ground,
The hoarse Sâkiyeh's lamentable sound
Fills all the land as with a people's sighs?”

Poor Brutes! Who in unconsciousness sublime,
Replenishing the ever-empty jars,
Endow the waste with palms and harvest gold:
And men, who move in rhythm with moving stars,

Sod that wraps my Henry's clay,
O lie lightly on his breast!
And ye winds that bring decay,
Spare the flowers with which 'tis drest.

So that, at the close of eve,
Fairy bands here oft may come,
Come, and their gay circles weave
Round my lover's grassy tomb.

Sportive elves! O here repair!
And I'll join your dance, and crave
Leave to bind your golden hair,
With the pride of Henry's grave.

Who could with my lover vye?
O his eye was brighter far,
Than the Morning's orient eye,
Than the Evening's leading star.

I am huntin' for a city, to stay awhile,
I am huntin' for a city, to stay awhile,
I am huntin' for a city, to stay awhile,
O believer got a home at las