Burn, wood, burn—
Wood that was once a tree, and knew
Blossom and leaf and the Spring’s return,
Nest and singing, and rain and dew—
Burn, wood, burn!
Shine, flame, shine—
Woven of sunlight through and through,
Light of the centuries, golden, fine,
Clear and exquisite, warm and true—
Shine, flame, shine!
Bless, fire, bless—
Play on lintel and wall and beam,
Touch our lives with your loveliness,
Fill our hearts with your singing dream—
Bless, fire, bless!

Shadows slowly creeping
Down the prairie trail,
Everything is sleeping,
All but the nightingale.
Moon will soon be climbing
In the purple sky,
Night winds are a-humming
This tender lullabye.

Cares of the day have fled,
My little sleepy head,
The stars are in the sky,
Time that your prayers were said.
My little sleepy head,
To a prairie lullabye.

Saddle up your pony,
The sandman's here
To guide you down
The trail of dreams.
Tumble in bed, my baby,
My little sleepy head,
To a prairie lullabye.

O Cornwall! rocky land where “strangers” dwell,
Thy scenes inspire and cheer thy favour'd sons,
From Land's End, where the echoing breakers swell,
To where the Tamar's placid river runs;
And o'er wild oceans, in remotest lands,
The exiled ones who hold thy memory dear,
Would link with us in love, by clasping hands,
And swell the chanting of thy praises here!

Among thy verdant glens the winding streams
Dance joyously, with sunny smiles illum'd;
And lovers wander, wrapp'd in fairy dreams,
Beneath the trees with clust'ring foliage plumed:

Now, the Poet olden
Sings no more his song;—
Like a shrunken brooklet
Mute he moves along;

Like a Winter garden
When its work is done,—
All the beds and borders
Bloomless in the sun;

But in regions fairer,
By the lilied streams,
Many a margin trembles
To his lyric dreams.

Above the moon, her face reflecting heaven;
Beneath her feet, the world and all its strife—
Thus is she pictured, who to man hath given
The Source, the Author, and the Crown of life.

Mary Immaculate, oh, sweetest name,
Second to none but his, thy God, thy Son;
Enkindle in our hearts love's brightest flame,
Virgin of Virgins, O belovèd One.

Thou beauteous Promise of creation's dawn;
Destined Restorer of our fallen state;
Bright Star that ushered in redemption's morn—
Shine on our darkness, O Immaculate.

Where in their Northern grandeur lie
Old Ocean's craggy shores,—
Where waves give back the glorious sky,
And lift unceasingly on high
Their deep, majestic symphony,—
An Eagle sunward soars!

Through upper air lies his flight's bold ring,
And its portal-guarders frown;
They throng with angry muttering,
Their rattling ice-shot round him fling,
But he shakes the small hail from his wing,
And royally soars on!

Yet a sterner, darker strife is nigh;
Wild storms come sweeping down;
Their thunders peal through the trembling sky,

The crescent moon's a yellow boat
Upon the evening sea,
And every little star afloat
Doth bear her company.

Nightly they cruise their ocean o'er,
Until, the darkness gone,
They anchor by some silent shore,
Upon the isle of dawn.

My gentle Aubrey, who in everything
Hadst of thy city's youth so lovely lust,
Yet never lineal to her towers august
Thy spirit couldst fix, or perfectly upbring,
Sleep, sleep! I ope, not unremembering,
Thy comely manuscript, and interthrust
Find delicate hueless leaves more sad than dust,
For centuries unkissed of any Spring.

Filling a duteous page beneath a lime,
Thy mood beheld, as mine thy debtor's now,
The endless terraces of ended Time
Vague in green twilight. Goodly was release
Into that Past where these poor leaves, and thou,

Glee! the great storm is over!
Four have recovered the land;
Forty gone down together
Into the boiling sand.

Ring, for the scant salvation!
Toll, for the bonnie souls,—
Neighbor and friend and bridegroom,
Spinning upon the shoals!

How they will tell the shipwreck
When winter shakes the door,
Till the children ask, “But the forty?
Did they come back no more?”

Then a silence suffuses the story,
And a softness the teller's eye;
And the children no further question,
And only the waves reply.

Did Chaos form,—and water, air, and fire,
Rocks, trees, the worm, work toward Humanity,—
That Man at last, beneath the churchyard spire,
Might be once more the worm, the rock, the tree?