English

When the chapel bell struck the midnight hour
And the campus lay asleep,
We'd count the strokes from the ivy tower,
Then out from our dens we'd creep;
And the guiding star in the lonely night
For all of that rollicking crew,
As it gleamed afar—'twas the signal light
Where she waited for me and you.

Oh, sweet co-ed! Oh, college maid!
The one we went to serenade.
Oh, star-lit night!
Oh, glimpse of white,
At the window overhead!
Back, through the years
Of smiles and tears.
I'll dream of that rare co-ed.

They shall see Him in the crimson flush
Of morning's early light,
In the drapery of sunset,
Around the couch of night.

When the clouds drop down their fatness,
In the late and early rain,
They shall see His glorious footprints
On valley, hill and plain.

They shall see Him when the cyclone
Breathes terror through the land;
They shall see Him 'mid the murmurs
Of zephyrs soft and bland.

They shall see Him when the lips of health,
Breath vigor through each nerve,

Perhaps already you may know
SIR BLENNERHASSET PORTICO?
A Captain in the Navy, he—
A Baronet and K.C.B.
You do? I thought so!
It was that Captain's favourite whim
(A notion not confined to him)
That RODNEY was the greatest tar
Who ever wielded capstan-bar.
He had been taught so.

“BENBOW! CORNWALLIS! HOOD!—Belay!
Compared with RODNEY”—he would say—
“No other tar is worth a rap!
The great LORD RODNEY was the chap
The French to polish!
“Though, mind you, I respect LORD HOOD;

Noises that strive to tear
Earth's mantle soft of air
And break upon the stillness where it dwell
The noise of battle and the noise of prayer,
The cooing noise of love that softly tells
Joy's brevity, the brazen noise of laughter
All these affront me not, nor echo after
Through the long memories.
They may not enter the deep chamber where
Forever silence is.

Silence more soft than spring hides in the ground
Beneath her budding flowers;
Silence more rich than ever was the sound
Of harps through long warm hours.

What bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O, 'tis the ravished nightingale!
"Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu," she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gates she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.

Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor robin-redbreast tunes his note;
Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing
Cuckoo--to welcome in the spring!
Cuckoo--to welcome in the spring!

Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses, Cupid paid;
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then, down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);

With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win
At last, he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise. Fr. III,v
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall (alas!) become of me?

How long the echoes love to play
Around the shore of silence, as a wave
Retreating circles down the sand!
One after one, with sweet delay,
The mellow sounds that cliff and island gave,
Have lingered in the crescent bay,
Until, by lightest breezes fanned,
They float far off beyond the dying day
And leave it still as death.
But hark,—
Another singing breath
Comes from the edge of dark;
A note as clear and slow
As falls from some enchanted bell,
Or spirit, passing from the world below,

A LAS for the voyage, O High King of Heaven,
Enjoined upon me,
For that I on the red plain of bloody Cooldrevin
Was present to see.

How happy the son is of Dima; no sorrow
For him is designed,
He is having, this hour, round his own hill in Durrow,
The wish of his mind.

The sounds of the winds in the elms, like strings of
A harp being played,
The note of a blackbird that claps with the wings of
Delight in the shade.

With him in Ros-Grencha the cattle are lowing
At earliest dawn,

When I go free,
I think 'twill be
A night of stars and snow,
And the wild fires of frost shall light
My footsteps as I go;
Nobody—nobody will be there
With groping touch, or sight,
To see me in my bush of hair
Dance burning through the night.

Instead of tears my eyes have stones
In them; tears can become as hard;
I have had tears enough and groans
Enough: a wounded animal moans
A little, then is on his guard.

Now I can think of you without
Love, without hate; I can think
Steadily about such things; about
Things like stones that leave no doubt;
Dark earth and water cool to drink.

I am like a child to whom
Accustomed curves and edges mean
What to an invalid his room
And the sweet regulated gloom
And the implicit soft routine