English

The soul of music slumbers in the shell,
Till waked and kindled by the master's spell;
And feeling hearts—touch them but rightly—pour
A thousand melodies unheard before.

I fear me lest our tears Veil-renders for our woe be,
Our pain the talking-stock Of all men, high and low, be.

Stones in the stead (they say) Of patience turn to rubies:
In liver's blood alone Can they transfigured so be.

In strait amaze am I For th' arrogance of rivals;
Honoured, o Lord, I pray, Let not the rascal foe be!

Seeing the stubborn pride That in thy cypress-head is,
How in this girdlestead Shall my short hand e'ermo be?

From every nook I launch The shafts of supplication,

I cannot write, my tears are flowing fast,
Yet weeping is unnatural to me;
Oh! that this hour of bitterness was past—
The parting hour with all I love and thee.

If I had never met or loved thee so,
To part would not have caused me this sharp pain;
Parting so oft occurring here below,
And they who part so seldom meet again.

Yet over land or sea, where'er I go,
My home, my friends, shall flit before my eyes—
And oft I anxiously shall wish to know,
If in thy bosom thoughts of me arise.

It's of a crafty miller and he
Had able sons one, two and three.
He called them all to make his will
To see which one should take the mill.

With me wack fol the riddle ol
The riddle ol the dee

The miller called for his eldest son,
Said he, ‘My days are almost done,
And if the will to you I make
What toll dost thou intend to take?’

‘Father,’ he said, ‘my name is Jack,
From every bushel I'll take a peck,
And every bushel that I grind
The profits they'll be large I'll find.’

Above a world entrapped by fear
There shone a silver Star.
The doubters saw it not, nor cared;
The men of faith, from far,
Knew that the Lord of Love looked down,
And followed it through field and town.

Through desert lands they found their way,
Past mountains, bleak and wild;
They came to humble Bethlehem
And found a little Child.
Their hearts rejoiced—their feet had trod
Through desert wastes to learn of God.

Our hearts are broken by the years,
But still there shines the Star
Above a little manger home.

Eeny, meeny, clean peeny,
If you want a piece and jeely,
Just walk out!

Once in the breezy coppice didst thou dance,
And nightingales amid thy foliage sang;
Form'd by man's cruel art into a lance,
Oft hast thou pierced, (the while the welkin rang
With trump and drum, shoutings and battle clang,)
Some foeman's heart. Pride, pomp, and circumstance,
Have left thee, now, and thou dost silent hang,
From age to age, in deep and dusty trance.

What is thy change to ours? These gazing eyes,
To earth reverting, may again arise
In dust, to settle on the self-same space;

His little hands were meekly clasped,
And to that cheek so fair,
A ringlet carelessly had strayed,
And lightly lingered there.

Beneath those silken lids that drooped,
Were eyes serenely bright;
An infant kneels, and angels gaze
With rapture at the sight.

Well may they strike their golden harps,
And swell their songs of praise;
An infant kneels in artless strains
Its feeble voice to raise.

Oh, what a lesson! if a child
So innocent must kneel,
Should not our sinful time-seared hearts

Azephyr paused by my window-seat
And floated the filmy curtain in,—
From the top of a cedar a blue-bird sang—
“The hearts of the world are all akin.”

I wondered and pondered within my own,
Of the ties of love, of the tithes of hate,
But the mother cuddled her birdlings down,
To drink in the melody of her mate.

I half believed, in my pensive mood,
Far from the hurry and bustle and din,
And its cadences clung like a trembling prayer,
“The hearts of the world are all akin.”

Over the way, ere the gathering dusk,

“I HATES TO THINK of dyin',” says the skipper to the mate;
“Starvation, shipwrecks, heart disease I loathes to contemplate.
I hates to think of vanities and all the crimes they lead to,”
Then says the mate,
With looks sedate,
“Ye doesn't reely need to.”

“It fills me breast with sorrer,” says the skipper with a sigh,
“To conjer up the happy days what careless has slipped by;
I hates to contemplate the day I ups and left me Mary.”
Then says the mate,
“Why contemplate,
If it ain't necessary?”