O, beautiful Vision of Peace,
Beam bright in the eyes of Man!
The host of the meek shall increase,
The Prophets are leading the van.
Have courage: we see the Morn!
Never fear, tho' the Now be dark!
Out of Night the Day is born;
The Fire shall live from the spark.
It may take a thousand years
Ere the Era of Peace hold sway,
Look back and the Progress cheers
And a thousand years are a day!
The World grows—yet not by chance;
It follows some marvellous plan;
Tho' slow to our wish the advance,
God rules the training of Man.

Triumphant Queen of scorne, how ill doth sit
In all that sweetnesse such injurious wit?
Unjust and cruell, what can be your prize,
To make one heart a double sacrifise?
Where such ingenious rigour you do show
To breake his heart, you breake your image too;
And by a tiranny that's strange and new,
You murther him because he worships you
No pride can raise you, or can make him start,
Since love and honour do inrich his heart
Be wise and good, least when fate will be just,
She should o'rethrow those gloryes in the dust,

When the Flyin' Scot
fills for shootin', I go southward,
wisin' after coffee, leavin'
Lady Starkie.


Weady for some fun,
visit yearly Wome, Damascus,
in Mowocco look for fwesh a-
-musin' places


Where I'll find a fwend,
don't you know, a charmin' cweature,
like a Gweek God and devoted:
how delicious!


All they have they bwing,
Abdul, Nino, Manfwed, Kosta:
here's to women for they have such
lovely kiddies!

Come , chase that starting tear away,
Ere mine to meet it springs;
To-night, at least, to-night be gay,
Whate'er to-morrow brings.
Like sunset gleams, that linger late
When all is darkening fast,
Are hours like these we snatch from Fate—
The brightest, and the last.
Then, chase that starting tear, etc.

To gild the deepening gloom, if Heaven
But one bright hour allow.
Oh, think that one bright hour is given,
In all its splendor, now.
Let 's live it out—then sink in night,
Like waves that from the shore

Drawing the moon from a well
fell in and died
in a bucket.

In long twisted clouds
buried and killed, mountain top's dream
cut off in winds.
The highlands, ah
the days passed in the highlands!
One night at the border
a white horse in deep snow
screamed, stalks of Musong millet screamed, throats
torn, slashed
down—azalea
blossoms in sudden frost.

When the mouths of the bells of all kinds
of lovely voices, of all
the magnificent chimes
were shut, tight
shut,
and the night was deep,
the lightning-filled night
was deep

She drew one hair from out the golden strand
And as a prisoner bound my willing hand.
I smiled, poor fool, and thought 'twould easy be
To break my bonds and win my liberty.
But still that hair its captive fast doth bind
And when she draws I follow close behind;
I weep, a victim held in iron chains,
And have no strength to free me from my pains.

How sweet the sacred legend—if unblamed
In my slight verse such holy things are named—
Of Mary's secret hours of hidden joy,
Silent, but pondering on her wondrous boy!
Ave, Maria! Pardon, if I wrong
Those heavenly words that shame my earthly song!
The choral host had closed the Angel's strain
Sung to the listening watch on Bethlehem's plain,
And now the shepherds, hastening on their way,
Sought the still hamlet where the Infant lay.
They passed the fields that gleaning Ruth toiled o'er,—
They saw afar the ruined threshing-floor

Who of all statesmen is his country's pride,
Her councils' prompter and her leaders' guide?
He speaks; the nation holds its breath to hear;
He nods, and shakes the sunset hemisphere.
Born where the primal fount of Nature springs
By the rude cradles of her throneless kings,
In his proud eye her royal signet flames,
By his own lips her Monarch she proclaims.
Why name his countless triumphs, whom to meet
Is to be famous, envied in defeat?
The keen debaters, trained to brawls and strife,
Who fire one shot, and finish with the knife,

What ailed young Lucius? Art had vainly tried
To guess his ill, and found herself defied.
The Augur plied his legendary skill;
Useless; the fair young Roman languished still.
His chariot took him every cloudless day
Along the Pincian Hill or Appian Way;
They rubbed his wasted limbs with sulphurous oil,
Oozed from the far-off Orient's heated soil;
They led him tottering down the steamy path
Where bubbling fountains filled the thermal bath;
Borne in his litter to Egeria's cave,
They washed him, shivering, in her icy wave.

The Banker's dinner is the stateliest feast
The town has heard of for a year, at least;
The sparry lustres shed their broadest blaze,
Damask and silver catch and spread the rays;
The florist's triumphs crown the daintier spoil
Won from the sea, the forest, or the soil;
The steaming hot-house yields its largest pines,
The sunless vaults unearth their oldest wines;
With one admiring look the scene survey,
And turn a moment from the bright display.
?Of all the joys of earthly pride or power,
What gives most life, worth living, in an hour?