English

I LEFT my home;—'twas in a little vale,
Shelter'd from snow-storms by the stately pines;
A small clear river wander'd quietly,
Its smooth waves only cut by the light barks
Of fishers, and but darken'd by the shade
The willows flung, when to the southern wind
They threw their long green tresses. On the slope
Were five or six white cottages, whose roofs
Reach'd not to the laburnum's height, whose boughs
Shook over them bright showers of golden bloom.
Sweet silence reign'd around:—no other sound

Why should I strive to express it?
What should I care?
Ye will not know nor confess it
How she was fair.
Fades the song ere I begin it,
Falters and dies:—
Ah! had you seen her a minute,—
Looked in her eyes!

When she and I shall be lying
Dust at your feet,
Hours such as these shall be flying,
Life be as sweet,—
Women as lovely hereafter,
Tender and wise,
Born with her bloom and her laughter,—
Not with her eyes!

Ye lone, majestic Silences that keep
The hoary secrets of primeval time!
Titans, that with dark frontlets ponder deep
On unconjectured mysteries sublime,
Like minds of lofty mould that stand alone,
Wrapped in a wilderness of mighty thought—
The shadow of your solemn power is thrown
Over the world below and it has caught
An awèd quiet, sombre yet serene,
A grave repose, a cold, autumnal gleam;
While past your firm feet, shod in russet green,
With joyous murmur flows the broad, bright stream,

J ESUS , there is no dearer name than thine
Which Time has blazoned on his mighty scroll;
No wreaths nor garlands ever did entwine
So fair a temple of so vast a soul.

There every virtue set his triumph-seal;
Wisdom, conjoined with strength and radiant grace,
In a sweet copy Heaven to reveal,
And stamp perfection on a mortal face.

Once on the earth wert thou, before men's eyes,
That did not half thy beauteous brightness see;
E'en as the emmet does not read the skies,
Nor our weak orbs look through immensity.

If we one day had guessed how death
Would claim at last our Harlequin—
He to whom laughter was as breath,
He of the lifted brow and chin
And eyes that seemed as though just turned
From pages where a love-song burned.

One would have doubtless said, “Some night,
Blown on the Carnival's high gust,
His life will go out like a light
Between a kiss and dagger-thrust,
And his fantastic ghost will rise
With a black mask across its eyes.”

Or one might say, “Some Springtime dawn
Will find him, in all certainty,

You looked at me with eyes grown bright with pain,
Like some trapped thing's. And then you moved your head
Slowly from side to side, as though the strain
Ached in your throat with anger and with dread.

And then you turned and left me, and I stood
With a queer sense of deadness over me,
And only wondered dully that you could
Fasten your trench-coat up so carefully

Till you were gone. Then all the air was thick
With my last words that seemed to leap and quiver;
And in my heart I heard the little click

The larks had nestlings; dreaming of no hurt,
Joyous they thrilled their love-song overhead:
Back to his watch,—savage, erect, alert,—
The brigand Hawk returned with talons red.

A MOCKING question! Britain's answer came
Swift as the light and searching as the flame.

“Yes, for a scrap of paper we will fight
Till our last breath, and God defend the right!

“A scrap of paper where a name is set
Is strong as duty's pledge and honor's debt.

“A scrap of paper holds for man and wife
The sacrament of love, the bond of life.

“A scrap of paper may be Holy Writ
With God's eternal word to hallow it.

“A scrap of paper binds us both to stand
Defenders of a neutral neighbor land.

In the state of old Kentucky,
One cold and stormy night,
A horrible crime was committed
And later brought to light.

A man was cruelly murdered,
Samuel Adams was his name.
His body cut to pieces,
They accused Joe Schuster's gang.

He left his home one morning,
Employment to seek,
And told his loving family
He'd just be gone one week.

He went down to Auxier,
One week he went to stay,
But little did he think
It was his fatal day.

Alas, he went to sleep.

IS He not near?—look up and see:
Peace on His lips, and in His hands and side
The wounds of love. He stays the trembling knee,
Nerves the frail arm, His ark to guide.
Is He not near? O trust His seal
Baptismal, yet uncancell'd on thy brow;
Trust the kind love His holy months reveal,
Oft as His altar hears thy deep heart-searching vow.

And trust the calm, the joy benign,
That o'er the obedient breathes in life's still hour,
When Sunday lights with summer airs combine,
And shadows blend from cloud and bower.