English

From all her fair loquacious kind,
So different is my Rosalind,
That not one accent can I gain
To crown my hopes, or sooth my pain.

Ye lovers, who can construe sighs,
And are the interpreters of eyes,
To language all her looks translate,
And in her gestures read my fate.

And if in them you chance to find
Ought that is gentle, ought that's kind,
Adieu mean hopes of being great,
And all the littleness of state.

All thoughts of grandeur I'll despise,
Which from dependence take their rise;

The world can'Thear the small still voice,
Such is its bustle and its noise;
Reason the proclamation reads,
But not one riot passion heeds.
Wealth, honour, power, the graces are,
Which here below our homage share:
They, if one votary they find
To mistress more divine inclin'd,
In truth's pursuit, to cause delay,
Throw golden apples in his way
Place me, O Heaven, in some retreat;
There let the serious death-watch beat,
There let me self in silence shun,
To feel thy will, which should be done

As I was fain to wile a summer's day
With Shakspeare's Juliet folded in my lap,
And for her accents, strove to call up thine,
An unexpected music to my thoughts
Answered—the matchless laugh of Maidenhood;
While looking from the pondered page, I saw
Of the strange growths of Time and Nature, one.
It had thy brow in little, and thine eyes
But new created, offering gentleness;
Ev'n thy brown locks, with youth's half risen sun
Still gilding them aslant. “Who should this be
But Fanny Kemble's Daughter?” said my heart,

Speed on, speed on, good Master!
The camp lies far away;
We must cross the haunted valley
Before the close of day.

How the snow-blight came upon me
I will tell you as I go,—
The blight of the Shadow hunter,
Who walks the midnight snow.

To the cold December heaven
Came the pale moon and the stars,
As the yellow sun was sinking
Behind the purple bars.

The snow was deeply drifted
Upon the ridges drear,
That lay for miles around me
And the camps for which we steer.

Still falls the Rain—
Dark as the world of man, black as our loss—
Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails upon the Cross

Still falls the Rain
With a sound like the pulse of the heart that is changed to the hammer beat
In the Potter's Field, and the sound of the impious feet

On the Tomb:
Still falls the Rain
In the Field of Blood where the small hopes breed and the human brain
Nurtures its greed, that worm with the brow of Cain.

Still falls the Rain
At the feet of the Starved Man hung upon the Cross,

I tried to build Perfection with my hands
And failed.
Then with my will's most strict commands,
And naught availed.
What shall he gain but some poor miser's pelf,
Who thinks for ever of his silly self?
Then to the Stars I flung my trust,
Scorning the menace of my coward dust;
Freed from my little will's control
To a good purpose marched my soul;
In nameless, shapeless God found I my rest,
Though for my solace I built God a breast.

O the grand old Duke of York,
He had ten thousand men,
He marched them up to the top of the hill,
And he marched them down again.

And when they were up, they were up,
And when they were down, they were down
And when they were only half-way up,
They were neither up nor down.

Curse on the star, dear Harry, that betrayed
My choice from law, divinity or trade,
To turn a rambling brother o' the blade!
Of all professions sure the worst is war.
How whimsical our fortune! how bizarre!
This week we shine in scarlet and in gold:
The next, the cloak is pawned—the watch is sold.
Today we're company for any lord:
Tomorrow not a soul will take our word.
Like meteors raised in a tempestuous sky,
A while we glitter, then obscurely die.
Must heroes suffer such disgrace as this?

Of hearts disconsolate see to the state:
To bear a breaking heart may prove thy fate.

Help to be happy those thine aid can bless,
Mindful of thine own day of helplessness.

If thou at others' doors need'st not to pine
In thanks to Allah drive no man from thine.

Over the orphan's path protection spread!
Pluck out his heart-grief, lift his drooping head.

When with his neck bent low thou spiest one,
Kiss not the lifted face of thine own son!

Take heed these go not weeping. Allah's throne

I have grete marvel of a brid
That with my love is went away;
She bildes her in another stid:
Therfore I morn both night and day.
I couth never serve that brid to pay,
Ne frendship with her can I none find,
But fast fro me she flys away—
Alas that ever she was unkind!

Alas! why is she with me wroth,
And to that brid I trespast nought?
Ye, if she be never so loth,
She shall nought come out of my thought.
Now of me she gives right nought,
But bildes her fer under a lind,