Dear Heart, between us can be no farewell.
We have so long to live, so much to endure,
What ills despair might work us who can tell,
Had we not help in that one trust secure!

Time cannot sever, nor space keep long apart,
Those whom Love's sleepless yearning would draw near.
Fate bends unto the indomitable heart
And firm-fixt will.—What room have we for fear!

If you had not been here
Or I had not chanced by—
Oh, let's not think of that, my dear,
And let's not even try;

For Spring fills all the year
And Love lights all the sky,
Since you—thank God!—are you, my dear,
And here, thank God! am I!

High up above the open, welcoming door
It hangs, a piece of wood with colours dim.
Once, long ago, it was a waving tree
And knew the sun and shadow through the leaves
Of forest trees, in a thick eastern wood.
The winter snows had bent its branches down,
The spring had swelled its buds with coming flowers,
Summer had run like fire through its veins,
While autumn pelted it with chestnut burrs,
And strewed the leafy ground with acorn cups.
Dark midnight storms had roared and crashed among
Its branches, breaking here and there a limb;

Gather the sacred dust
Of the warriors tried and true,
Who bore the flag of a Nation's trust
And fell in a cause, though lost, still just,
And died for me and you.

Gather them one and all,
From the private to the chief;
Come they from hovel or princely hall,
They fell for us, and for them should fall
The tears of a Nation's grief.

Gather the corpses strewn
O'er many a battle plain;
From many a grave that lies so lone,
Without a name and without a stone,
Gather the Southern slain.

We care not whence they came,

His work is done, his toil is o'er;
A martyr for our land he fell—
The land he loved, that loved him well;
Honor his name for evermore!

Let all the world its tribute pay,
For glorious shall be his renown;
Though duty's was his only crown,
Yet duty's path is glory's way.

For he was great without pretence;
A man of whom none whispered shame,
A man who knew nor guile nor blame;
Good in his every influence.

On battle-field, in council-hall,
Long years with sterling service rife
He gave us, and at last his life—

Oh ! what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,

T HERE'S a white stone placed upon yonder tomb,
Beneath is a soldier lying:
The death wound came amid sword and plume,
When banner and ball were flying.

Yet now he sleeps, the turf on his breast,
By wet wild flowers surrounded;
The church shadow falls o'er his place of rest,
Where the steps of his childhood bounded.

There were tears that fell from manly eyes,
There was woman's gentler weeping,
And the wailing of age, and infant cries,
O'er the grave where he lies sleeping.

He had left his home in his spirit's pride,

I will not sing for gain, nor yet for fame,
Though praise I shall enjoy if come it may,
I will not sing to make my nature tame,
And thus it is if I seek Fortune's way.
But I will chant a rude heroic lay,
On rough New England's coast, whose sterile soil
Gives happiness and dignity to toil.

If I may be a Son of those stern men,
Who took this Indian land to make them free,
And grasping in my hand a Poet's pen,
Thus as a Poet their great thoughts decree,
I then shall think I strike for liberty;
My hand, my heart, my pen all draining up,

Pamphilia hath a number of good arts,
Which commendation to her worth imparts;
But, above all, in one she doth excel,
That she can paint incomparably well;
And yet so modest, that if prais'd for this,
She'll swear she does not know what painting is,
But straight will blush with such a portrait grace,
That one would think vermilion dyed her face.
One of her pictures I have ofttimes seen,
And would have sworn that it herself had been;
And when I bade her it on me bestow,
I swear I heard the picture's self say—No!
What! think you this a prodigy? 'tis none—

Tres soldados germanos, tres matadores de hombres,
cuyo sublime mérito, cuya virtud real
es descender de inicuos burgraves cuyos nombres
emblema de horror eran en la época feudal;

tres nietos de unos viejos bandidos sanguinarios,
gente que hoy ahorcaría tranquilo un tribunal.
que encontraron reyes en vez de presidiarios,
ciñendo una diadema a falta de un dogal;

seguidos por autómatas con cruces y cadenas
a quienes dan los pueblos en su hora de opresión,
si tienen sed, la sangre caliente de sus venas,
y si hambre, los despojos del yerto corazón;