English

O mighty men and conquerors of renown,
Heroes Homeric, English souls of note,
For whom our sapient trusty rulers vote
Rewards in wealth, and whom the people crown
With adulation in the decked-out town
Through which ye ride while the gay banners float
From roof and window,—what if red War smote
No more the veldt, but English field and down?

Three years to conquer one small race ye took,
Yet England deemed you worthy of high fame
And payed with gold the path by which ye came
Homeward, with ringing rein and jocund look!

Just as the traveller, putting forth from land
At sunset, sees the waste on either hand
Widen, and sees the shore
Slowly diminish, till the last land-breeze
Brings the last scent of thyme and scent of trees,—
One faint waft, then no more:

As the night darkens slowly, and the coast
Becomes a faint far shadow, while the host
Of waters wails around;
As still the darkness deepens, till the sail
Stands out alone against the sky—one pale
Ghost on the black background:

As next the gold stars one by one appear,

The loves of later life are many and bold
And press their cause with overweening hands;
They smile upon us now from sundry lands,
And some bring pleasures in a cup of gold.
Passion, superb and lustrous, crowns the old
Not seldom; wreathes their foreheads in bright bands
Of flowers, and, smiling, waiteth their commands;
Not all desires at Autumn's touch wax cold.

Yet one word we reserve with holy zeal
For youth alone and first love—even “sweetness:”
This only young joy wins in its completeness;

I wrote of fragrant meadow-sweet of earth
And mourned to think that last year's bloom had perished:
So vanish all long love-thoughts that we've cherished,
I deemed—yea, passion crumbles at its birth.
I wandered through the woods,—the flowers were there,
So soft, so tender—but they all belonged
To that new season: all the flowers that thronged
The woods of old had passed outside God's care.

So thought I—and the thought was sad and cold;
For I had loved those blossoms, and had striven,
Mixing with fern their creamy plumes of old,

Life is great
Men are small
Were it not for the Power
To which each testifies
We could not suppress a titter.
The Soul is in eternity.
As a man stands in the landscape
He is very small,
But he is apprised that the other is large
And being so apprized
Partakes of its scope.
When once he has believed
And become doubly alive
Threescore & ten orbits of the sun
To him short term appears
And he finds it not unworthy
To live long only for a few lessons
Assured he shall pass through a million forms

Tell men what they knew before
Paint the prospect from their door.

The time is coming & it shall come
When every fool shall have an album
& every fool who can indite for't
Shall all be hunted out to write for't
& Im the first of fools for showing
The way that others may be going

His face is like a dragon
His a-se is like a frog
At heart a mere piegon
In manner quite a hog.

The solitary victor roams at will
Oer ruined countrys which his sword hath left
Like as the solitary Eagle round her haunts
Made into deserts by her long sojourn
Screaming amid the solitary sky
Seeking in vain for prey

Good morning Miss Lady Cow—what at these hours
Not up Ive been playing an hour with the flowers
But the Bell Flower is such a sweet cottage tis true
I could sleep int as long if Id nothing to do
Indeed Mr Bee I have had such a fright
Ive neer got a wink of sleep since all the night
I have dreamed such a dream that I hate the lone wood
& soon as Im up I will leave it for good
Indeed you look ill so Miss lady cow do
Take a drop from my bag ere the tale you pursue
Twill strengthen your spirits & sweeten your dread