Fear, Faith, and Hope have sent their hearts above:
Prudence, Obedience, and Humility
Climb at their call, all scaling heaven toward Love.
Fear hath least grace but great expediency;
Faith and Humility show grave and strong;
Prudence and Hope mount balanced equally.
Obedience marches marshalling their throng,
Goes first, goes last, to left hand or to right;
And all the six uplift a pilgrim's song.
By day they rest not, nor they rest by night:
While Love within them, with them, over them,
Weans them and woos them from the dark to light.

She was taught desire in the street,
Not at the angels' feet.
By the good no word was said
Of the worth of the bridal bed.
The secret was learned from the vile,
Not from her mother's smile.
Home spoke not. And the girl
Was caught in the public whirl.
Do you say, “She gave consent:
Life drunk, she was content
With beasts that her fire could please”?
But she did not choose disease
Of mind and nerves and breath.
She was trapped to a slow, foul death.
The door was watched so well,
That the steep dark stair to hell
Was the only escaping way . . .

Sweet Sensibility Celestial power
Raise in my heart thy altar and thy throne
Nor punish me with one unfeeling hour
But temper all my soul, and mark me for thy own
Give me to feel the tender trembling tear
Glide down my cheek at sight of human woe
And when I cant relieve the pang severe
The melting sigh of sympathy to know
To stretch the hand to sorrows tutor'd child
To wipe the tear from off the orphans eye
To turn from error by instruction mild
And snatch from vice the offspring of the sky
By thee inspir'd oh may I never dare

'T IS granted, Sir, pains may be spar'd
Your merit to set forth,
When there 's sae few wha claim regard,
That disna ken your worth.

Yet poets give immortal fame
To mortals that excel,
Which if neglected they 're to blame;
But you 've done that yoursell.

While frae originals of yours
Fair copies shall be tane,
And fix'd on brass to busk our bow'rs,
Your mem'ry shall remain.

To your ain deeds the maist deny'd,
Or of a taste o'er fine,
May be ye 're but o'er right, afraid
To sink in verse like mine.

My Lord, what a morning,
My Lord, what a morning,
My Lord, what a morning,
When de stars begin to fall.

You'll hear de trumpet sound,
To wake de nations underground,
Look in my God's right hand,
When de stars begin to fall.
You'll hear de sinner moan,
To wake de nations underground,
Look in my God's right hand,
When de stars begin to fall.

You'll hear de Christians shout,
To wake de nations underground,
Look in my God's right hand,
When de stars begin to fall.
You'll hear de angels sing,

NorTHUMBRIA freed, and Edwin's patriot worth
My verse records; his wanderings, and his woes,
His martial ardour, and his faithful loves:
How these, by powerful destiny, combin'd
To form The Hero; who by virtue rose
Superior to the fratricidal rage
That sought his life, insatiate, and his youth
Doom'd to disastrous exile; till arous'd
To final effort, he their traitorous wiles
Turn'd on the traitors' heads; and, from the strife
Of feuds and deadly factions, haply wrought
A nation's bliss: whence union, wisdom, power,

Thomas a Tattamus took two T's,
To tie two tups to two tall trees,
To frighten the terrible Thomas a Tattamus!
Tell me how many T's there are in all THAT!

She was not fair, nor full of grace,
Nor crowned with thought or aught beside;
No wealth had she, of mind or face,
To win our love, or raise our pride:
No lover's thought her cheek did touch;
No poet's dream was round her thrown;
And yet we miss her—ah, too much,
Now—she hath flown!

We miss her when the morning calls,
As one that mingled in our mirth;
We miss her when the evening falls,—
A trifle wanted on the earth!
Some fancy small or subtle thought
Is checked ere to its blossom grown;
Some chain is broken that we wrought,

Preserve, thou sad and sole Trustee
Of my deare husband's Memory,
These reliques of my broken heart,
Which I am forced to impart,
For since he so untimely dy'd,
And living pledges was deny'd,
Since days of mourning soon are done
And Tears do perish as they run,
Nay, since my Grief at Length must dy
(For that's no longer liv'd then I)
His name can live no way but one,
In an abiding faithfull Stone

Tell then the unconcerned Eys
The value of thy Guest and Prize,
How good he was, usefull, and Just,
How kind, how faithfull to his trust,

The August wind is shambling down the street

A blind old man who coughs and spits sputters
Stumbling among the alleys and the gutters

He pokes and prods
With senile patience
The withered leaves
Of our sensations—

And yet devoted to the pure idea
One sits delaying in the vacant square
Forced to endure the blind inconscient stare
Of twenty leering houses that exude
The odour of their turpitude
And a street piano through the dusty trees
Insisting: “Make the best of your position”—
The pure Idea dies of inanition