We should niver have walked to the ould sea-wall
And hearkened the ould grey Sea;
We should niver have watched the Southern Cross,
That new-found love and me!

I should niver have left that bamboo room
Wid its scent and its winkin' lamp
And walked thro' the sthill av the Tropic night
Where the Thrades blew warm and damp!

I should niver have watched the ould tides swim
Wid their shimmerin' glimmerin' glow
That led me back to my lost Thrue Love
And the hills av long ago!

I should niver have turned to think or dream

If you would know the spring whence strength of soul
Was drawn in evil days woeful as these
By those who gladly walked to meet their death,
Bending the neck beneath the biting steel——
The headsman's axe—or climbing to the stake,
First to the faggots clinging there to die—
Proclaiming Unity—the martyr's death. . . .
If you would know the well where those who, crushed
Between the straits of Chaos and the Grave,
Drew comforts of the Lord, and mighty faith
To suffer long, and iron strength to bear
Travail, with shoulder set to toil in life

The thorn is budding into life again,
The quickened vine puts out its tender shoots,
The warm, warm sunshine and the cool, cool rain
Feeding their hidden roots.

Sweet Spirit, entering where no eye can see,
Reach this poor heart in all its waiting need,
And like the thorn and vine my life shall be
When Thou its roots dost feed.

A LITTLE cloud in a golden veil
At setting of the sun:
And I a cobbler working—working;
Work is never done.

A little cloud in a golden veil;
And I am mending shoes,
Never a feathered sandal thing
Such as a cloud may use.

A little cloud in a golden veil,
Along the bright highway:
And but for her, to-morrow were
Another yesterday.

And this will stay, tho' she melt away
After the moon sets sail.
For no man's sky is always gray,
—Cloud in a golden veil.

Mary! ten checker'd years have past
Since we beheld each other last;
Yet, Mary, I remember thee,
Nor canst thou have forgotten me.

The bloom was then upon thy face;
Thy form had every youthful grace;
I too had then the warmth of youth,
And in our hearts was all its truth.

We conversed, were there others by,
With common mirth and random eye;
But when escaped the sight of men,
How serious was our converse then!

Our talk was then of years to come,
Of hopes which ask'd a humble doom,
Themes which to loving thoughts might move,

A farmer's son so sweet
Was keeping of his sheep,
So careless fell asleep
While his lambs were playing.

A fair young lady gay
By chance she came that way,
Found him sleeping lay
Whom she loved so dear.

She kissed his lips so sweet
As he lay fast asleep.
‘I'm afraid my heart will break
For you, my dear.’

She said, ‘Awake, I pray,
Your flock will go astray,
Your flock will go astray
From you, my dear.’

He woke with great surprise
To behold her handsome eyes,
Like an angel from the skies
She did appear.

Rare, and more rare, my verses still appear,
I scarce produce a poem in a year;
Yet blame not, Fox, or hear me ere you blame;
My genius droops, my spirit's not the same,
My verse comes harder, and the little fire
I once possess'd, I daily feel expire.
Not as when, urg'd by your desire, I strung
My willing lyre, and bolder numbers sung;
Daring the patriot's treachery to rehearse,
'Till statesmen trembled at the impending verse.
To speak and charm in public, friend, is thine;
The silent arts of poetry are mine:

From his high arch, nestled in stony nook,
He used to leer across the twilight space
Of the great aisle—the goblin with the book,
Bent in huge hands. Half lost in ivoried lace
Of shadow carving, scrolls and thick-twined gorse,
His savage face was sly with some dark jest;
I thought it strange he lived so cruel, coarse,
Above five centuries' drifted prayer and rest.
To-day I knew him by his evil sneer,
In shattered rose-glass, fretwork, fallen towers;
And wondered if he told his maker's fear
Of this far shame. But no—who dreamed these flowers,

Soul of the bard! stand up, like thy harp's majestical pillar!
Heart of the bard, like its arch in reverence bow thee and bend!
Mind of the bard, like its strings be manifold, changeful, responsive:
This is the harp God smites, the harp, man's master and friend!

At dawn I set out from the sunlit cliffs,
At sunset I take my rest by the shaded peaks.
Leaving my boat, I turn my eyes upon the distant sandbars,
Resting my staff, I lean against the lush pines.
The small mountain paths are far and deep,
The ring-like islets are beautiful and pleasing.
I view the twigs of tall trees above,
I listen to the torrents in the deep valley below.
The rocks lie flat, and the river divides its flow;
The forest is dense, tracks are buried and lost.
What is the effect of Nature's “deliverance” and “becoming”?