Old man of fifty-eight finally has an heir—
quietly I ponder, a cause for joy, also a cause for sighs.
One pearl, so tiny it shames the oyster parent;
nine sons are many, but I'd never envy the crow.
Formed late in autumn moonlight, this fruit of the red cinnamon,
newly nursed by spring breezes, this bud of purple orchid—
I lift a cup in prayer and rejoicing, only this to say:
Take care, don't be stubborn and witless like your father!

The bird, let loose in eastern skies,
—When hastening fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
—Where idle warblers roam;
But high she shoots through air and light,
—Above all low delay,
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
—Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, God! from every care
—And stain of passion free,
Aloft, through virtue's purer air,
—To hold my course to Thee!
No sin to cloud,—no lure to stay
—My soul, as home she springs;—
Thy sunshine on her joyful way,
—Thy freedom in her wings!

Each flatt'ring Hope—each anxious wish is o'er
No never, Henry , shall we see thee more!
In conscious Honour—in thy Country's cause—
The busy world is quitted with applause!
Honour, that splendid name, that envy'd breath
'Tis thine, for ever, in the bed of Death!
But oh! can splendid names one gleam impart,
One gleam of comfort to a Sister's heart?
One that has known thy virtues and thy truth,
The native elegance that grac'd thy youth!
Those tender feelings, silently possess'd,
Those gen'rous sentiments which warm'd thy breast;

From lamplight and an aged leaf,
I turn'd to the night air:
Large Autumn stars bent o'er the sheaf:
A sweet fresh breeze was there.

The gentle freshness fann'd my brow,
And dried some weary dews:
I thought ‘in seeking knowledge now;
Great Nature I abuse.

‘This Soul speaks from his scornful vault
A language dead & hard:
With Nature I am ne'er at fault;
Her gates are never barred:

‘And I an infant at her breast
Draw milk of purest life—’
Wise Admonition checkt the rest;
Like bubbles burst the strife.

Caller rain frae abune
reeshles amang the epple-trees:
the leaves are soughan wi the breeze,
and sleep faas drappan doun.

God spoke to haggard Death: “I bid thee cease
Thy grim destruction of unnumbered years,
For I am weary of my creatures' tears;
Until I call thee, go thy way in peace.”

And haughty Death, though scorning such release,
Obeyed; while millions on the ample spheres
Marveled to see, with many doubts and fears,
Humanity in wondrous ways increase.

Until, grown sure of life, all men disdained
The Mighty's boon and dreamed, in impious pride,
That they with immortality were blessed.
Then God in wrath called Death with power regained,

Where they walk along on the green:
Their white feet,
The lilt of a song and their teeth are seen
Like white stones,
Little white stones
In the pink of the dawn!

Have you seen them at all
On the green grass?
The white feet that softly pass
On the sod?
And the dews of God
Hang as they hung
On the heather, the flowers and the grass
Where their feet have trod!

Silk-soft, milk-white,
The feet are moving,
The air of a song—a forgotten song
That seeks its words,
The lost white feathers
Of holy birds.

Lord of the Universe, to whom our sins
And virtues are but naught, whose power begins
Where Man's imagination has its end
In the vain hope that power to comprehend,
Where thought's last precipice
Leans over the abyss,
Trembling to know how far the way has come
Only to leave us deaf and blind and dumb:
Art Thou so like us Thou, too, canst be glad?
And can it be Thou once hadst choice to add
The perfect human unto the divine, as though
Made in Man's image—what Thou mad'st him of
In Thine own Power blossoming into Love?

Far on its rocky knoll descried
Saint Michael's chapel cuts the sky,
I climbed; beneath me, bright and wide,
Lay the lone coast of Brittany.

Bright in the sunset, weird and still,
It lay beside the Atlantic wave,
As though the wizard Merlin's will
Yet charmed it from his forest-grave.

Behind me on their grassy sweep,
Bearded with lichen, scrawled and grey,
The giant stones of Carnac sleep,
In the mild evening of the May.

No priestly stern procession now
Moves through their rows of pillars old;
No victims bleed, no Druids bow--

Kruger, I hail thee, late-born ironside,
Who, jeer'd at by a sceptic, scoffing age,
Yet, bold in warfare and in council sage,
With steadfast, strenuous effort hast defied
The lawless greed and overweening pride
That sought by open force or treacherous stealth
To slay or wound thy homely commonwealth—
Helvetia of the south. Whate'er betide,
Valour and constancy to guard her right
Are thine and hers; yet lacks there something more—
To spread within her bounds the sacred light
Of Science and all humanising lore,
And rear amid her brave and stalwart race