English

No more I seek, the prize is found,
I furl my sails, my voyage is o'er;
The treacherous waves no longer sound
But sing thy praise along the shore.

I steal from all I hoped of old,
To throw more beauty round thy way;
The dross I part, and melt the gold,
And stamp it with thy every-day.

I did not dream to welcome thee;
Like all I have thou camest unknown,
An island in a misty sea,
With stars, and flowers, and harvests strown.

A well is in the desert sand
With purest water cold and clear,

Behold, the somber pines have pitched their tents
At Shasta's base, like hosts of Night;
For aye besieging in his battlements—
For aye in vain—their monarch, Light!

Though seas dry up and empty deserts bloom;
Though races come and pass away
From earth, it still, it still is seen to loom,
And to flash back God's smile for aye!

Behold, the somber pines have pitched their tents
At Shasta's base, like hosts of Night;
For aye besieging in his battlements—
For aye in vain—their monarch, Light!

My Home's in the Valley—my heart's in my home—
I care not for titles—nor proud banner'd dome—
The worshipping glances that beam to deceive—
The galas and dances for ever I leave!
One glance of the stream, by the home of my birth,
One song of the wild birds—the sweetest on earth—
Outrival the splendours that lured me to roam,—
Oh, my Home's in the Valley—my heart's in my home!

My home's in the valley—my heart's with the flowers
That bloom'd by my lattice in earlier hours;
The proud ones may joy in their riches and state—

By another light surrounded
Than our actual sky;
With the purple ocean bounded
Does the island lie,
Like a dream of the old world.
Bare the rugged heights ascending,
Bring to mind the past,
When the weary voyage ending,
Was the anchor cast.
And the stranger sails were furled
Beside the glorious island
Where Ulysses was the king.

Still does fancy see the palace,
With its carved gates;
Where the suitors drained the chalice,
Mocking at the Fates.
Stern, and dark, and veiled are they.

While the lads of the village shall merrily ah,
Sound their tabors, I'll hand thee along,
And I say unto thee, that merrily ah,
Thou and I will be first in the throng.

Just then, when the youth who last year won the dow'r,
And his mate shall the sports have begun,
When the gay voice of gladness resounds from each bow'r,
And thou long'st in thy heart to make one,
While the lads, &c.

Those joys that are harmless what mortal can blame?
'Tis my maxim that youth should be free;

If Someone, Something, somehow (as Man dreams)—
Some architectonic spirit-strength omniscient,—
Has wrought the clouded stars and all that seems
World, Universe, and Life (poor, blind, deficient)—
If this be thus, and Music thrills the spheres,
And I go thither when my feet have trod
Past Death,—what chords might ecstasize my ears!
What oratorios of Almighty God!

Yet, seeing that all goes not too well on earth
In this harmonic venture known as Time,
I'm not too optimistic of the worth
Of problematic symphonies sublime:

My man fell in, when he was drunk;
They'd thrown him out o' the “King's Head.”
From Wapping stairs he fell, and sunk.
He was my man; he's dead.

On the cold slab, a sight to see,
They've laid him out—poor handsome chap—
In Rotherhithe's new mortuary.
His head should dent my lap.

But I mayn't warm him where he lies,
Because I have no ring to show—
Yet I've his bruises on my eyes;
And bore his child a month ago.

I was afraid the parson
Would go to law
About that $490 I owed him.
But I bilked him.
I offered to pay it in seventy instalments
Of seven dollars each,
And he didn't dare
Take the money.

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;

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