English

Full many a noble-minded man I know,
(As numerous here as in remoter lands),
Our pride, our praise, near whom old glory stands,
Binding past—future laurels round their brow—
To whom shall I direct the garland now?
I may not choose among those generous bands:—
Yet one there is whom Slava's hearts and hands
Would crown—and with one knee of homage bow.
Favorite of all her races, and their priest!
Thine, quiet genius! thine the crown shall be,
Slavonia's glory shall encompass thee!
Thy name be heard—thy praise shall be confest,

I did not see you
As you ran past,
Yet for me your hurry
Must always last.
A flame where space
Forever calls,
The flight of an arrow
That never falls—
You are a motion
Over my mind.
The immobile darkness
Streaming behind
Backgrounds your swiftness.
I feel you run
As life would not let you,
Fairer than sun
Could ever paint you.
And with the flood
And fire of your going
You kindle my blood;
You warm me, then cool me
With continuous stride
Leaping into nothing

——H USH !
—With sudden gush
As from a fountain, sings in yonder bush
—The Hermit Thrush.

——Hark!
—Did ever Lark
With swifter scintillations fling the spark
—That fires the dark?

——Again,
—Like April rain
Of mist and sunshine mingled, moves the strain
—O'er hill and plain.

——Strong
—As love, O Song,
In flame or torrent sweep through Life along,
—O'er grief and wrong.

Soldier , rest! thy march is done;
Thou hast reached the camping ground:
Battles fought and victories won,
Thou a conqueror's wreath hast found.

Death has claimed thy form alone;
And thy spirit liveth still,
Working in diviner ways
After God the Maker's will.

Thou hast battled for the right,
Bravely fought and nobly fell,
Martyred in defence of truth,
Loved by thee so long and well.

Reverent is this tribute placed
By a loyal, stranger hand,
On this soldier's casket, one

What shall I frame my life to gain?
Not Riches; lower mundane things
Spread wide their fickle treacherous wings,
And who pursues them strives in vain.

Nor Fame; for she fleets faster yet,
Or comes not ere the closing tomb
The sun of Glory sets in gloom,
And the world hastens to forget.

Nor Rank nor Honours. Were it best
Dowered of some weaker soul to live,
Or bear the jewel none can give
Deep in the heart, not on the breast?

Nor Pleasure; for her gains elude
The weary seeker's baffled eyes;

The gloomy night is fleeing fast,
The morning star appears;
Its glowing rays a splendor cast
On morning's dewy tears.
Come, let us join in cheerful praises,
While Nature her sweet pæan raises;
The morning star appears.

Fair star! thy charms have ne'er declined
Since first thy beams were given,—
Like golden chains that firmly bind
The distant earth and heaven.
Oh, praise the Lord, as on the morning
When angels sang the lovely dawning
Of Bethlehem's star in heaven!

Let thousand voices swell the strain;

With one black shadow at its feet,
The house through all the level shines,
Close-latticed to the brooding heat,
And silent in its dusty vines:

A faint-blue ridge upon the right,
An empty river-bed before,
And shallows on a distant shore,
In glaring sand and inlets bright.
But ‘Ave Mary,’ made she moan,
And ‘Ave Mary,’ night and morn,
And ‘Ah,’ she sang, ‘to be all alone,
To live forgotten, and love forlorn.’

She, as her carol sadder grew,
From brow and bosom slowly down

Happy is he who sees thee smile,
Still happier he who hears thee speak,
He half a God who dares awhile
Breathing fond vows to flush thy cheek.

Thy hand to press—thy lip to touch—
O thou hast n'er such fovors given—
'Twere bliss too much for man too much
For all except a saint of Heaven!

To clasp thy form and hear thee sigh—
To feel and call thee all his own
Ah! that were happiness too high
For any but a God alone!

Without I hear the beating of the rain,
The howling winds that tell the storm's increase;
O covert sure that he who seeks may gain!—
Within abideth peace!

Without I hear the sound of feet that halt,
And grope and stumble in the blinding light;
O blessed faith that serveth in default
Of what men call the light!

O rest, O wayside inn, where home is not
For the poor pilgrim to that city fair
Where strife shall cease and doubtings be forgot!
The Lamb, the Light is there!

Preserve that old kettle, so blackened and worn;
It belonged to my father before I was born;
It hung in a corner beyant on a nail—
'Twas the emblem of labor, my dad's dinner pail.

Chorus:

It glistened like silver, so sparkling and bright;
I am fond of the trifle that held his wee bite;
In summer or winter, in snow, rain or hail,
I've carried that kettle, my dad's dinner pail.
When the bell rang for mealtime my father'd come down—
He'd eat with the workmen about on the ground;
He'd share with the laborer and he'd go bail,