O Slave of the Wheel and Thread!
O Slave of the Sewing Machine!
Your crust of bread you earn with dread
Lest hunger lurk between!

O Slave of the Factory and Loom!
O Slave of the Mill and Mine!
Ye weave your doom, ye dig your tomb,
For toil alone is thine.

O Slave of the Spade and Hoe!
O Slave of the Harrow and Plough!
The seed ye sow, the grain ye grow,
Another reaps than thou.

O Slave of the Steam-breathing Steel!
O Slave of the Truck and Engine!
The demons' speed ye needs must feed,
Tho' hungry ye remain.

He loved me. But he loved, likewise,
This morning's world in bloom and wings;
Ah, does he love the world that lies
In dampness, whispering shadowy things,
Under this little band of moon?

He loves me? Will he fail to see
A phantom hand has touch'd my hair
(And waver'd, withering, over me)
To leave a subtle grayness there,
Below the outer shine of June?

He loves me? Would he call it fair,
The flush'd half-flower he left me, say?
For it has pass'd beneath the glare
And from my bosom drops away,
Shaken into the grass with pain?

Who found for you the waters that soothed your heart-break first?’
‘Oh, who but these, my Sorrow, my Hunger and my Thirst!’

‘Who made your eyes the wiser to hail the farthest star?’
‘Who but my Dark I thanked not,—the Dark where no lamps are!

‘And I come singing, Neighbor, to tell you, where you grieve.
And though my song bled, bled afresh,—yet would you not believe.’

Now let the earth take
Into its care,
All that it travailed for,
All that it bare.

Leaves of the forest,
Yellow and red,
The drifting and scattered,
The dying and dead;

Grass of the hill-slopes,
Sickled and dried,
Vines that over-night
Blasted and died;

Blossoms and flowers
Nipped with the cold,
Trees that have fallen
A century old;

Moths of the candle-flame,
Gnats from the stream,
Wraiths from the moonlight,
Spectres of dream;

All that the earth gave,
All that it bare—
With all its far kindred

Some there will be to whom, as here they read,
While yet these lines are from the chisel sharp,
The name of Clement Francis, will recall
His countenance benign; and some who knew
What stores of knowledge and what humble thoughts,
What wise desires, what cheerful piety,
In happy union form'd the character
Which faithfully impress'd his aspect meek.
And others too there are, who in their hearts
Will bear the memory of his worth enshrined,
For tender and for reverential thoughts,
When grief hath had its course, a life-long theme.

Were I that wandering citizen whose city is the world,
I would not weep for all that fell before the flags were furled;
I would not let one murmur mar the trumpets volleying forth
How God grew weary of the kings, and the cold hell in the north.
But we whose hearts are homing birds have heavier thoughts of home,
Though the great eagles burn with gold on Paris or on Rome,
Who stand beside our dead and stare, like seers at an eclipse,
At the riddle of the island tale and the twilight of the ships.

For these were simple men that loved with hands and feet and eyes,

Between the avenue of cypresses
All in their scarlet capes and surplices
Of linen, go the chaunting choristers,
The priests in gold and black, the villagers.

And all along the path to the cemetery
The round dark heads of men crowd silently;
And black-scarfed faces of women-folk wistfully
Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.

And at the foot of a grave a father stands
With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands;
And at the foot of a grave a mother kneels
With pale shut face, nor neither hears nor feels

T ER binos deciesque novem super exit in annos
Justa senescentum quos implet vita virorum,
Hos novies superat vivendo garrula Cornix,
Et quater egreditur cornicis sæcula Cervus,
Æripedem cervum ter vincit Corvus et illum
Multiplicat novies Phœnix reparabilis Ales,
Quem nos perpetuo decies prævertimus ævo
Nymphæ Hamadryades quarum longissima vita est.
Hæc cohibet finis vivacia freta animantum,
Cætera secreti novit Deus arbiter ævi.

To say, this comedy pleas'd long ago,
Is not enough to make it pass you now.
Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit;
When few men censur'd, and when fewer writ.
And Jonson, of those few the best, chose this,
As the best model of his masterpiece.
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
That Alchymist by his Astrologer;
Here he was fashion'd, and we may suppose
He lik'd the fashion well, who wore the clothes.
But Ben made nobly his what he did mold;
What was another's lead becomes his gold:
Like an unrighteous conqueror he reigns,

C HAST, AS AN AGED H EREMIT , at his Death;
Faire, as the morning, sweeter then the Breath
Of Violets; and as the Turtle, true
Where She affects, never enquiring new;
And (seing the world 'counts it an ornament)
She Shall be rich, sufficient to Content;
Not Starrs, but equall Sunn's, are her faire Eyes,
Dressing the Sphere, where all perfection Lyes;
Soe sweetly modest, as in Either Eye
(Without a guide) men might read Chastitie;
The common Praise, of Lillie, and the Rose
Fresh as in June, here in December growes;