It is a real place,
Boston, I tell it to your face.
And no dream of mine
To ornament a line
I can not come nearer to God & Heaven
Than I live to Walden even.
It is a part of me which I have not prophaned
I live by the shore of me detained.
Laden with my dregs
I stand on my legs,
While all my pure wine
I to nature consign.
I am its stoney shore
And the breeze that passes o'er
In the hollow of my hand
Are its water and its sand;
Its deepest resort
Lies high in my thought,

Our river is dry,
And fiery the sky;
I fret and I fry,
Just ready to die;
Oh, where shall I fly
From Phoebus's eye?
In bed when I lie,
I soak like a pie;
And I sweat, oh, I sweat, like a hog in a sty.

Use your money while you're living—
Do not hoard it to be proud;
You can never take it with you—
There is no pocket in a shroud.

Gold can help you on no farther
Than the graveyard where you lie;
'Though you are rich while living,
You're a pauper when you die.

Use it, then, some lives to brighten,
As through life they wearily plod;
Place your bank account in heaven,
And grow rich toward your God.

As one who, groping in a narrow stair,
Hath a strong sound of bells upon his ears,
Which, being at a distance off, appears
Quite close to him because of the pent air:
So with this France. She stumbles file and square
Darkling and without space for breath: each one
Who hears the thunder says: ‘It shall anon
Be in among her ranks to scatter her.’

This may be; and it may be that the storm
Is spent in rain upon the unscathed seas,
Or wasteth other countries ere it die:
Till she,—having climbed always through the swarm

'T WAS summer, and the spot a cool retreat—
Where curious eyes came not, nor footstep rude
Disturbed the lovers' chosen solitude:
Beneath an oak there was a mossy seat,
Where we reclined, while birds above us wooed
Their mates in songs voluptuously sweet.
A limpid brook went murmuring by our feet,
And all conspired to urge the tender mood.
Methought I touched the streamlet with a flower,
When from its bosom sprang a fountain clear,
Falling again in the translucent shower
Which made more green each blade of grass appear:

Like some great flower of the night
The city blossoms into blaze;
And there is laughter and delight
Along these loud and mirthless ways.

Blazing—with flame that brightens not …
While all the floods that stream and spill
Themselves into this brilliant blot
Make what is darkness darker still.

The Ages pass;—yet still delayed
The Cause of Peace on earth;
The Cause for which the Savior prayed,
Proclaimed e'en at his birth.

The time of which the Angels sang
In sweet, prophetic strains;
When 'neath the stars, their voices rang
O'er Judah's favored plains.

Yes, still delayed; for passion, pride
Usurp calm reason's throne;
And nations in their power confide,
And not in God alone.

Yes, still delayed; but signs we see
The fainting soul to cheer;
That that blessed day is yet to be,
That it may still be near.

Times gettin' hard, boys, money gettin' scarce;
If times don't be no better hyar, boun' to leave dis place.
Take my true love by de han' lead her roun' de town;
When she see dat yellow boy she almos' faint away.

Hail, Love of Country! noble flame,
That never can expire;
In every age and clime the same,
Alike in son and sire.

Light in our souls a holy zeal,
As one united band,
Our growing Country's wounds to heal,
And all her foes to withstand.

No more to battle would we go
To fight against our kind;
Through human veins one blood doth flow,
And one the heart and mind.

But forth we go to break the chain
Of error and of sin,
To free our land from every stain,
And rights for all to win.

To triumph in the Gospel's might,

The dawn of the day was dreary,
And the lowering clouds o'erhead
Wept in a silent sorrow
Where the sweet sunshine lay dead;
And a wind came out of the eastward
Like an endless sigh of pain,
And the leaves fell down in the pathway
And writhed in the falling rain.

I had tried in a brave endeavor
To chord my harp with the sun,
But the strings would slacken ever,
And the task was a weary one:
And so, like a child impatient
And sick of a discontent,
I bowed in a shower of tear-drops
And mourned with the instrument.