‘Stabat.’ Silent and calm she bore the blow
That shattered far less loving hearts in twain;
She heard the moaning plash of that dread rain
Drenching the parchèd sod with crimson flow.
She saw the fatal shadows dawn and grow,
And knew that death was nigh that bed of pain—
Yet still she stood, not crushed to earth, nor slain,
But calm and rock-like, 'mid a sea of woe.
Mother of God, beneath our mystic cross
We too must often bide the anguished years—
Must wait while drag the pain-pulsed moments on,
Oh, win us strength to bear the woe, the loss,

Now the Widow McGee,
And Larrie O'Dee,
Had two little cottages out on the green,
With just room enough for two pig-pens between.
The widow was young and the widow was fair,
With the brightest of eyes and the brownest of hair,
And it frequently chanced, when she came in the morn,
With the swill for her pig, Larrie came with the corn,
And some of the ears that he tossed from his hand
In the pen of the widow were certain to land.


One morning said he:
“Och! Misthress McGee,
It's a waste of good lumber, this runnin' two rigs,

WINTER is at the door,
Winter! Winter!
Winter is at the door:
For all along the worn oak floor
Waver the carpets; and before
The once warm southern orchard wall,
The last October peaches fall;
In vain behind their fellows all
Belated.

Winter is come apace,
Winter! Winter!
Winter is come apace.
The fireside is the cheeriest place,
To wear unfeigned a merry face:
While music tells, though now 'tis chill,
How merle, and maid, and mavis, will,
When spring comes dancing down the hill,

To die is glory;
Yet before the soldiers' shrine,
All pale with waiting,
Low, in sacrificial tears,
Parents, wives and children kneel.

Thou indeed, little swallow,
A sweet yearly comer,
Art building a hollow
New nest every summer,
And straight dost depart
Where no gazing can follow,
Past Memphis, down Nile!
Ah! but love all the while
Builds his nest in my heart,
Through the cold winter weeks:
And as one love takes flight,
Comes another, O swallow,
In an egg warm and white,
And another is callow.
And the large gaping beaks
Chirp all day and all night:
And the loves who are older
Help the young and the poor loves,
And the young loves grown bolder

The Sons of War sometimes are known
To fight with weapons not their own,
Ceasing the sword of steel to wield,
They take religion's sword and shield.

Every Mechanic will commence
Orator, without mood or tense.
Pudding is pudding still, they know,
Whether it has a plum or no;
So, though the preacher has no skill,
A sermon is a sermon still.

The Bricklayer throws his trowel by,
And now builds mansions in the sky;
The Cobbler, touched with holy pride,
Flings his old shoes and last aside,
And now devoutly sets about

SPEEDING upon life's tidal wave.
Beyond thine own control,
Whither and whence a mystery unknown,—
Know this, at least, my soul:

That come what may in after time
Of utmost change to thee,
Through the long vast immeasurable flux
Of all futurity;

Naught of conceivable events
Awaits thee first and last,
One half so great, so marvellous, as that
Which is already past.

Erewhile absorb'd within th' abyss
Of nullity supreme,
Forming no smallest part or particle
Of all creation's scheme;

I, who unmade had never been

Oh, why make such ado—
This fretful care and trouble?
The sun in noonday's blue
Pours radiance on earth's bubble.
What though the heart-strings crack,
And sorrow bid thee languish,
Dew falls; the night comes back;
Sleep, and forget thine anguish.
Oh, why in shadow haunt?
Shines not the evening flower?
Hark, how the sweet birds chaunt,
The lovely light their bower.
Water her music makes,
Lulling even these to slumber;
And only dead of darkness wakes
Stars without number.

Nothing ever makes you happy
But miserableness;
You can't even care for your own child
Till it's in distress,
And untimely death is for you the crown of happiness.

Frankly, it gets a bit sickening
To see you raking about
In your delicate lavender costume
Turning the dustbin out,
Looking for yesterday's flowers, or some combings to rave about.

You're simply a walking Poor Law,
That's what you are!
Patching up rags with kindness:
Sighing for something afar;
You're just the incarnate wish of the moth for the star.

Lo, I have given thee wings wherewith to fly
Over the boundless ocean and the earth;
Yea, on the lips of many shalt thou lie
The comrade of their banquet and their mirth.
Youths in their loveliness shall make thee sound
Upon the silver lute's melodious breath;
And when thou goest darkling underground
Down to the lamentable house of death
Oh yet not then from honor shalt thou cease,
But wander, an imperishable name,
Kurnos, about the isles and shores of Greece!