Dire were the horrors of that ruthless storm,
That for young Lycid form'd a wat'ry grave;
Oh! many wept to see his fainting form
Unaided sink beneath th' o'erwhelming wave.

Ah! hapless youth! yet, tho' the billowy waste
Has thus, with ruthless fury, snatch'd away
Thy various charms, thy genius, wit, and taste,
From those who fondly watch'd their rich display,—

Their cherish'd, lov'd, impression still shall last;
Mem'ry shall ride triumphant o'er the storm,
Shall shield thy gen'rous virtues from the blast,
And Fancy animate again thy form.

Fair college of the quiet inland lake
And beautiful fair name that like a bell
Rings out its clear sheer call of joy, Cornell!—
Its call of high undaunted dares that take
The hearts of men with fervours for thy sake,
And for thy sake with sudden hopes that swell,
Hail first to thee, with praise for thy bold youth,
Thy fearless challenge in the ranks of truth,
Thy forward footing into the unknown!
The new in knowledge that is old in being
Wrenched from the dark and morninged for our seeing—
This is the legend on thy banners blown.

The wine has failed? Nay, Mother, cease thy plaint,
Why seek ye me, a stranger at the feast?
It was not I who bade so many guests;
And if they swarm as locusts round the bins,
What wonder if they scour the threshing-floor:
Can men expect to drain an emptied cup?

Already has the feast dragged out too long;
I weary of the wailing zither strings,
The empty clashing of cracked tambourines,
The mirthless jests a third time cackled o'er
By nodding graybeards with the eyes of goats
That set the bride's pale, frightened face aflame.

Succourful daughters of men are the rosed and starred
Revolving Twelves in their fluent germinal rings,
Despite the burden to chasten, abase, depose.
Fallen on France, as the sweep of scythe over sward,
They breathed in her ear their voice of the crystal springs,
That run from a twilight rise, from a twilight close,
Through alternate beams and glooms, rejoicingly young.
Only to Earth's best loved, at the breathless turns
Where Life in fold of the Shadow reclines unstrung,
And a ghostly lamp of their moment's union burns,

What is house, and what is home,
Where with Freedom Thou hast roome,
And Mayst to all Tyrants say,
This you cannot take away?
'Tis No Thing with Doors and Walls,
Which at every earthquake falls:
No fair Towers, whose Princely fashion
Is but Plunders invitation:
No stout Marble Structure, where
Walls Eternitie doe dare:
No Brasse Gates, no Bars of Steel,
Though Times Teeth they scorne to feel:
Brasse is not so bold as Pride
If on Powers Wings it ride;
Marbles not so hard as Spight
Arm'd with lawlesse Strength to fight.

Winter on the mountains
Summer on the shore,
The robes of sun-gleams woven,
The lake's blue wavelets wore.

Cold, white, against the heavens,
Flashed winter's crown of snow,
And the blossoms of the spring-tide
Waved brightly far below.

The mountain's head was dreary,
The cold and cloud were there,
But the mountain's feet were sandaled
With flowers of beauty rare.

And winding thro' the mountains
The lake's calm wavelets rolled,
And a cloudless sun was gilding
Their ripples with its gold.

Adown the lake we glided

Praise be to God from me who from nothing brought me into being,
Other of his creatures He made made me not, of Adam's stock am I sprung.
In descent from father to son a follower of Mahomet am I,
In the mission of the Four Friends I am a firm believer.
Full rightly do I know that there are four divisions of the Faith,
On the sect of the Hanafis firmly my hopes I bind.
Great is the regard in my heart which he has implanted for the learned,
And but little heed has He granted me for the religious teachers of the day.
No Drunkard or Gambler or Debauchee am I,

The shrill bat there its evening circles makes
& scouts round tree & shed for many an hour
The yellow gossling dabbles in the lake
The puddly produce of an hasty shower
There the black hous bee sucks the garden flower
Till after sunset for its home is nigh
& white moth shelterd in its eldern bower
Woke ere the sun drops from the western sky
& dances in the leaves from daylights closing eye

Before the door on each grass screeded spot
Mottld with wormwood tufts & mallow blooms
The little child—dread winters frowns forgot

O H , could I draw, my friend, thy genuine mind,
Just as the living forms by thee design'd,
Of Raphael's figures none should fairer shine,
Nor Titian's colours longer last than mine.
A mind in wisdom old, in lenience young,
From fervent truth where every virtue sprung;
Where all was real, modest, plain, sincere;
Worth above show, and goodness unsevere:
View'd round and round, as lucid diamonds throw
Still as you turn them a revolving glow,
So did his mind reflect with secret ray,
In various virtues, Heaven's internal day.

Lady, the verse which I have promised long
And still delay'd—the Muse would gladly pay,
But, those bright thoughts which are the soul of Song,
Those feelings which inspire the Poet's lay,
With Boyhood's years have long since passed away,
And may not, cannot, be recalled again:
The busy World, and all its strange array
Of cares, hopes, labors, and excitements vain.
Weigh on the heavy heart, and overload the brain.

Else easy were the task, a Poet's dream
Might well be woven round a form like thine,
Well might his spirit, kindled by the beam