English

Came one who told of Death's white steeds,
And of far goal on goal,
Where the ne'er-ceasing soul
O'ertakes new hopes, new needs.

O speak not of such after-quest;
Hint not of journeyings,
As they were joyful things—
My little soul would rest.

The anguished leagues that it has gone—
The path of pain each day:
Alas, how long the way
From dawn to dark—and dawn!

O Death may drive his steeds away,
My little soul would sleep;
My body would lie deep,
Nor journey on that day.

But if my star of joy should call—
A call as stars may give—
“Awake, O slumbering little soul,
Awake, arise, and live!”

How would a soul reach out to life
From silence and the tomb;
How would a soul unfold to light
And up through darkness bloom!

How would a laughing soul scale Heaven
And star on star let fall,
If o'er the death-song of the worlds
My star of joy should call!

From '41 to '51
I was my folk's contrary son;
I bit my father's hand right through
And broke my mother's heart in two.
I sometimes go without my dinner
Now that I know the times I've gi'n her.

From '51 to '61
I cut my teeth and took to fun.
I learned what not to be afraid of
And what stuff women's lips are made of;
I learned with what a rosy feeling
Good ale makes floors seem like the ceiling,
And how the moon gives shiny light
To lads as roll home singing by't.

From '61 to '67

From '41 to '51
I was my folk's contrary son;
I bit my father's hand right through
And broke my mother's heart in two.
I sometimes go without my dinner
Now that I know the times I've gi'n her.

From '51 to '61
I cut my teeth and took to fun.
I learned what not to be afraid of
And what stuff women's lips are made of;
I learned with what a rosy feeling
Good ale makes floors seem like the ceiling,
And how the moon gives shiny light
To lads as roll home singing by't.
My blood did leap, my flesh did revel,

Fair Pennsylvania! than thy midland vales,
Lying 'twixt hills of green, and bound afar
By billowy mountains rolling in the blue,
No lovelier landscape meets the traveller's eye.
There Labour sows and reaps his sure reward,
And Peace and Plenty walk amid the glow
And perfume of full garners. I have seen
In lands less free, less fair, but far more known,
The streams which flow through history and wash
The legendary shores—and cleave in twain
Old capitals and towns, dividing oft
Great empires and estates of petty kings

Where now Olivia, joined by her one friend
And confidant, Amy, the wheelwright's daughter,
Turns from the church, a youth from yonder town,
The village of the vale, the postman's son,
With courteous greeting, unobserved bestows
A missive blurred with foreign stamps, through which
The cyphers of her name are dimly seen.
Swift darts the flush across her cheek and brow;
Her brain is reeling with the sudden joy;
She clasps the letter as 'twere Arthur's hand,
Then slips it in her bosom, where it hears

How, o'er the silent fields, the white heat gloats
And shimmers like a silver swarm! Anon,
A distant rumbling shudders through the air,
Shed from those domes of thunder in the west,
Which swell and rise, and, brightening, as they swell,
Show the black walls beneath, from out whose ports
The flash shall lighten and the rain be poured!
The warning given, the various stragglers hear.
And note it well, and hasten to their homes.
Olivia, now, hath crossed her native porch
Where, earlier arrived, the family sit.

The storm is past; but still the torrent roars
Louder and louder, with incessant swell.
The brook, near by, hath overswept its bounds,
Drowning its tallest rushes; and the board
Which made the path continuous to the school—
And where the children loitered to behold
The minnows playing—now is borne afar,
Sweeping above the bowing hazel tops.
Within the opening west, the careful sun—
Like one who throws his mansion doors apart,
And looks abroad, to scan his wide estate—
Is forth to note the progress of the storm,

The lamp, renewed, still sheds a cheerful light,
Hope lends a halo to its steady blaze;
And through the casement beam the westward stars,
Taking their noiseless way, and shining still,
Though sleeps the world and there are few to note.
And thus, encouraged by example high,
The Muse awakes her simple theme and sings,
And breathes, in the attentive ear of night,
The song to-morrow may refuse to hear.
When comes the tumult of the noisy day.
And the great city, like a cataract, swells,
Pouring its drowning tide of toil and trade,

Along the roads, with busy pick and spade,
The neighbours gather, and, in cheerful groups,
Repair the way. Some hold the heavy plough,
Which grates and scours along the sandy side,
Or from the rock rebounds, with sudden jerk,
Or caught beneath the deep-laid elm-root, stalls.
Some fill the gullies which the winter made,
And with broad shovels smooth the gravelly ground
And all, with frequent jest and laugh, pursue
Their labour, making holiday of toil;
And, when the work is done, turn cheerly home,