Once on a time he would have said
—Not all the ghouls of sorcery
Can make me hang a craven head
Nor shake a whimper out of me.

For I could top that sullen night,
Or outwear any woe that came,
And look on good or evil plight
As but the chances of a game.

But now a night-hag hath me down!
And I am staring, suddenly,
As one who wakens from renown
To staring notoriety—

The king his diadem shall wear!
The half-king wear what gaud he can
Until Time swings him by the hair,
No king at all, and scarce a man!

What mystery is it? The morning as rare
As the Indian Summer may bring!
A tang in the frost and a spice in the air
That no city poet can sing!
The crimson and amber and gold of the leaves,
As they loosen and flutter and fall
In the path of the park, as it rustlingly weaves
Its way through the maples and under the eaves
Of the sparrows that chatter and call.

What hint of delight is it tingles me through?—
What vague, indefinable joy?
What yearning for something divine that I knew
When a wayward and wood-roving boy?

Dear Lord! kind Lord!
Gracious Lord! I pray
Thou wilt look on all I love,
Tenderly to-day!
Weed their hearts of weariness;
Scatter every care,
Down a wake of angel wings
Winnowing the air.

Bring unto the sorrowing
All release from pain;
Let the lips of laughter
Overflow again;
And with all the needy
O divide, I pray,
This vast treasure of content
That is mine to-day!

When tuneful instruments appear,
They indicate some pleasure near,
And if an Organ we behold,
It doth a sacred theme unfold;
It's one, it's chief, it's grand design,
Is to break forth in songs divine.
Welcome, fair instrument of praise,
Thy presence shall our spirits raise;
And that thou art preserv'd from ill,
Art an unblemish'd Organ still;
That ev'ry pipe's in tune, rejoice,
And we'll accord in heart and voice.

O J EANIE , my woman! whaur is't ye are gaun,
Wi' a bairn on yer arm an' ane in yer haun?
There's snaw on the grun, an' nae shune on yer feet,
An' ye speak na a word, but juist murther an' greet.

Yer ae drogget coat is baith scrimpy an' worn,
An' yer aul' leloc toush is baith dirty an' torn;
An' roun' yer lean haffits, ance sonsy an' fair,
Hings tautit an' tousie yer bonny broon hair.

Yer wee shilpit weanie's a pityfu' prufe
That yer bosom's as dry an' as queem as my lufe;
For the bairn wi' the beard sooks ye sairest alace,

Not changeful April, with her suns and showers,
Pregnant with buds, whose birth the genial hours
Of teeming May will give to life and light
Rich in young beauty, odorous and bright

Not rose-crowned June, in trailing robes of bloom,
Her flowery censers breathing rich perfume,
Her glorious sunshine, and her bluest skies,
Her wealth of dancing leaves where zephyr sighs.

Nor fervid July, in her full-blown charms,
Shedding the odorous hay with sun-browned arms,
Nor glowing August, with her robe unbound,
With ripening grain, and juicy fruitage crowned.

On a cold winter day the snow came down
To cover the leafless trees,
Very glad they were of a snow-white gown,
To keep out the chilly breeze.

But a little spruce fir, all gaily dressed
In tiny sharp leaves of green,
Was drooping beneath the load on its breast,
And not a leaf could be seen.

“I'm an evergreen tree,” he proudly thought,
“And really they ought to know
That I'm looking my best, and care not a jot
How bitter the wind may blow.”

The rain! The rain! The generous rain!
All things are his who knows to wait.
Behold the rainbow bends again
Above the storied, gloried Gate—
God's written covenant to men
In Tyrian tints on cloth of gold,
Such as no tongue or pen hath told!

Behold brown grasses where you pass—
A sleeping lion's tawny mane,
Brown-breasted Mother Earth in pain
Of travail—God's forgiving grass
Long three days dead to rise again
To lead us upward, on and on—
Each blade a shining saber drawn.

Behold His Covenenat is true!
Lo! California soon shall wear

Wherever on Italian ground,
Carried by whim, I chance to go,
The poppy follows me around
Palace and pasture, high and low.
Rich in her red, she decks my heart
Like her own meadows; sick of soul,
I watch the whirl of crowded art,
Till her pure passion makes me whole.

O simple flower, you speak the tongue
That tear-drops answer; North and South,
The lips of lovers as they clung,
Spake your sweet language, mouth to mouth:
Francesca, ere she found her doom,
Planted you on Paolo's lips;
And Roman Antony saw you bloom,
Flaming, on Cleopatra's ships.