My breath is on the mountain pine,
My murmur on the sea;
The burden haunts that heart of thine,—
Love and eternity.

Climbing the mountain's shaggy crest,
I wondered much what sight would greet
My eager gaze whene'er my feet
Upon the topmost height should rest.

The other side was all unknown;
But, as I slowly toiled along,
Sweeter to me than any song
My dream of visions to be shown.

Meanwhile the mountain shrubs distilled
Their sweetness all along my way,
And the delicious summer day
My heart with rapture overfilled.

At length the topmost height was gained;
The other side was full in view;
My dreams—not one of them was true,

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Tears,
And sighed to see the spectres thronging through;
But they replied, “You are the captive, you!
We have been free as air these many years.”

I watched the billows beat the Adrian shore;
Each tossed exultingly, then ceased to be;
And one of them was you, and one was me:
But Ocean lived and thundered as before.

The Coliseum! There at Caesar's feet,
The gladiator bowed his pale farewell;
But pausing there, I mused of Heaven and Hell,
And worlds dismissed to triumph or defeat.

At Dublin's high feast sat Primate and Dean,
Both dressed like divines, with band and face clean.
Quoth Hugh of Armagh, 'The mob is grown bold.'
'Aye, aye,' quoth the Dean, 'the cause is old gold.'
'No, no,' quoth the Primate, 'if causes we sift,
This mischief arises from witty Dean Swift.'
The smart one replied, 'There's no wit in the case;
And nothing of that ever troubled your Grace.
Though with your state-sieve your own notions you split,
A Boulter by name is no bolter of wit.
It's matter of weight, and a mere money-job;

Good cause have I to sing and vapour,
For I am landlord to the Drapier:
He, that of every ear's the charmer,
Now condescends to be my farmer,
And grace my villa with his strains;
Lives such a bard on British plains?
No; not in all the British court;
For none but witlings there resort,
Whose names and works (though dead) are made
Immortal by the Dunciad;
And sure, as monument of brass,
Their fame to future times shall pass,
How, with a weakly warbling tongue,
Of brazen knight they vainly sung:
A subject for their genius fit;

Long had Christ's servant preached the word of truth,
And labored in the vineyard of his Lord;
But gone his strength, his manhood, and his youth,
And age had come;—but what was his reward?
Men had forgot the laborer; rich had grown,
And added house to house, and land to land;
The truth he preached forgot, or never known;
Like those who heard, but did not understand.
Perhaps, neglected, in some poorhouse he
Might linger out his days, they never knew;
Or homeless roam in bitter poverty,
While they each day, and year the richer grew;

With bold, unblushing front the Giant Wrong
Stalks forth, with helmet armed, and sword, and spear;
In its own strength, and brazen armor strong,
Inspiring e'en the hosts of God with fear!
Thus War amidst the nations rears its head,
Thus Slavery defies its banded foes;
They fill the world with tumults and with dread,
And to the present add prophetic woes.
But oft, by feeblest arm, God shows his might,
When e'en the numerous host with terror quails;
Some stripling David dares the unequal fight,
And in the name of Israel's God prevails;

What need I travel, since I may
More choicer wonders here survey?
What need I Tyre for purple seek,
When I may find it in a cheek?
Or sack the Eastern shores? there lies
More precious diamonds in her eyes.
What need I dig Peru for ore,
When every hair of her yields more?
Or toil for gums in India,
Since she can breathe more rich than they?
Or ransack Africa? there will be
On either hand more ivory.
But look within: all virtues that
Each nation would appropriate,
And with the glory of them rest,
Are in this map at large exprest;

At noon I watched
In the large hollow of eternal heaven
A soaring hawk climb slowly toward the sun
Through gyres of adoration without end.
His flight was a great prayer. . . .

FROST-HARD the echoing ground,
The midnight winds moan on the pathless moor,
Deep searching voices seem to travel round:
A stranger at my door.

He knocks and knocks again;
I leave my smouldering fire with cautious tread,
And inside, an Old Man, as if in pain,
Stands with uncover'd head.

He looks with such a look;
To his white beard the icicles have clung,
And passages, as read from some bard-book,
Roll solemn from his tongue.

Chasten'd, I turn about;
Then, looking up to Heaven, confess my sin;