English

She lay like a saint on her copper couch;
Like an angel asleep she lay,
In the stare of the ghoulish folks that slouch
Past the Dead and sneak away.

Then came old Jules of the sightless gaze,
Who begged in the streets for bread.
Each day he had come for a year of days,
And groped his way to the Dead.

" What's the Devil's Harvest to-day? " he cried;
" A wanton with eyes of blue!
I've known too many a such, " he sighed;
" Maybe I know this ... mon Dieu! "

When steadily blew the wind from shores of Thrace,
And stirred the vines of Lesbos, loaded down
With racy fruit all round Methymna town,
Lo, floating on the water, came a dead man's face.

And from the pallid, parted lips thereof
Issued strange singing of idyllic song,
As it lay tossing white-capped waves among,
Upturned to the sweet sky that smiling bent above.

What wondrous flotsam! And a golden shell
Drifted beside it, stringed with silver chords,
Playing fit accompaniment to the words

With wisdom warify you so proceed,
Insuing which, a wary one indeed,
Likely you are to lim forth wary age ,
Like a true wise man, wisely to presage
Insuing evill, e're it be at hand,
And talting wary wisely to withstand,
Making in health a preparation well.

Griefe of hearts-eating sicknes to expell:
Rightly in life fitting your self to have,
As one day sure you must a death, a grave;
You thus in life 'gainst all events prepared,
Ever lim forth a wary age well carried.

 Evening sunshine never
Solace to my window bears,
Morning sunshine elsewhere fares;—
 Here are shadows ever.

 Sunshine freely falling,
Wilt thou not my chamber find?
Here some rays would reach a mind,
 'Mid the dark appalling.

 Morning sunshine's gladness,
Oh, thou art my childhood bright;
While thou playest pure and white,
  I would weep in sadness.

 Evening sunshine's whiling,
Oh, thou art the wise man's rest;—
Farther on! Then from the west
 Greet my window smiling!

Sing we of the Golden City
Pictured in the legends old;
Everlasting light shines o'er it,
Wondrous tales of it are told.
Only righteous men and women
Dwell within its gleaming wall;
Wrong is banished from its borders,
Justice reigns supreme o'er all.

We are builders of that City;
All our joys and all our groans
Help to rear its shining ramparts,
All our lives are building-stones.
But the work that we have builded,
Oft with bleeding hands and tears,
And in error and in anguish,

Broad the sails o'er the North Sea go;
High on deck in the morning glow
Erling Skjalgsson from Sole
Scans all the sea toward Denmark:
“Cometh never Olaf Trygvason?”

Six and fifty the ships are there,
Sails are let down, toward Denmark stare
Sun-reddened men;—then murmur:
“Where is the great Long Serpent?
Cometh never Olaf Trygvason?”

When the sun in the second dawn
Cloudward rising no mast had drawn,
Grew to a storm their clamor:
“Where is the great Long Serpent?
Cometh never Olaf Trygvason?”

All before us lies the way,
Give the past unto the wind!
All before us is the day,
Night and darkness are behind.

Eden, with its angels bold,
Love, and flowers, and coolest sea,
Is not ancient story told,
But a glowing prophecy.

In the spirit's perfect air,
In the passions tame and kind,
Innocence from selfish care,
The real Eden we shall find.

When the soul to sin hath died,
True and beautiful and sound,
Then all earth is sanctified,
Upsprings Paradise, around!

The great are falling from us — to the dust
Our flag droops midway full of many sighs;
A nation's glory and a people's trust
Lie in the ample pall where Webster lies.

The great are falling from us — one by one
As fall the patriarchs of the forest trees,
The winds shall seek them vainly, and the sun
Gaze on each vacant space for centuries.

Lo, Carolina mourns her steadfast pine
Which towered sublimely o'er the Southern realm,
And Ashland hears no more the voice divine

A weary, wandering soul am I,
O'erburthened with an earthly weight;
A pilgrim through the world and sky,
Toward the Celestial Gate.

Tell me, ye sweet and sinless flowers,
Who all night gaze upon the skies,
Have ye not in the silent hours
Seen aught of Paradise?

Ye birds, that soar and sing, elate
With joy, that makes your voices strong,
Have ye not at the golden gate
Caught somewhat of your song?

Ye waters, sparkling in the morn,
Ye seas, which glass the starry night,

The Lord will come, and not be slow:
His footsteps cannot err.
Before him Righteousness shall go,
His royal harbinger.

Truth from the earth, like to a flower,
Shall bud and blossom then;
And Justice from the heavenly bower
Look down on mortal men.

Rise, Lord, judge thou the earth in might,
This longing earth redress!
For thou art he who shall by right
The nations all possess.

The nations all whom thou hast made
Shall come, and all shall frame
To bow them low before thee, Lord,