Onward, onward, though the region
Where thou art be drear and lone:
God hath set a guardian legion
Very near thee, — press thou on!

By the thorn-road, and none other,
Is the mount of vision won:
Tread it without shrinking, brother!
Jesus trod it, — press thou on!

By thy trustful, calm endeavor,
Guiding, cheering, like the sun,
Earth-bound hearts thou shalt deliver, —
O for their sake, press thou on!

Be this world the wiser, stronger,
For thy life of pain and peace:
While it needs thee, O no longer

In gifts excelling, though you do excell,
O you declare nathles, your soul right well
Hath learned in the Schoole of Christ, that you
Not of your self have grace, but for it sue.

Deckt though your minde be then with many graces,
And they inhabit in you, severall places,
Very well filling of your inward heart,
Ever that soundnes then doth us impart;
Nathles the jewell of them all possessing,
Admire I do at Salisburies great blessing,
Not puffed up, nohead in vane you reare,
Thus humble, lowly, still your self you beare.

Oh thou, the laureate of our western realms,
Singing at will beneath your Cambridge elms,
Charming that sacred mansion where the grand
Paternal Cincinnatus of our land
Dwells, a majestic shadow — more than king;
Who, staidly smiling, hearkens while you sing.
Wouldst thou but build in Rome, we should behold
O'er Nero's ruins rise the enduring house of gold.

But I, a Troubadour born out of time,
From shrine to shrine, pour out my idle rhyme,
Impelled still onward with a love intense,
Singing for love (the only recompense),

Our father liked to play a game.
He played that he was dead.
He took his thick black glasses off
and stretched out on the bed.

He wouldn't twitch and didn't snore
or move in any way.
He didn't even seem to breathe!
We asked, Are you okay ?

We tickled fingers up and down
his huge, pink, stinky feet—
He didn't move; he lay as still
as last year's parakeet

We pushed our fingers up his nose,
and wiggled them inside—
Next, we peeled his eyelids back
Are you okay ? we cried.

I really thought he might be dead

If you leave the gloom of London and you seek a glowing land,
Where all except the flag is strange and new,
There's a bronzed and stalwart fellow who will grip you by the hand,
And greet you with a welcome warm and true;
For he's your younger brother, the one you sent away
Because there wasn't room for him at home;
And now he's quite contented, and he's glad he didn't stay,
And he's building Britain's greatness o'er the foam.

When the giant herd is moving at the rising of the sun,
And the prairie is lit with rose and gold.

Granger is one who hath a numerous stock,
Ever rejoycing how to feed his flock;
O Reverend Father, you the Granger are:
Regard then well those sheep, we to your share
Granger committer are by the great Pastor,
Ever the Bishop of our souls, your Master.

Men though you feed, and over them are placed,
A Granger by that God who you thus graced,
Now men , like sheep, some wander from the way,
Nor ever cease (untill brought back) to stray;
Ere then too far from the commandement
Running they stray, Granger , their steps prevent

Now is the seed-time: God alone,
Beyond our vision weak and dim,
Beholds the end of what is sown;
The harvest-time is hid with him.

It may not be our lot to wield
The sickle in the ripened field,
Nor ours to hear on summer eves
The reaper's song among the sheaves;

Yet where our duty's task is wrought
In unison with God's great thought,
The near and future blend in one,
And whatsoe'er is willed, is done!

Who calls the glorious labor hard?
Who deems it not its own reward?
Who, for its trials, counts it less

The Lady in the motor car, she stareth straight ahead;
Her face is like the stone, my friend, her face is like the dead;
Her face is like the living dead, because she is " well-bred " —
Because her heart is dead, my friend, as all her life was dead.

The Lady in her motor car, she speaketh like a man,
Because her girlhood never was, nor womanhood began.
She says, " To the Aus-traliah, John! " and " Home " when she hath been.
And to the husband at her side she says, " Whhat doo you mean? "

The Lady of the motor car, her very soul is dead,

In Gods Word, as there is most precious balm
Of the true Gilead , sins hot heat to calm,
Having refreshment for the soul that's weary,
Ne're leading of the poore and solitary;

There is so likewise in Gods blessed Word
Heart-breaking terrours, that do feares afford,
On them who sin affect with sole delight
Rending and tearing so the heart to fright,
Not leaving still to prick the same with feare
By godly sorrow, as if thorns were there,
Vntill the conscience once affected rend,
Resolving never more on sin t'attend:

Upon reading a scurrilous Letter in the Public Advertiser, sign'd Major John Spinnage .

I.

Fie foul-mouth'd Spinnage, what in Print
A Lyar, Scoundrel, Fool ,
A Major , and a Justice too!
What! learnt you this at School?

II.

Blush, deeply blush, for this Offence,
Retract your courtly Charge;
Or you will have the World retort,
And think you're All at large .