English

There is a river singing in between
Bright fringes of pawpaw and sycamore,
That stir to fragrant winds on either shore,
Where tall blue herons stretch lithe necks, and lean
Over clear currents flowing cool and thin
Through the clean furrows of the pebbly floor.

My own glad river. Though unclassic, still
Haunted of merry gods whose pipings fill
With music all thy golden willow-brakes!
Above thee halcyon lifts his regal crest;
The tulip-tree flings thee its flower-flakes,
The tall flag over thee its lances shakes:

When ice is thawed and snow is gone,
And racy sweetness floods the trees;
When snow-birds from the hedge have flown,
And on the hive-porch swarm the bees,—
Drifting down the first warm wind
That thrills the earliest days of spring,
The bluebird seeks our maple groves,
And charms them into tasseling.

He sits among the delicate sprays,
With mists of splendor round him drawn,
And through the spring's prophetic veil
Sees summer's rich fulfillment dawn:
He sings, and his is nature's voice,—

My heart is resting, O my God!
I will give thanks and sing:
My heart is at the secret source
Of every precious thing.

I thirst for springs of heavenly life,
And here all day they rise;
I seek the treasure of thy love,
And close at hand it lies.

Mine be the reverent, listening love
That waits all day on thee,
The service of a watchful heart
Which no one else can see:

The faith that, in a hidden way
No other eye may know,
Finds all its daily work prepared,
And loves to have it so.

The joy is great of him who strays
In shady woods on summer days,
With eyes alert and muscles steady,
His longbow strung, his arrows ready.

At morn he hears the woodthrush sing,
He sees the wild rose blossoming,
And on his senses, soft and low,
He feels the brook-song ebb and flow.

Life is a charm, and all is good
To him who lives like Robin Hood,
Hearing ever, tar and thin,
Hints of the tunes of Gamelyn.

His greatest grief, his sharpest pain,
Is (when the days are dark with rain)

Now wouldn't you expect to find a man an awful crank
That's staked out nigh three hundred claims, and every one a blank;
That's followed every fool stampede, and seen the rise and fall
Of camps where men got gold in chunks and he got none at all;
That's prospected a bit of ground and sold it for a song
To see it yield a fortune to some fool that came along;
That's sunk a dozen bed-rock holes, and not a speck in sight,
Yet sees them take a million from the claims to left and right?
Now aren't things like that enough to drive a man to booze?

We ask not, Father, the repose
Which comes from outward rest,
If we may have through all life's woes
Thy peace within our breast:

That peace which suffers and is strong,
Trusts where it cannot see,
Deems not the trial-way too long,
But leaves the end with thee;

That peace which, through the billows' moan
And angry tempests' roar,
Sends forth its calm, unfaltering tone
Of joy forevermore;

That peace which flows serene and deep,
A river in the soul,
Whose banks a living verdure keep,

The sea is itself: it does not fear to be calm or stormy, grey or gold, loud or soft —
Why have I feared to be like the sea — myself?

Upon a certain Bath P RINTER , who grossly abuses the Public by writing in his own weekly Paper a vulgar , scandilizing Review, under the Signature of F RANK F REEMAN , and others .

The IMPOSITOR Unmask'd.

Not print my Lines, good Master K*** E ,
You've Reasons, clear as Day-light seen;
What P***e and you (a noble Pair)
Resolve t' engross the public Ear:
Nothing, but pleasing to themselves,
These wou'd-be Witlings, dirty Elves,
Wou'd force the Public to comply
With Terms as servile; — but shall I

   Up from the Caribbean
   The wind comes like a pæan,
As on my fragrant orange-bough I swing,
   Dreaming, and wondering,
And piping Sapphic fragments o'er and o'er.

   Along the shore
The surf foams madly and the breakers roar.
   Strange odors from afar,
   Spice, amber, nard, and tar,
And Lesbian roses grown in Mitylene,
And violet breath, and waft of myrtle green,
Steep me in visions passionate and wild,
   Of love, all undefiled,
   Whereby was Sappho's bright
   Rose garden of delight,

Death and birth dog us:
I died only a few days ago:
Now, new-born, I send up a cry of delight at creation:
The world and I are so unstudied fresh …