English

We sleep in the sleep of ages, the bleak, barbarian pines;
The gray moss drapes us like sages, and closer we lock our lines,
And deeper we clutch through the gelid gloom where never a sunbeam shines.

On the flanks of the storm-gored ridges are our black battalions massed;
We surge in a host to the sullen coast, and we sing in the ocean blast;
From empire of sea to empire of snow we grip our empire fast.

To the niggard lands were we driven, 'twixt desert and floes are we penned;
To us was the Northland given, ours to stronghold and defend;

Ye who know the Lone Trail fain would follow it,
Though it lead to glory or the darkness of the pit.
Ye who take the Lone Trail, bid your love good-by;
The Lone Trail, the Lone Trail follow till you die.

The trails of the world be countless, and most of the trails be tried;
You tread on the heels of the many, till you come where the ways divide;
And one lies safe in the sunlight, and the other is dreary and wan,
Yet you look aslant at the Lone Trail, and the Lone Trail lures you on.

Reverend high Prelate, well may we rely
Indeed upon your by flam'd ardeney ,
Chusing in ardent , truly fervent zeal,
Heaven fixed high, who striveth to reveal,
According as it is Gods sacred will,
Right things to men, thereby their hearts to fill,
Doubtles by ardency thereby declaring,
England for Doomsday by Gods Word preparing.

Now such should Prelates be, ardent on by ,
Ever should move men on them to rely ,
In you sith such by ardency we finde,
Labouring to reveal to us Gods minde

The stars of the morn
On our banner borne,
With the Iris of Heaven are blended;
The hand of our sires,
First mingled those fires,
And by us they shall be defended.
Then hail the true
Red, White and Blue,
The flag of the Constellation;
It sails as it sailed,
By our forefathers hailed,
O'er battles that made us a nation.
What hand so bold
As strike from its fold
One star or one stripe of its bright'ning,
For him be those stars

There where the mighty mountains bare their fangs unto the moon,
There where the sullen sun-dogs glare in the snow-bright, bitter noon,
And the glacier-glutted streams sweep down at the clarion call of June.

There where the livid tundras keep their tryst with the tranquil snows;
There where the silences are spawned, and the light of hell-fire flows
Into the bowl of the midnight sky, violet, amber and rose.

There where the rapids churn and roar, and the ice-floes bellowing run;

Miss
Prudence join'd with graceful Ease,
Ev'ry Sweet combin'd to please;
Goodness of the Heart display'd,
Gifts of Nature, Heavenly Maid!
You possess with matchless Skill;

Ev'ry Charm of Mind at Will,
Various Pow'rs to spare or kill.
Add that Hieroglyphic Vein,
Not a Dash — but speaks your Fame,
Such Address I court again.

Assist me Muse, whilst I relate,
Th' Occurrence of a Morning's Date.
Strolling to view the public Way,
Where toiling Lab'rers sweat out Day,
A Butcher, tho' of greasy Note,
With courteous Freedom I bespoke;
Prating a-while on this and that,
Fine Weather, or such common Chat,
We saw (no Marvel to behold)
Advancing, dress'd in Green and Gold,
A stately Hero passing by,
When thus Sir Cleaver roars on high:
" That's S AMPSON , who with active Pow'r,
At Islington each Night an Hour

Miss
Perhaps you think, my little Queen,
Return'd once more to Rhime — I mean
In high-wrote Panegyric Verse,
Such as your Sisters Praise rehearse: —
Can you do less, I hear you say,
In peevish Mood, for M E than They ?
Let Interruption cease, I pray;
Least you shou'd think I mean to slight,
Attend my Counsel, mark me right;
Heaven has form'd you fair, 'tis true,
(Under the Rose no Claim for Y OU )
Time may speak further Charms, the Mind;
Can there be ought in human Kind.
However striking, to compare

By Hamilton of Gilbertfield

Since cruel hearted fate,
Has rob'd me of my mate,
In the sweet growing bloom of his years,
Like the turtle I will mourn,
For my dearest who is gone,
And I'll drown it in a deluge of tears.

Into some silent shade,
In sable weeds array'd,
To the desart I'll wander and go,
My sighs I'll upward send,

Addressed to a Lady on her little Girl, aged four Years.

Miss
Not all that am'rous Poets fain,
As strong as Fancy nerves their Strain,
Nor Venus, Laughter-loving Fair,
Can to such op'ning Sweets compare;
You are Heaven's peculiar Care.
How sprightly charming, what a Tongue!
O'er thy dear Prattle how I hung;
On my fond Knee how didst thou fit,
Keen in Remarks, of such a Wit,
E'en grown-up Mortals must submit.