English

The wanderer reaches home with joy
From absence of a year and more;
His eye seeks a beloved boy —
His wife lies weeping on the floor.

They whisper he is gone. The glooms
Of evening fall; beyond the gate
A lonely grave in outline looms
To greet the sire who came too late.

Forth to the little mound he flings,
Where wild-flowers bloom on every side
His bones are in the Yellow Springs,
His flesh like dust is scattered wide.

" O child who never knew thy sire,
For ever now to be unknown,

Oh the times was hard and the wages low,
Leave her, Johnny, leave her;
And the grub was bad and the gales did blow,
And it's time for us to leave her.

Leave her, Johnny, leave her, Oh leave her, Johnny, leave her, For the voy'ge is done and the gales can blow, And it's time for us to leave her.

I thought I heard the Old Man say,
" Ye can go ashore and take her pay".

Oh her stern was foul and the voy'ge was long;
And the winds was bad and the gales was strong.

And we'll leave her tight and we'll leave her trim,

What made my heart, at Newstead, fullest swell? —
'Twas not the thought of Byron, of his cry
Stormily sweet, his Titan-agony;
It was the sight of that Lord Arundel

Who struck, in heat, his child he loved so well,
And his child's reason flicker'd, and did die.
Painted (he will'd it) in the gallery
They hang; the picture doth the story tell.

Behold the stern, mail'd father, staff in hand!
The little fair-hair'd son, with vacant gaze,
Where no more lights of sense or knowledge are!

Mirth may with Princes very well agree,
A Merry S TATU then, faire Madam, be;
Rightly 'twill fit your age, your vertues grace;
Yeelding A Merry S TATU in your face.

Smile then, high Lady, while of M IRTH write I,
That so my Muse may with alacrity,
Unto your Highnessing without all feare,
And a true S TATU of your vertues reare:
Reaching whereto, that she may higher flee,
Thus humbly begge I on my bended knee,
Ever A Merry S TATU be to me.

In summer, on the headlands,
The Baltic Sea along,
Sits Neckan with his harp of gold,
And sings his plaintive song.

Green rolls beneath the headlands,
Green rolls the Baltic Sea;
And there, below the Neckan's feet,
His wife and children be.

He sings not of the ocean,
Its shells and roses pale;
Of earth, of earth the Neckan sings,
He hath no other tale.

He sits upon the headlands,
And sings a mournful stave
Of all he saw and felt on earth
Far from the kind sea-wave.

Lo, we stand before thee now,
And our silent, inward vow
Thou dost hear in that profound,
Where is neither voice nor sound!

Not by any outward sign
Dost thou show thy will divine;
Deep within thy voice doth cry,
And our quickened souls reply.

Thou dost hear, and thou wilt bless
With thy strength and tenderness:
Lo, we come to do thy will, —
With thy life our spirits fill!

Heaving a sigh and then another sigh,
Mulan was sitting weaving at her door
And could not hear the noise of loom and shuttle,
but only the sound of the girl lamenting
O lady, are you thinking of your love?
O lady, are you brooding on your love? "
Indeed, I have no love at all to think of,
Indeed I have no love at all to brood on
But then last night I heard the battle-roll,
The Khan is calling up a mighty levy.
The battle-roll was written in twelve scrolls,
And every scroll carried my father's name.

Open, Lord, my inward ear,
And bid my heart rejoice;
Bid my quiet spirit hear
The comfort of thy voice:
Never in the whirlwind found,
Or where earthquakes rock the place, —
Still and silent is the sound,
The whisper, of thy grace.

From the world of sin and noise
And hurry I withdraw;
For the small and inward voice
I wait with humble awe:
Silent am I now and still,
Would not in thy presence move:
To my waiting soul reveal
The secret of thy love!

God is in his holy temple!
Thoughts of earth, be silent now,
While with reverence we assemble,
And before his presence bow:
He is with us now and ever,
When we call upon his name,
Aiding every good endeavor,
Guiding every upward aim.

God is in his holy temple
In the pure and holy mind,
In the reverent heart and simple,
In the soul from sense refined:
Then let every low emotion
Banished far and silent be,
And our souls, in pure devotion,
Lord, be temples worthy thee!

Help me, my God, to speak
True words to thee this day;
Real let my voice be when I praise
And trustful when I pray.

Thy words are true to me;
Let mine to thee be true, —
The speech of my whole heart and soul,
However low and few.

True words of grief for sin,
Of longing to be free,
Of striving for deliverance
And likeness, Lord, to thee.

True words of faith and hope,
Of godly joy and grief:
Lord, I believe, — O hear my cry,
Help thou mine unbelief!