Fleet! Fleet!
Sweet! Sweet!
Fleet! Fleet!
Fair! Fair!
Sweet and fleet, have you wings or feet?
Are you made of earth, are you made of air?
Across the snow
I watch you go,
Like a flying bird, like a falling star;
Prithee say,
As you dart away,
Whether a body or soul you are.

I Blush to think, I've Youth and Liberty ,
Yet flag below, and cannot soar with Thee .
What does retard my Flight, O Tunstall , say,
My Wishes stretch their Wings to fly away,
But my dull Fancy bids their Pinions stay?
Attach'd to Earth, my Muse declines thy Height,
Creeps here below, unequal to the Flight.
Thus little Birds from Grove to Grove , can fly,
And cheer the Thickets with their Melody,
But, with Disdain, the soaring Eagle view,
And strive, in vain, his Tow'rings to pursue.
Is it because thy brighter Soul is near

Religion's purest presence was not found,
 By the first followers of our Saviour's creed,
In stately fanes where trump and timbrel-sound
 Sent up the chorus in a strain agreed,
And where the decked oblation's wail might plead
For guilty man with Abraham's holy seed.

Not in vast domes, horizons hung by men,
 Where golden panels fret a marble sky,
And things below look up, and wonder when
 Those lifelike seraphim would start and fly!
Not where the heart is mastered by the eye
Will worship, anthem-winged, ascend most high.

Thinkest thou that thy dimples deceive us,
O thou coquette?
Thou wilt lure us, love us, leave us,
Laugh and forget.
Ah! what is that,
My fair?—
A redbreast—a rose—
Plumage for your hat—
Petals for your hair
You suppose—

Nay, but, coquette that thou art,
Dost understand?—
It is my heart
Thou hast in thy hand.

So then, toss it away.
Hearts blossom every day.
There are many more that beat
About thy feet.
Take one!
Break one!
What does it matter?
Other lovers will flatter,
Calling thee fair,

The following Eight Lines were writ by an unknown Lady, on the blank Leaf before Cyprian

So well perform'd! and by a Fetter'd Hand !
What does not this excelling Work demand;
Whilst Piety , and Pity , warmly fue,
For Him , who gives this Poem to your View.

 The Lady 's Friend! who, in an English Dress,
Reveals, what else they never could possess:
Then let the Fair indulge the Muse in Bonds ,
And Benefits flow double from their Hands .

They hold the heart: they catch the breath,
So sweet in sound and sense are they.
What sweeter words could Life, or Death,
Or Love, or Wisdom say?

Yet who am I to dare to praise
So high an art, so fair a scroll?
Mine eyes are too profane to gaze
Into so pure a soul.

Such lofty spirits live apart
Above my ken, beyond my reach,
With foreign music in their heart,
Speaking an alien speech.

Wake thee, O Zion, thy mourning is ended;
God — thine own God — hath regarded thy prayer:
Wake thee, and hail him, in glory descended,
Thy darkness to scatter — thy wastes to repair.

Wake thee, O Zion, his spirit of power
To newness of life is awaking the dead;
Array thee in beauty, and greet the glad hour
That brings thee salvation, through Jesus who bled.

Savior, we gladly with voices resounding
Loud as the thunder, our chorus would swell;
Till from rock, wood and mountain its echoes rebounding,

Come, Jesus, Redeemer, abide thou with me;
Come gladden my spirit that waiteth for thee;
Thy smile every shadow shall chase from my heart,
And soothe every sorrow, though keen be the smart.

Without thee but weakness, with thee I am strong;
By day thou shalt lead me, by night be my song;
Though dangers surround me, I still every fear,
Since thou, the Most Mighty, my helper art near.

Thy love, oh how faithful! so tender, so pure;
Thy promise, faith's anchor, how stead-fast and sure!
That love, like sweet sunshine, my cold heart can warm,

Where did we meet? For years, upon this Earth,
There have been meadows, mountains, seas between;
And yet meseems that in some former birth
I had some Kharma of thy spirit seen.

Wert thou a queen, when I was first enthralled
By the bright spirit in thy body fair?
Wert thou a viking queen, was I a skald
Who wove my harp-strings of thy flaxen hair?

Was I a humble " bonder, " rude and base,
Fief of thy beauty in some wild fiord,
So that I still am bonder to thy face,
Still bounden to the mistress I adored?

A white cloud floated o'er the Lake,
And from its mist the Dead Men spake,
Saying: " We perished for your sake. "

The white cloud floated overhead,
Bastioned with flame and laced with red:
" This is our Pact, " the Dead Men said.

Out of the cloud the Dead Men came,
And to the Pact each put his name,
Written in tears, and blood, and flame.