By Way of Comfort , From C.W. to W.T.

I.

You fair ones all at Liberty
We Captive Lovers greet,
Nor slight our Tears and Sighs, 'cause we
Can't lay 'em at your Feet:
The Fault's not ours, and you may guess
We can desire no greater Bliss,
With a fa, la , &c.

II.

What! tho' pack'd up in Prisons base,
With Bolts and Bars restrain'd,
Think not our Bodies love you less,

I came to the city that looks towards the sea,
But found on my table no scallop for me!
There were bills from the butcher, and billets from girls,
Things common as pebbles, and precious as pearls;
There were volumes of poetry, volumes of prose, —
By fifty new poets whom nobody knows;
There were things fair to look at, and things sweet to smell,
Engravings and nosegays, — but devil a shell!
\
Now, my lady, I teased her with many a prayer,
When she went to the ocean, to think of me there,
And to write me a letter at Sudbury Oaks, —

Only the best can e'er the best befall,
The worst must to the best a best reveal;
And though he felt the rent Earth rock and reel,
And through the loathly yellow poison-pall
Heard thunder to reboant thunder call,
And glimpsed the flickering of bloody steel,
Yet Faith he had to know that wounds may heal,
And Love he had that could transfigure all,
To his own Spirit's Beauty. So his sword,
Put to such terrible and poignant test
In slaughterous tasks his human heart abhorred,
Seemed in his eyes God's Justice manifest,

Away from earth my spirit turns,
Away from every transient good:
With strong desire my bosom burns,
To feast on Heaven's diviner food.

Thou, Savior, art the living bread;
Thou wilt my every want supply;
By thee sustained, and cheered and led,
I'll press through dangers to the sky.

What though temptations oft distress,
And sin assails, and breaks my peace;
Thou wilt uphold, and save, and bless,
And bid the storms of passion cease.

Then let me take thy gracious hand,
And walk beside thee onward still;

Vast, watery fields of slender waving grass;
Near by, a green and matted mangrove swamp;
Huge live-oak limbs where verdant creepers romp,
And orchids hang red flowers in a mass;
A river in a bramble-tangled pass,
Where trumpet blossoms swing in scarlet pomp;
Great bamboo thickets, oozy, dark and damp,
And starry lilies in a green morass.

White cranes on yonder cypress boughs alight,
An old gray heron stalks demure and slow;
Then gliding through the gray-mossed forest's night,
A water-snake dives in the dim bayou.

Tune, To all ye Ladies

I.

From Me, Dear Charles , inspir'd with Ale ,
To Thee this Letter comes,
To try if Scribling can prevail
To moderate Our Dooms:
Tho' pent in Cage the Black-Bird swings,
Yet still he hops, and struts, and sings.
With a fa, la, la , &c.

II.

Perhaps you'll wonder why I chose,
At this unlucky Time,
So quit the loose and easy Prose,

Stealing from the world away,
We are come to seek thy face;
Kindly meet us, Lord, we pray,
Grant us thy reviving grace.

Yonder stars that gild the sky,
Shine but with a borrowed light;
We, unless thy light be nigh,
Wander, wrapt in gloomy night.

Sun of righteousness! dispel
All our darkness, doubts, and fears;
May thy light within us dwell,
Till eternal day appears.

Warm our hearts in prayer and praise,
Lift our every thought above;
Hear the grateful songs we raise,
Fill us with thy perfect love.

My strength plucked up the hills,
my might shadowed the world
But the times were against me
and Dapple runs no more
When Dapple runs no more,
what then can I do?
Ah Yu, my Yu,
what will your fate be?

I marked this morning, by the wood,
What way the pennyroyal grew,
Amid the waste of snow that stood
Deep on the path which well I knew;
For every slender stem upreared
Its head within a little round,
In which no leaf nor blade appeared.
Save its sweet self from the bare ground.
Its own warm heart had nestled there,
A sheltered home wherein to thrive,
Looking so stately, fresh, and fair,
And where all else was dead, alive.
There, in its charmed hold serene,
And strong and fragrant as it rose,

A lowly roof simple thatch, —
No home of pride, of pomp, and sin, —
So freely let us lift the latch,
The willing latch that says, " Come in. "

Plain dwelling this! a narrow door,
No carpet by soft sandals trod,
But just for peasant's feet a floor, —
Small kingdom for a child of God!

Yet here was Scotland's noblest born,
And here Apollo chose to light;
And here those large eyes hailed the morn
That had for beauty such a sight!

There, as the glorious infant lay,
Some angel fanned him with his wing,