When came the hour that faint love fell asleep,
I crept unto his side
And with both hands I drove the knife in deep —
And thus love died.

Then, far within a cypress forest's shade,
While no sun shone above,
With stealthy haste a secret grave I made,
And laid dead love.

Cold was he then, as winter snows are cold,
His throbbing pulses stilled;
Wan were his eyes that once had been so bold,
His warm heart chilled.

Aye, he was dead — quite dead! — but that same night
I learned what I had lost —

Who rears his country's fair renown,
Shall earn a patriot's lofty praise —
Yes! he shall wear a laurel crown,
And him shall sing the poet's lays;
What prouder fame, what greener bays
Can history offer? — be his meed
Eternal laud within the shrine,
Lighted by glory's lamp divine,
That every triumph, every deed
Thro everlasting years may shine.

Zizka! Bohemia's chief — arise!
Of murdered Hus th' avenger thou!
Thou hast o'erwhelm'd thine enemies
In the fierce battle-field; and now
They perish in the dust below.

Death stalketh through the land,
And with unsparing hand,
He smiteth one and all incuriously.
Or prince in palace hall,
Or humble slave in thrall,
From high and low he taketh his grim fee.

But from his heaven above
God sendeth mortals love,
To give sweet solace for all suffering:
And long as love shall reign
Foul death may rage in vain —
For love and love alone, shall be our king!

At first in Vales obscure, the Lyre I strung;
Vales, where the Muse her annual Labours sung:
Now, leaving these, she ranges o'er the Plains,
And tunes her Voice to Flocks and Shepherd Swains;
Yet, fresh in Grief, but feebly moves her Wings,
Weeps, while she flies; and trembles as she sings.

Two Country Swains, in Friendship firmly join'd;
Lov'd each alike, and were, like Brothers, kind:
Great C AROLINE her Royal Bounty show'd
To one, and rais'd him from the grov'ling Crowd;

I have stood and watched the Eagle soar into the Sun,
And envied him his swift light-cleaving pinion;
And, though I may not soar, at least I may
Lift up my feet above the encumbering clay.

There be three things real in all the earth:
Mother-love, Death, and a Little Child's mirth.

Out of thy pregnant silence, brooding and latent so long,
Burst on the world, O Master, sing us the great man-song!
Have we not piled up cities, gutted the iron bills,
Schooled with our dream the lightning and steam, giving them thoughts and wills?
We are the poets of matter. Latent in steel and stone,
Latent in engines and cities and ships, see how our songs have grown!
Long have we hammered and chiselled, hewn and hoisted, until
Lo, 'neath the wondering noon of the world, the visible Epic of Will!
Breathless we halt in our labor; shout us a song to cheer;

'Twas cold, and young Roger had Leave from the 'Squire
To cleave some dry Blocks to recruit his Wife's Fire;
When, at every Blow, from his Stomach there broke
A Hem, or a Hah, near as loud as the Stroke.

His Wife standing by, and demanding the Reason,
Quoth Hodge , these Emissions in labouring ease one:
For while Voice and Members at once thus employ'd are,
I drive the Wedge further, and make the Slit wider.

Attentive Joan heard, and was silent 'till Night,

From whence has to us this Spring-tide returned,
Which on all sides has spread us a garden.
See the Anemone, sweet Basil, the Lily, the Hyacinth,
The Jasmine, Narcissus. Wild Rose, and Pomegranate;
Many are Spring's flowers, of all kinds are they,
But conspicuous amongst all is the Tulip.
The maidens place bouquets of flowers in their bosoms,
With bunches of flowers are the youths' turbans dressed.
Come, Minstrel, draw the bow across the violin,
Come, Cup-bearer, bring tankards brimming over,
That with the joy of wine I may be filled.

Too long mere words have thralled us. Let us think!
O ponder, are we “free and equal” yet?
That July bombast, writ with blood for ink,
Is blurred with floods of unavailing sweat!

An empty sound we won from Royal George!
Yea, till a greater fight be fought and won,
A sentimental show was Valley Forge,
A mawkish, tawdry farce was Lexington!

No longer blindfold Justice reigns; but leers
A barefaced, venal strumpet in her stead!
The stolen harvests of a hundred years
Are lighter than a stolen loaf of bread!