English

A common record,—scarce the eye
Of any careless passer-by
Might stay to read the how and why,
So trite a doom:
An infant daughter, born to die,—
A nameless tomb.

Save only this,—the line you read
That speaks the parted spirit's need,
Rebels against a hideous creed
Of death or flame;
“Father! for larger life I plead,
Without a name.”

Unfathomed mystery of pain!
A wasted hope, a travail vain,
A fruitless birth of vacant brain
And nerveless hand;
The atoms fall to earth again,—

Now blush, Calypso , 'tis but just to yield,
That all your mossy Caves are here excell'd.
See how the Walls, in humble Form, advance,
With careless Pride, and simple Elegance:
See Art and Nature strive with equal Grace,
And Fancy charm'd with what she can't surpass.
Flow swiftly, T HAMES ; and flowing, still proclaim
This Building 's Beauty, and the Builder 's Fame;
Tell Indian Seas, thy N AIADS here have seen
The sweetest Grotto , and the wisest Queen ;
Whose Royal Presence bless'd this humble Seat:

Far away from the valley below,
Like the roar in a shell of the sea
Or the flow of the river at night,
Comes the voice strangely sweet of the pines.

Snowy clouds, sometimes white, sometimes dark,
Like the joys and the sorrows of life,
Sail above, half becalmed in the blue;
And their cool shadows lie on the hills.

Here and there, when the leaves blow apart,
To admit sunny winds seeking rest
In the shade with their burden of sweets,
Piney Creek shimmers bright, with a cloud

If you'll but pause and
Listen, listen long,
There're far-off voices
In a wee brook's song,
That come as voices
Come from out the years;
And you will dream you
Hear the voice once Hers ,
Perhaps, and wend on,
Blinded by your tears.

If you'll but pause and
Listen, listen long,
There're far-off voices
In a wee brook's song,
That come as voices
Come from out the years;
And you will dream you
Hear the voice once Hers ,
Perhaps, and wend on,
Blinded by your tears.

'Twas by a purling Stream, beneath a Shade,
Young C HLOE , Cupid , and A LEXIS play'd:
L OVE'S Goddess, with her Doves, sat looking on;
And, smiling, nodded to her wanton Son:
Her wanton Son his keenest Arrow drew:
Swift, to the Swain, the pointed Weapon flew:
Inflexible to Love , the Shepherd stood,
Repell'd the Shaft, and mock'd the baffled God;
Till C HLOE rais'd her Eyes with killing Art,
And shot him with a more pernicious Dart:
Your's is the Victory, A LEXIS cries;
Not Cupid'S Shaft has kill'd, but C HLOE'S Eyes.

'Tis but by way of Simile. Prior .

Dear Madam, did you never gaze,
Thro' Optic-glass, on rotten Cheese?
There, Madam, did you ne'er perceive
A Crowd of dwarfish Creatures live?
The little Things, elate with Pride,
Strut to and fro, from Side to Side:
In tiny Pomp, and pertly vain,
Lords of their pleasing Orb, they reign;
And, fill'd with harden'd Curds and Cream,
Think the whole Dairy made for them .

So Men, conceited Lords of all,

(T HE West W IND .)

From o'er the hills it comes to me,
The clouds pursuing,
With song of bird and drone of bee,
So soft and wooing;

From o'er the woods, thro' shade and sheen,
With fragrance teeming,
From o'er the prairies, wide and green,
And leaves me dreaming.

Across the fields of corn and wheat
In valleys lying,
It seems to sing a message sweet
Of peace undying.

I shout aloud — the wildwoods ring
As they have never —

Why do trees along the river
Lean so far out o'er the tide?
Very wise men tell me why, but
I am never satisfied;
And so I keep my fancy still,
That trees lean out to save
The drowning from the clutches of
The cold, remorseless wave.

Why do trees along the river
Lean so far out o'er the tide?
Very wise men tell me why, but
I am never satisfied;
And so I keep my fancy still,
That trees lean out to save
The drowning from the clutches of
The cold, remorseless wave.

Once more the northbound Wonder
Brings back the goose and crane,
Prophetic Sons of Thunder,
Apostles of the Rain.

In many a battling river
The broken gorges boom;
Behold, the Mighty Giver
Emerges from the tomb!

Now robins chant the story
Of how the wintry sward
Is litten with the glory
Of the Angel of the Lord.

His countenance is lightning
And still His robe is snow,
As when the dawn was brightening
Two thousand years ago.

O who can be a stranger

Fair is the castle up on the hill—
Hushaby, sweet my own!
The night is fair, and the waves are still,
And the wind is singing to you and to me
In this lowly home beside the sea—
Hushaby, sweet my own!

On yonder hill is store of wealth—
Hushaby, sweet my own!
And revellers drink to a little one's health;
But you and I bide night and day
For the other love that has sailed away—
Hushaby, sweet my own!

See not, dear eyes, the forms that creep
Ghostlike, O my own!
Out of the mists of the murmuring deep;