English

De old place on de Ches'peake Bay
Is in my heart to-night—
I hopes to git back d'yar some day,
An' hongers for de sight.

Dee come an' tole me I was free,
An' all my work was done;
I left dem whar was good to me,
An' now I 'se all alone.

De name of ole Virginia
Is sweet as rain in drouf—
Oh! Master, say, has you been dy'ar?
Hit 's way down in de Souf.

De grass dat grows 'pon top de hill
De ones I love does hide,
I pray de Lord to spyah me still
To sleep dyar by dee side.

At ease I red your worke, and am right sorrye
It came not forth before Encomium Moriae ,
Or in the dayes when good King James the First
Carowsed the horse's spring to quench his thirst;
I durst haue giuen my thombe and layed a wager
Thy name had grac't the Chronicles of Jhon Major.
Had thou liu'd in the dayes of great Augustus,
(Hence, vulgare dotards, hence, unlesse yee trust us,)
Thy workes, with geese, had kept the Capitole,
And thou for euer been a happy soule,
Thy statue had been raised neare Claudianus,

Come listen, thou hast heard it, famous is that saying,
That which has gone from the eyes has gone from forth the heart.
I die when thou art from me, my life thou art, didst thou but know it.
Go thou not then from me, stay thou ever by my side,
Lost is my good fortune when thou lookest upon others,
Found again is it when on me thy glances light.
Thy beauties without rival, greater each than those of Leila,
Me have they made like Majnun by their sight, O thou enchantress!
Many are the fair ones with eyes like deer and forms like fairies,

Rames ay runne backward when they would advance;
Who knowes if Ramsay may find such a chance,
By playing the stiff Puritane, to weare
A bishope's rocket yet another yeare.

You are very fair, Felice, wondrous fair,
And the light deep in your eyes
Is more soft than summer skies,
And pink roses in your cheek
Play with lilies hide-and-seek, —
Play as Pleasure plays with Care.

And your throat is white, Felice, wondrous white,
White as sifted snow, I wis,
Ere the sun hath stol'n a kiss,
High up starry mountain-heights,
Or as in rich moonful nights
Parian baths in Cynthia's light.

And, Felice, your rippling waves of soft hair,
In their mystic depths aye hold

A mouth red-ripened like a warm, sweet rose,
Wherein are gleaming pearls all pure and bright
As dewdrops nestled where the zephyr blows
With pinion soft across the humid night;
A cheek not ruddy, but soft-tinged and fair,
Where whiles the rich patrician blood is seen,
As though it knew itself a thing too rare
For common gaze, yet did its high demean;
A brow serene and pure as her white soul,
By which the sifted snow would blackened seem
That sleeps untrodden where the Northern pole

To worship mee, why come ye, fooles, abroad?
For artizans made me a demi-god.

Sancher, whom this earth scarce could containe,
Hauing seene Italie, France, and Spaine,
To finish his travelles, a spectacle rare,
Was bound towards heauen, but dyed in the aire.

A Christmas Ballade of Good Counsel

'Twas in the rare old feudal time—the day of dim tradition—
When errant knight, in armor dight, rode forth on roving mission;

When troubadour, in gay array, besought the love-lorn maiden,
And warbled airs to banish cares from hearts with sorrow laden.

'Twas in those dear romantic days of joust and martial glory,
A maiden, fair beyond compare, dwelt on a promontory.

Below her swiftly flowed the rhine, its waters brightly gleaming,

Hark, the music calling!
From the earth it grows,
From the sky 'tis falling,
In the wind it blows!

Silver-noted star-gleams
Through the moony glooms;
Golden-noted sunbeams
Wooing cherry blooms!

Flying-fingered Winds smite
Throbbing strings of rain;
Through the misty midnight
Moans the Growing Pain!

Cradle-buds are shaken
By a hand they know:
Brother, Sister, waken —
'Tis the time to grow!