Sweet, bide with me and let my love
Be an enduring tether;
Oh, wanton not from spot to spot,
But let us dwell together.

You 've come each morn to sip the sweets
With which you found me dripping,
Yet never knew it was not dew
But tears that you were sipping.

You gambol over honey meads
Where siren bees are humming;
But mine the fate to watch and wait
For my beloved's coming.

The sunshine that delights you now
Shall fade to darkness gloomy;
You should not fear if, biding here,
You nestled closer to me.

There was a man who understood music,
And right at the very next door
There was a man who understood science —
And neither knew anything more.
And next to him was a metaphysician
Of deep psychological lore,
And next to him was a great theologian —
And neither knew anything more.
And all around these was a business crew,
Who attended to business — and that's all they knew.

And it happened the man who understood music
Was the dreariest kind of bore —
A bore to the man who understood science,
Who lived at the very next door.

I'm an inspector on my rounds
For what I can detect;
Forever, tireless, night and day,
Inspectors should inspect.
A spy, a spotter keen, am I,
Whose business 'tis to pry
Into the secrets of the earth,
The ocean, and the sky.
I'm out on my detective trail,
And work the whole year through,
And in my business hitherto
I've learned a thing or two.

Ah, there are mighty goings-on
Where mighty secrets lurk;
My business 'tis to hide myself,
And watch the whole thing work.
A few revealments from the sea,

As when, by play retarded, past his hour,
The scampering school-boy ventures to the door,
With throbbing breast, lists to the busy noise,
And starts, to hear the Master's awful voice,
Oft sighs and looks — now offers to burst in,
Now backward shrinks, and dreads a smarting skin,
Till desp'rate grown, by fear detain'd more late,
He lifts the latch, and boldly meets his fate:

So I, dear Sir, have oft snatch'd up the quill
To hail your ear, yet have been silent still.
Aw'd by superior worth my pen forgot

My Shepherd is the Lord my God, —
There is no want I know;
His flock He leads in verdant meads,
Where tranquil waters flow.

He doth restore my fainting soul
With His divine caress,
And, when I stray, He points the way
To paths of righteousness.

Yea, though I walk the vale of death,
What evil shall I fear?
Thy staff and rod are mine, O God,
And Thou, my Shepherd, near!

Mine enemies behold the feast
Which my dear Lord hath spread;
And, lo! my cup He filleth up,
With oil anoints my head!

Ah, teacher, let me hear you teach;
You have brave words from olden seers,
The lore of those long-bearded men
Of all the far-off years;
The gray old thoughts of gray old men
Beneath the Asian stars,
Brought safe by fate through clashing years
Of unremembered wars.
And you have read the huddled tomes
Of many an alcoved shelf;
But have you stood beneath the stars
And listened to yourself?

Ah, teacher, let me hear you teach;
You at old sages' feet have sat;
Know you the man within your coat,
The man beneath your hat?

Who is the infidel? 'Tis he
Who deems man's thought should not be free,
Who'd veil truth's faintest ray of light
From breaking on the human sight;
'Tis he who purposes to bind
The slightest fetter on the mind,
Who fears lest wreck and wrong be wrought
To leave man loose with his own thought;
Who, in the clash of brain with brain,
Is fearful lest the truth be slain,
That wrong may win and right may flee —
This is the infidel. 'Tis he.

Who is the infidel? 'Tis he
Who puts a bound on what may be;

Again, O Sadness! soft'ning pow'r, again
I woo thee, thoughtful, from this letter'd stone;
And, hail, thou comes! to view the dreary scene
Where ghastly Death has fixt his awful throne.

How lone! how solemn seems each view around?
I see, at distance, oh! distracting sight!
I see the Tomb — — the humble grassy mound,
Where he now lies, once all my soul's delight!

A Youth more gen'rous, more humanely kind,

He's smart, our boarder's smart, they say,
Say he's almighty smart.
An' what's he do? Wall, what d'ye think?
A lecturer on art!
A lecturer on art! Good Lord!
An' what the deuce is art?
A mess of good-for-nothin' gush—
But our girls think he's smart.
“What's art?”I says to him one day,
“'Taint bread, nor cheese, nor meat;
'Taint pie, nor pudd'n', nor corn'-beef,
Nor nothin' fit to eat.”
An' he caved in an' owned right up
'Twarn't nothin' fit to eat.

My girls take everything he says
Without a gasp or gulp,

When, to despoil my native France,
With flaming torch and cruel sword
And boisterous drums her foeman comes,
I curse him and his vandal horde!
Yet, what avail accrues to her,
If we assume the garb of woe?
Let's merry be, — in laughter we
May rescue somewhat from the foe!

Ah, many a brave man trembles now.
I (coward!) show no sign of fear;
When Bacchus sends his blessing, friends,
I drown my panic in his cheer.
Come, gather round my humble board,
And let the sparkling wassail flow, —