With griefe in heart, and teares in sowning eyes,
When I to her had giu'n a sad fare-well,
Close sealed with a kisse, and dew which fell
On my else-moystned face from beauties skies,
So strange amazement did my minde surprise,
That at each pace I fainting turn'd againe,
Like one whome a torpedo stupifies,
Not feeling honour's bit, nor reason's raine.
But when fierce starres to parte mee did constraine,
With back-caste lookes I enui'd both and bless'd
The happie walles and place did her containe,

Sleep on, my baby, sleep in peace, while day to dusk is turning,
And o'er the sunset's rosy calm one great white star is burning.
Their glooms against pale deeps of sky bold castle-walls are showing,
And through the shadowy valleyland the lovely Rhine is flowing.

Oh, all the sweet babes in the bourg for soft repose are weary;
The sunshine only brings them joy, but night is grim and eerie;
And, oh, I know that all night long, where reeds and sedges quiver,
The deadly Lorelei combs her hair beside the starlit river.

It was a weakness of Voltaire's
To forget to say his prayers,
And one which to his shame
He never overcame.

Chris'mus is comin'! Let 'er come!
I've jined the Mission Band
What sends out clo'es an' grub an' things
To ev'ry heathen land.
I loves them little heathen kids
So sunk in sin an' wrong,
An' I have jined the Mission Band
To help them kids along.
Ya-as, I have jined the Mission Band,
It's jest the thing for me, —
For all who jine, nex' Chris'mus time,
Will git a present. See?

Them heathen kids is low-down mugs,
They lies an' swears an' fights,
An' crawls into a hole, like bears,
To go to bed at nights.

So long ago that history pays
No heed nor record of how long,
Back in the lovely dreamy days,
The days of story and of song,

Before the world had crowded grown,
While wrong on earth was hard to find,
And half the lands had never known
The forms and faces of mankind,

When just as now the years would keep
Their terms of snows and suns and showers,
It chanced that Summer dropt asleep,
One morning, in a field of flowers.

And while the warm weeks came and fled,
In all their tender wealth of charm,

Oh, we do fairly well on this little back star,
This world in the suburbs of space,
Though we're out here alone, and we hardly know how
To get our belongings in place.
We've no other models to which to conform,
We've no other star for a plan,
And we think for a young and a little back star,
We have done nigh as well as we can.
And so we abide here with things as they are
In our cosmical suburb, our little back star.

'Tis mostly unfinished, our little back star,
(Takes time for a world to get made),

About her sweet majestic head
The locks are simply filleted;
Serene she stands, with starry eyes,
Profoundly meek, sublimely wise!

A goddess of surpassing fame,
She sees no stately altars flame;
Within her grove there looms alone
A shrine of harsh Druidic stone.

But all the roads that hither wind
With splintry jeopardy are lined,
Where savage gales in shrouds of sleet
Like awful lovers wildly meet!

And through the years, to reach her home
A few pale silent pilgrims come;
On bleeding feet they bring to her

What is this iron music
Whose strains are borne afar?
The hammers of the world-smiths
Are beating out a star.
They build our old world over,
Anew its mould is wrought,
They shape the plastic planet
To models of their thought.
This is the iron music
Whose strains are borne afar;
The hammers of the world-smiths
Are beating out a star.

We hear the whirling sawmill
Within the forest deep;
The wilderness is clipped like wool,
The hills are sheared like sheep.
Down through the fetid fenways

Napoleon took Europe and tossed down toppling thrones,
And strewed its ghastly hillsides with white and bleaching bones;
And dandled kings like puppets and made his world-uproar,
And played his battailous music, passed, and was heard no more.

Sam Pasco took a run-down farm, a run-down farm, alas!
Where stretched unbroken solitudes between each spear of grass.
And moss usurped its hillsides and flags usurped its meads,
And both its hills and meadows were a tragedy of weeds.

Sam Pasco's hard campaigning! Long waged the stubborn fray;

Deare wood, and you, sweet solitarie place,
Where from the vulgare I estranged liue,
Contented more with what your shades mee giue,
Than if I had what Thetis doth embrace;
What snakie eye, growne iealous of my peace,
Now from your silent horrours would mee driue,
When sunne, progressing in his glorious race
Beyond the Twinnes, doth neare our pole arriue?
What sweet delight a quiet life affords,
And what it is to bee of bondage free,
Farre from the madding worldling's hoarse discords,
Sweet flowrie place I first did learne of thee: