English

Sir Alexander Acland-Hood
Believed in Free Food:
But he was Eleusinian
About this opinion.

In the whim of the moment.

Tis said we venturous die-hards, when we leave the shore,
Our friends should mourn,
Left we return
To bless their sight no more:
But this is all a notion
Bold Jack can't understand,
Some die upon the ocean,
And some on the land:

Then since 'tis clear,
Howe'er we steer,
No man's life's under his command,
Let tempests howl,
And billows roll,
And dangers press:
Of those in spight, there are some joys
Us jolly tars to bless,

(The Angel speaks)

" That thou sought'st
Shall not lack consummation. Many a race,
Shrivelling in sunshine of its prosperous years,
Shall cease from faith, and, shamed though shameless, sink
Back to its native clay; but over thine
God shall extend the shadow of His hand,
And through the night of centuries teach to her
In woe that song which, when the nations wake,
Shall sound their glad deliverance; nor alone
This nation, from the blind dividual dust
Of instincts brute, thoughts driftless, warring wills,

Poets misled by fondness for their own,
Think, the same fondness actuates the town:
Like the charm'd parent, that its child surveys,
And wonders, any, with less joy , can gaze:
Till better taught , both see their weakness , plain,
And, by their former joy , now, weigh their pain .

C ONVINC'D of this , (e'er an example made)
Our bard , by no self-love will be betray'd:
To your free judgments, he submits his cause ,
And asks, from what you feel yourselves , applause,

IN TOM THUMB .

The younker, who his first essay
 Makes in the front of battle,
Stinds all aghaft, while cohorns play,
 And bullets round him rattle.
But pride steps in, and now no more
 Fell fear his jav'lin lances,
Like dulcet flutes the cannons roar,
 And groans turn country dances.

II.

So frights, and flurries, and what not,
 Upon my fancy rushes,
I fear I know not why or what,
 I'm cover'd o'er with blushes.

Love thy God, and love Him only:
And thy breast will ne'er be lonely.
In that one great Spirit meet
All things mighty, grave and sweet.
Vainly strives the soul to mingle
With a creature of our kind:
Vainly hearts with hearts are twined;
For the deepest still is single.
An impalpable resistance
Holds like natures still at distance.
Mortal! love that Holy One!
Or dwell for aye alone.

“He giveth His beloved sleep.”
The haughty sow the wind:
The storm they sow; the tempest reap;
But rest they cannot find.

In sleep itself their furrowed brows
That care-worn mark retain;
Avenger of the guilt it shows
The curse and brand of Cain!

Rest is of God. He doth not sleep;
But while His children rest
His hand outstretched and still doth keep
O'er earth, their shadowed nest.

His holy angels chaunt around,
To chase dark dreams away,
That slumbers innocent and sound

The glorious queen of heaven, who flings
Her royal radiance round me now,
As with clasped hands and upturned brow
I watch her pathway fair and free,
Is not so silvery with the light
She pours o'er darkened earth to-night
As in the gentle thoughts she brings
Of thee, dear love, of thee!

The night-wind trembling round the rose,
The starlight floating on the river,
The fearful aspen's silvery shiver,
The dew-drop glistening on the lea,
Night's pure baptism to the flowers, —

I send this ring of braided hair,
Asimple gift, to thee,
One more fond pledge of perfect trust,
And perfect peace, from me.

Thou 'lt wear it for our dear love's sake,
So fresh and pure and strong,
Far sweeter than the dreams of fame,
Of romance, or of song.

And when snows fall, or spring-flowers wave,
My cold, still breast above,
Dear, faithful heart, thou 'lt wear it then

O strong and pure of soul! — O earnest-hearted!
Like stranger-pilgrims at some way-side shrine
Have we two met, and mingled faith, and parted, —
Thy pathway leading far away from mine.

The soul of ancient song is round thee swelling,
To triumph-marches leading on the hours;
Thy life hath templed shades, where gods are dwelling,
Where founts Castalian play among the flowers.

But faintly may the voices of the ages
Come to my yearning but imperfect sense, —
The strength of heroes and the lore of sages,