English

When we meet " before God's foot-stool, "
On some golden future day,
May the sunshine smile on Eirinn
And the clouds be far away;
May her boundary be the ocean,
May her children all be true,
And the joy of being together,
Be God's crown for me and you!

I am a chronicler of little things, —
Comings and goings, children's words and ways,
Chance guests, new hosts, and single happy days,
And household legends. These have been the springs
Of much of my best knowledge: I have striven
To make my narrow homely world a glass,
Where shapes and shadows, like a breath, might pass,
Dimly reflecting motions out of Heaven.
And sometimes things have so encountered things
As to eclipse each other, — moving rings
Which meet and intersect, chilling all mirth

I.

Care, be banish'd far away —
Fly, be gone, approach not here:
Mirth , and joy , demand this day ,
Happiest day of all the year!

II.

Summers, three times sev'n have shone,
All out-shin'd, by Delia's eyes:
Winters , three times sev'n, are gone,
All whose snows , her breast supplies!

III.

Dance we, then, the chearful round,
Musick might have stay'd away;

(Written in Stafford Gaol, England)

They feared no foe, they only knew
The hour had come red war to wage;
Their hands were strong, their hearts were true —
The men who marched from the Hermitage.

They loved the man who led them forth,
They prized their deathless heritage,
They loved their land from South to North —
The men who marched from the Hermitage.

They fought a hard and bitter fight;

I.

O Celia! be wary, when Celadon sues,
These wits are the bane of your charms:
Beauty play'd against reason , will certainly lose,
Warring, naked, with robbers, in arms .

II.

Young Damon , despis'd, for his plainness of parts,
Has worth , that a woman should prize;
He'll run the race out , tho' he heavily starts ,
And distance the short-winded wife .

III.

The fool is a saint, in the temple of Love,

I met a child, and kissed it: who shall say
I stole a joy in which I had no part?
The happy creature from that very day
Hath felt the more his little human heart.
Now when I pass he runs away and smiles,
And tries to seem afraid with pretty wiles.
I am a happier and a richer man,
Since I have sown this new joy in the earth:
'Tis no small thing for us to reap stray mirth
In every sunny wayside where we can.
It is a joy to me to be a joy,
Which may in the most lowly heart take root;
And it is gladness to that little boy

Sick of a worthless world , and courting rest ,
My sullen soul , with pensive weight , opprest;
Disturb'd, and mournful, sought the silent shade,
And fed reflection , in the breezy glade.
Stretch'd on the grassy margent of a brook ,
Whose murm'ring fellowship my mind partook;
Actively idle, I, repining, lay,
Gaz'd on the flood , and sigh'd the stream away.

Who knows, I cry'd, what course thou hast to pass,
Sweet stream , that now creepst softly through this grass?

I saw a shepherd with a wounded lamb,
Which he had found in pain and almost dead
Among the blue stones upon Rydal Head,
Where, plaintive tenant of the moor, the dam
With sorrow in her large round eyes was left,
Of that white, gleaming creature now bereft.
The village children gathered in a ring,
Doubtful, as round some disenchanted spell:
For three days they had seen it wandering
A bodily sunbeam on the rocky fell.
It puzzles them to think that on the morrow;
That patch of light will not be up on high;

Where, in this land, ( Alzira cry'd)
 Shall Indian virtues rest?
Who will be, here , the stranger's guide ,
 And lead her to be blest?

Seek, said the whisp'ring muse , some fair,
 Of England 's beauteous race:
Who does, herself, those virtues share,
 Which most Alzira grace.

One, who has taste , as nobly strong,
 And charms , as softly sweet ;
Will guard her sister soul from wrong ,
 While graces, graces meet.

I took the muse's kind advice ,
 Look'd round the fair and bright ,

The sacred nine , first, spread their golden wings,
In praise of virtue , heroes , and of kings:
Chast were their lays , and ev'ry verse design'd,
To soften nature , and exalt the mind .
Loosely the moderns live , and loosely write ,
And woo their muse , as Mistress , for delight .
Thick, in their lays , obscenities abound,
As weeds spring plenteous , in the rankest ground:
All, who write verse , to taint a guiltless heart ,
Are vile profaners of the sacred art .
Cloy'd, the sick reader from the work retires,