English

Lilies are here, tall in the garden bed,
And on the moor are still the buds of May;
Roses are here — and, tolling for our dead
The Bells of Peace make summer holiday.

And do they hear, who in their Springtime went?
The young, the brave young, leaving all behind,
All of their fate, love, laughter, and content,
The village sweetness and the western wind.

Leaving the quiet trees and the cattle red,

While we watched in chilly May
Winter's slow surrender,
Waiting vainly for a day
Warm and soft and tender,
Little Nannie found her way
Into summer splendor.

Nannie, with her rose-white face
And her dove-like cooing,
Winning in all hearts a place
By her artless wooing,
And the deeds of baby grace
She was always doing.

We whose lives have left behind
Childhood's paths forever,
In our tiresome strivings find
Years of vain endeavor:
Tedious toil of hand and mind,

This is where the roses grew,
In the summer that is gone;
Fairer bloom or richer hue
Never summer shone upon:
O, the glories vanished hence!
O, the sad imperfect tense!

This is where the roses grew
When the July days were long, —
When the garden all day through
Echoed with delight and song; —
Hark! the dead and broken stalks
Eddying down the windy walks!

Never was a desert waste,

I.

How much they wrong thee, gentle Hope! who say
That thou art light of heart, and bright of eye!
Ah! no, — thou wert not hope, if thou wert gay:
She hath no part with idle gaiety!

II.

The gay think only of the passing hour,
And the light mirth the flying moments yield;
But thou dost come when days of darkness lower,
And with the future dost the present gild.

III.

Yes; thou, sweet Power! art Grief's twin-sister, given
To walk with her the weary world around,

From gulf to lake, from sea to sea,
The land is draped—a nation weeps;
And o'er the bier bows reverently,
Whereon the silent soldier sleeps.

The mountain-top is bathed in light;
And eastern cliff with outlook wide—
Its name shall live in memory bright—
The Mount MacGregor, where he died.

A monument to stand for aye,
In summer's bloom, in winter's snows;
A shrine where men shall come to pray,
While at its base the Hudson flows.

A humble room, the light burns low;

There's a flower, with a cup—
A cup of dew;
Golden god plucked it up
And gave it you.

If you shake—let it spill—
Its pretty rain,
All the world will not fill
It up again.

Careless death it must die,
And, like a weed,
In the sun ever lie

Upon Cary Frazer

Her Father gave her Dildoes six;
Her Mother made 'um up a score:
But she loves nought but living pricks
And swears by God sheel frig no more.

Sternhold and Hopkins had great Qualms,
When they Translated David 's Psalms ,
To make the Heart full glad:
But had it been poor David 's Fate,
To hear thee Sing, and them Translate,
By God 'twould have made him Mad.

Love flew by! Young wedding day,
Peeping through her veil of dew,
Saw him, and her heart went fey —
His wings no shadows threw.

Love flew by! Young day was gone,
Owls were hooting — Whoo-to-whoo!
Happy wedded lay alone,
Who'd vowed that love was true.

Love flies by, and drops a rose —
Drops a rose, a sprig of yew!
Happy these — but ah! for those
Whose love has cried: Adieu!

A health to Kate,
Our Soveraigns Mate,
Of the Royal House of Lisbone:
But the Devil take Hyde,
And the Bishop beside,
Who made her bone his bone.