English

It is a joy and blessing to behold
Maidens of such ethereal mood,
Ripening, amid the smiles of young and old,
Into the bloom of womanhood.

I saw thee, moving like a seraph's bride,
Serenely gay in quiet grace;
And marked, on thine own river's grassy side,
The beauty of that thoughtful face.

The native warmth of feelings, pure and deep,
Alternating with graceful glee,
The souls of all, within thy sphere, did steep
In fond, and yearning love, for thee.

The meekness of a spirit without strife,

To longe the Wise Commons have been in debate
About Money, and Conscience (those Trifles of State)
Whilst dangerous Greyvances daily increase,
And the Subject can't riott in Safety, and peace.
Unlesse (as agaynst Irish Cattle before)
You now make an Act, to forbid Irish whore.
The Cootes (blacke, and white) Clenbrazell, and Fox
Invade us with Impudence, beauty, and pox.
They carry a Fate, which noe man can oppose;
The losse of his heart, and the fall of his Nose.
Should he dully resist, yet wou'd each take upon her,

In this dim shadow, where
She found the quiet which all tired hearts crave,
Now, without grief or care,
The wild bees murmur, and the blossoms wave,
And the forgetful air
Blows heedlessly across her grassy grave.

Yet, when she lived on earth,
She loved this leafy dell, and knew by name
All things of sylvan birth;
Squirrel and bird chirped welcome, when she came;
Yet now, in careless mirth,
They frisk, and build, and warble all the same.

From the great city near,

Much wine had past with grave discourse
Of who Fucks who and who does worse
Such as you usually doe hear
From those that diet at the Beare
When I who still take care to see
Drunkenness Reliev'd by Leachery
Went out into Saint James's Park
To coole my head and fire my heart.
But tho' Saint James has the Honor on't
'Tis Consecrate to Prick and Cunt.
There by a most incestuous Birth
Strange woods spring from the Teeming Earth
For they Relate how heretofore
When auncient Pict began to whore

Where the strong tide bears you, Master,
Silent freight from our lonely shore,
Where the dim sail, fast and faster
Lessening, fades forevermore—
What welcome waits on what pale strand?
Do ghosts you loved make shadowy room
For the soldier come to his long-lost land
Bringing his battle-laurels home?

Sentinel, outpost, they shall greet you
Home at last from the bleak frontier,
Comrade, shall the captains meet you—
You who carried their standards here;
Deep in your nature Dante's belief,

Let the Arab courser go
Headlong on the silent foe;
Their plumes may shine like mountain snow,
Like fire their iron tubes may glow,
Their cannon death on death may throw,
Their pomp, their pride, their strength, we know,
But—let the Arab courser go.

The Arab horse is free and bold,
His blood is noble from of old,
Through dams, and sires, many a one,
Up to the steed of Solomon.
He needs no spur to rouse his ire,
His limbs of beauty never tire,
Then, give the Arab horse the rein,

Who misses a drop from the shower?
 Who mourns a leaf lost from the tree?
Who weeps, when the woods are in flower,
 If one broken blossom there be?
 Then, dear one, why cling so to me?

The wind shakes the shining dew-spangles
 Loose out of the grass-tops at morn,
And brushes the silkenest tangles
 From all the tossed locks of the corn,
 What time the first bird-songs are born;

And what heart deplores them? We only
 Perceive that no longer they be;
And surely, you cannot be lonely,

At last, when all the summer shine
That warmed life's early hours is past,
Your loving fingers seek for mine
And hold them close — at last — at last!
Not oft the robin comes to build
Its nest upon the leafless bough
By autumn robbed, by winter chilled, —
But you, dear heart, you love me now.

Though there are shadows on my brow
And furrows on my cheek, in truth, —
The marks where Time's remorseless plough
Broke up the blooming sward of Youth, —
Though fled is every girlish grace

WHO WORE GREEN ON FRIDAY .

" I am that lady of the air,
The fairy Amabel:
I come from the rose-scented heart
Of a distant Indian dell.
I have left the graceful jessamine,
And flowers of burning bloom,
Whose cups are filled with fairy wine,
To seek this wintry gloom.

I was floating above my tuberose,
(Each fairy woo's a flower)
Drinking the fragrance of its love,

The door-yard trees put on their autumn bloom,
Purple and gold and crimson rich and strong,
That stain the light, and give my lonesome room
An atmosphere of sunset all day long.

In giddy whirls the yellow elm-leaves fall,
The rifled cherry-boughs grow sere and thinned,
Yet still the morning-glories on the wall
Fling out their purple trumpets to the wind, —

So full but now of summer's triumph-notes,
The moth's soft wing their powdery stamens stirred,
The bees rich murmur filled their honeyed throats,