English

Vertues triumphant Shrine! who do'st engage
At once three Kingdomes in a Pilgrimage;
Which in extatick duty strive to come
Out of themselves as well as from their home:
Whilst England grows one Camp, and London is
It self the Nation, not Metropolis;
And loyall Kent renews her Arts agen,
Fencing her wayes with moving groves of men;
Forgive this distant homage, which doth meet
Your blest approach on Sedentary feet:
And though my youth, not patient yet to bear
The weight of Armes, denies me to appear

Lost in a labyrinth of doubts and joys,
Whom now her smiles reviv'd her scorn destroys:
She will, and she will not; she grants, denies,
Consents, retracts, advances, and then flies;
Approving and rejecting in a breath,
Now proff'ring mercy, now presenting death.
Thus hoping, thus despairing, never sure,
How various are the torments I endure!
Cruel estate of doubt! ah, Mira! try
Once to resolve — Or let me live or die.

When all the years are but a year
Fast drawing to a close,
And I am through with cruising here
Forever, I suppose,
Then upward to the final cross
The last hill I shall climb
And stand before the mighty Boss
Who figures up our time.

He gave me once a world to cruise,
He staked me to a life,
And left me my own way to choose,
A path of peace or strife.
Across the sky He spread His stars,
The sun to travel by,
His great unchanging calendars
For pilgrims such as I.

You have packed up your duffle and put out your fire,
There is nothing ahead but the trail,
But the trail that leads up to the hill you desire —
You will come nevermore to the vale.
'Twas a shelter from storm and a home for the night,
'Twas a place for a fire and a snack;
You are through with it now, you are off with the light —
But you stop and you take a look back.

'Twas a spot for a camp such as seldom you find,
With a slope that would drain it of wet;
There was green grass in front, there was timber behind,

There was a gink
Blew into camp
Not very long ago
Who'd make you think
He had a lamp
Like no one here below.
He bragged about
The fights he had,
He built up quite a rep;
Without a doubt
We thought him bad,
A party full of pep.

His laigs, his arms,
He said were swell,
His uppercut a peach;
His other charms
He used to tell —
His footwork an' his reach.
He bullied us,
I must confess;
We let him have his way:
An' not a cuss

  Poland has fallen! Heaven! how long
  Shall fraud and tyranny be strong?
How long shall Russia's impious lord be free
  To trample on the hearts of men,
That he may turn, with smiles of savage glee,
  To revel in his Arctic den?
What! must the sword of righteous vengeance sleep?
Must the warm heart its even tenor keep?
  And shroud its feelings from the light,
  And veil its horror and affright,
  Lest we should rouse the Muscovite?
  Alas! how great is England's fall;
  Was it for this she smote the Gaul?

Alone in the twilight tender,
I plan the coming days,
While the supple flames are lapping
In weird, fantastic ways;
When out of the startled darkness
There springs a single note, —
And the first light strains of a prelude
Slow into the silence float.
'T is mother's touch! How quietly she always enters in!
With child-like throb I listen now to hear the song begin:
— Roy's wife of Aldivalloch! — Ah, me! The woful shame!
And — how she cheated him — I learn with honest ire and blame.

Sing us no song of the stripes an' the stars
Callin' us heroes an' such;
We are plumb sick of the music of wars,
Star spangled bannered too much.
Give us a hail
From the tote-road, the trail,
Up where the water's alive;
Give us Paul Bunyan, or some such a tale —
Sing us a song of the drive!

We aren't specially hymnin' our hate,
We aren't damnin' the Hun.
Let us forgit it, a while any rate,
Nix on the sword an' the gun.
Give us a song
As we're marchin' along,
Somethin' to lighten the tramp;

There is a widowhood of doubt, there is a deeper hurt than death—
A life of always looking out, of listening with halted breath:
A sudden likeness in the street, a sound familiar in the tread
Of some one passing—so to meet some daily vision of the dead.

The Missing, dead yet living, they who live no more, and never died:
How these their widows day by day must bear a grief unsatisfied!
Not theirs a great Physician's balm, not theirs to linger by a cross,
Not theirs the years of sorrow's calm, the blessed certitude of loss.

O LIED! o Lied,
gij helpt de smert
 wanneer de rampen raken,
gij kunt, o Lied, de wonde in ‘t hert,
 de wonde in ‘t hert vermaken!
o Lied, o Lied!
gij laaft den dorst,
 gij bluscht het brandend blaken,
gij kunt, o Lied, de drooge borst
 en ‘t wee daarvan doen staken.
o Lied! o Lied,
het zwijgend nat
 dat leekt nu langs mijn kaken,
gij kunt het, en uw kunst is dat,
 gij kunt het honing maken…
o Lied! o Lied!