There is a joy, which angels well may prize:
To see, and hear, and aid God's worship, when
Unnumbered tongues, a host of Christian men,
Youths, matrons, maidens, join. Their sounds arise,
“Like many waters;” now glad symphonies
Of thanks and glory to our God; and then,
Seal of the social prayer, the loud Amen,
Faith's common pledge, contrition's mingled cries.
Thus, when the Church of Christ was hale and young,
She called on God, one spirit and one voice;
Thus from corruption cleansed, with health new strung,

I

Priest of God, unto thee I come;
Day doth dawn, though the mist lies deep.
Trembling with dread from my home I fled;
I have slain a man in the land of sleep.

Him I met in a region dim,
Where ever the sun shines faint and low,
Where the moon is far as a tiny star,
And rivers speed with a noiseless flow.

In the tangled wood he was lying hid;
But I saw him lurking, and then I knew
'T was the soul of the one since time begun
That had made me false when I would be true.

Prickle a lamb,
giggle a yam,
beat a chrysanthemum
out of its head
with a red feather.
Dream of a pencil
or three airmail stamps
under your pillow.
Thank the good fairy
you're not dead.

The heat's on,
the window's gone,
the ceiling is sorry
it hurt you.
But this is not air
holding your hand,
nor weasels beneath
your dirt rug.
I think the corks
are out of breath,
the bottles begin
laughing a zoo.

I wish you were here.
The calendar is red,
a candle closes
the room.

Pretty wantons, sweetly sing
In honour of the smiling spring.
Look how the light-winged chirping choir
With nimble skips the spring admire.
But O, hark how the birds sing, O mark that note,
Jug, jug, tereu, tereu,
O prett'ly warbled from a sweet sweet throat.

A pretty fair maid all in the garden,
A gay young soldier came riding by,
He stepped up to this honored lady,
Saying, "Oh, kind miss, don't you fancy me?"

"You are not a man of noble honor,
You're not the man that I took you to be,
You are not a man of noble honor,
Or you wouldn't impose upon a poor girl like me.

"I have a true love in the army,
He has been gone these seven years long;
And seven more years I'll wait upon him--
No man on earth shall enjoy me."

"Perhaps he's in some watercourse drownded,

The prettiest lady that ever I've seen
Came dancing, dancing, over the green.
She wore a hat with a curly feather,
Her dear little shoes were of scarlet leather.

With the tips of her fingers she held up her gown;
She didn't look up, she didn't look down,
She didn't look left, she didn't look right,
Her curls flew out in a stream of light.
My mother called and I looked away —
I never have seen her since that day.

The Press—the Press—the glorious Press,
It makes the nations free?
Before it tyrants prostrate fall
And proud oppressors flee!
In what a state of wretchedness
Without it should we be;
And can we then too highly prize
The source of liberty?

The Press—the Press—the glorious Press,
It dissipates our gloom!
And sheds a ray of happiness
O'er victims of the tomb:
See, darkness from his ebon throne
Has fled to realms of night,
And o'er the world is now diffused
A flood of heavenly light.

In the northwest corner of Dakota, I saw a room
someone had left, a plush sofa returning its button-
eyed stare to the glance she gave it over her shoulder,
the dog, too, turning. In the next room, the mattress,
with mattress stories one after another tumbling
out of each spring, the window she opened first thing,
its vista of mile after mile, and the windmill hauling
its load.
I saw that, and nothing alive —

green oil-figured linoleum laid on counters,
nails of bad craft, the ripped blackening edge

Why should I fear in evil days
With snares encompassed all around?
What trust can transient treasures raise
For them in riches who abound?
His brother who from death can save?
What wealth can ransom him from God?
What mine of gold defraud the grave?
What hoards but vanish at his nod?

To live forever is their dream;
Their houses by their name they call;
While, borne by time's relentless stream,
Around them wise and foolish fall;
Their riches others must divide;
They plant, but others reap the fruit:
In honor man cannot abide,

on Reading His Sermons on Daily Devotion,
in Which that Duty is Recommended and Assisted

To cultivate in ev'ry noble mind
Habitual grace, and sentiments refin'd,
Thus while you strive to mend the human heart,
Thus while the heav'nly precepts you impart,
O may each bosom catch the sacred fire,
And youthful minds to Virtue's throne aspire!
When God's eternal ways you set in sight
And virtue shines in all her native light,
In vain would Vice her works in night conceal.
For Wisdom's eye pervades the sable veil.