Prepare for Songs; He's come, He's come;
And be it sin here to be dumb,
And not with Lutes to fill the roome.

Cast Holy Water all about,
And have a care no fire gos out,
But 'cense the porch, and place throughout.

The Altars all on fier be;
The Storax fries; and ye may see,
How heart and hand do all agree,
To make things sweet. Chor. Yet all less sweet then He.

Bring Him along, most pious Priest,
And tell us then, when as thou seest

Prenegard, prenegard!
Thus bere I myn baselard.

Listeneth, lordinges, I you beseke:
Ther is none man worth a leke,
Be he sturdy, be he meke,
But he bere a baselard.

Myn baselard hath a shede of red
And a clene loket of led;
Me thinketh I may bere up myn hed
For I bere myn baselard.

My baselard hath a writhen haft;
When I am ful of ale caght
It is gret dred of manslaght,
For then I bere my baselard.

My baselard hath a silver chape;
Therfore I may both gaspe and gape.
Me thinketh I go like none knape

From the deep shadow of the still fir-groves
Trembling I look to thee, eternal height!
Thou dazzling summit, from whose top my soul
Floats, with dimmed vision, to the infinite!

Who sank in earth's firm lap the pillars deep
Which hold through ages thy vast pile in place?
Who reared on high, in the clear ether's vault,
Lofty and strong, thy ever-radiant face!

Who poured you forth, ye mountain torrents wild,
Down thundering from eternal winter's breast?
And who commanded, with almighty voice,

Ah! knew he but his happiness, of men
Not the least happy he, who, free from broils
And base ambition, vain and bustling, pomp,
Amid a friendly cure, and competence,
Tastes the pure pleasures of parochial life.
What though no crowd of clients, at his gate,
To falsehood and injustice bribe his tongue,
And flatter into guilt? — what though no bright
And gilded prospects lure ambition on
To legislative pride, or chair of state?
What though no golden dreams entice his mind
To burrow, with the mole, in dirt and mire?

Precious to Me — She still shall be —
Though She forget the name I bear —
The fashion of the Gown I wear —
The very Color of My Hair —

So like the Meadows — now —
I dared to show a Tress of Their's
If haply — She might not despise
A Buttercup's Array —

I know the Whole — obscures the Part —
The fraction — that appeased the Heart
Till Number's Empery —
Remembered — as the Milliner's flower
When Summer's Everlasting Dower —
Confronts the dazzled Bee.

The precincts at day, quiet leisure of spring:
I give myself to the solitude, linger at my meals.
Gazing at flowers, I lean against the tree;
listening to birds, walk by the fragrant pond.
The courtyard is warm, a gathering place for the bees;
the stairs under a clear sky — enriched by creeping vines.
Good feelings come from every spot:
it's easy to write new poems.

The preacher works from morn till night
On one thing or the other.
He must be skilled at every trade
Or he just don't have it, brother.

He heals the sick, makes strong the weak;
He's carpenter and plumber.
When called to settle family rows,
He's wise and just acts dumber.

He's financier, he's architect,
Electrician, painter, teacher.
Of all these he must do well,
If he succeeds as " preacher. "

His social habits must be good.
His job he never shirks.
In cold or heat, in rain or shine,
He's smiling as he works.

Preach wisdom unto him who understands!
—When there's such lovely longing in thine eyes,
And such a pulse in thy small clinging hands,
—What is the good of being great or wise?

What is the good of beating up the dust
—On the world's highway, vexed with droughty heat,
Oh, I grow fatalist—what must be must,
—Seeing that thou, beloved, art so sweet!

Hail, Devon! in thy bosom let me rest,
And pour forth music from my raptur'd breast:
I'll stray thy meadow'd hills
And plains along,
And loudly sing the widely-varied song,
Tracing thy rivers, and thy bubbling rills.

Oft, rising from the sea, the tempest lours,
And buoy'd on winds the clouds majestic sail,
While scattering burst in wide and frequent showers,
Swelling the streams which glide thro' every vale;
Yet are the marshy plains bedeck'd with flowers,
And balmy sweets are borne on every gale.

While joy re-animates the fields,
And spring her odorous treasures yields;
While love inspires the happy grove,
And music breaks from every spray;
I leave the sweet retreat I love
Ere bloss'ming hawthorn greets the May;
Sad destiny! O! let me plaintive pour
O'er the unopen'd bud an unrefreshing shower.

To yonder hills, which bound the sight,
Where blushing eve dissolves in night,
To the wild heath, o'er which the gale
Bleak wafts each sweet perfume of spring,
And to the weed-grown briary vale
Sorrowing the parting lay I sing;