The God of battles praise;
Paeans of honor raise,
With heart and song.
God is our shield and tower,
Our strength in danger's hour;
To Him all might and power
And praise belong.

Here, O memorial, stand, —
Here, where the patriot band
Battled so well;
Here, where the nation's pride
The rushing storm defied;
Here, where the true and tried,
Unconquered, fell.

Tears for the loved and lost;
Joy for the land which cost
Such sacrifice.
Fond memory, grateful, weeps
Where each dead martyr sleeps,

THE OBJECTION .

I.

Each man who lives, the scriptures prove,
Must as himself his neighbour love;
But though the precept's full of beauty,
'Tis an impracticable duty:
I'll-prove how hard it is to find
A lover of this wondrous kind.

II.

Who loves himself to great excess,
You'll grant must love his neighbour less;
When self engrosses all the heart
How can another have a part?
Then if self-love most men enthral,
A neighbour's share is none at all.

III.

While I am waiting for the flower why should I doubt the seed?
While I am waiting for you to love me why should I doubt your love?
While I am waiting for the ship to come in why should I doubt the ship?
While I am waiting for the total why should I doubt the pieces?
While I am waiting for tomorrow why should I doubt today?
While I am waiting for the sun why should I doubt the eclipse?
While I am waiting to be happy why should I doubt my grief?
While I am waiting for the end why should I doubt the chapters?

Encore des Amours.

Once I was musing, " I am old and lone;
Those gods have left me, whom in youth we hail:
The hope they gave me is for ever gone;
To close mine eyes that fickle troop will fail "
Lo! as I speak, a fairy comes, and smiles;
Soon as she speaks, my ravished senses play;
Ah! 'tis again some beauty full of wiles —
Not all the Loves, not all have flown away!
Yes, it may prove once more a source of pain,

" THE BOYS "

Where are the boys of earlier years,
Once known and loved so well?
Where childhood's hopes and childhood's fears,
O Muse of history, tell?

Where are the noisy shouts that spoke
In wild joy on the air?
Where are the lips, in love which spoke —
The echoes answer, Where?

Where are the ready eye and hand
That made our greetings sweet?

I AM the storm that Northward loves to flee,
Thou art the moonlight on a tranquil sea:
How can such I with such a Thou agree?

Thou art the beam that lights the lily's eyes,
I the wild hail that from the black cloud flies;
O endless chasm that between us lies!

I wild, inconstant, earth's dark guest, and Thou,
With almost angel-clearness on thy brow; —
Come, Love, and show thyself almighty, now!

I've vow'd to forget him again and again;
But vows are as licht as the air is, I trow;
For something within me aye comes wi' a sten',
And dunts on my heart till I gi'e up the vow.

I gaed to Spunk Janet, the spaewife, yestreen —
I've often heard folk o' her wisdom approve: —
Quoth she, " It's your fortune you're wantin', I ween? " —
" Na! Janet, " quoth I, " will ye cure me o' love? "

" I'll try it, " quoth she; " say awa' wi' your tale,

La fuite de l'Amour

I see already that thy wings are spread;
Ah, Love, adieu! my prime of life hath fled:
The fickle Graces now, with mocking look,
Their fingers point at my deserted nook.
If once I cursed the might that in thee lies,
Knew I, alas, that thou wouldst thus chastise?
Ah, Love! the more the tears which thou hast cost,
The more we mourn for thee when thou art lost.

In childhood's slumber calmly I reposed,
When at thy voice mine eyes were first unclosed;
In Beauty I adored thy sovereign sway,

She died, as many travellers have died,
O'ertaken on an Alpine road by night;
Numbed and bewildered by the falling snow,
Striving, in spite of failing pulse, and limbs
Which faltered and grew feeble at each step,
To toil up the icy steep, and bear
Patient and faithful to the last, the load
Which, in the sunny morn, seemed light!
And yet
'Twas in the place she called her home, she died;
And they who loved her with the all of love

Love guides our bark, and we have naught to fear.
We are the world ourselves, and as we glide
Upon the stream of life, if Love but steer,
We care not how tempestuous the tide.

Thy head leans on my shoulder, and my arm
Is round thee clasped. Thine eyes upturn to mine,
So full of faith the future feels their charm
Blunting Fate's dart that threatens joy of thine.

O Love! thy tresses wind about my sense,
Thy glances melt my soul, and thy ripe lips
Seem morning roses, red and dewy, whence
The bee of love a draught of nectar sips.