Poetry

"Still their silent thread entwining Of our wretched life ; With their cold pale hands combining Hate, and fear, and strife. Hovers the avenging day O’er the glorious island Where Ulysses was the king."

"And such is still the recompense appointed for the mind, That seeketh, with its eyes afar, the glory of its kind. The poet yields the beautiful that in his being lives : Unthankful, cold, and careless, are they to whom he gives."

"Look to the past—if present there Be visible one great despair : Look to the future—if it give Nothing which charmeth thee to live. Then come—the present knows its doom, Thy heart already is a tomb."

"Yet that old chivalric hour Hath upon the present power Changed—and softened and refined It has left its best behind. What may its bequeathings be ? Honour, song, and courtesy. Like the spirit of its clay, Yesterday redeems to-day."

"High in the azure heavens, ye ancient mountains, Do ye uplift your old ancestral snows, Gathering amid the clouds those icy fountains, Whence many a sunny stream through India flows."

"It is pleasant through the city In a sunny day to roam ; And yet my full heart turns to thee, My own, my greenwood home."

"Vainly did the augur seek In its path the will of heaven ; Not to that fierce eye and beak, Was the fated future given. No, the future’s depths were stirred By the white wings of the dove ; When the troubled earth first heard Words of peace and words of love."

"By another light surrounded Than our actual sky; With the purple ocean bounded Does the island lie, Like a dream of the old world."

"Lay her in the gentle earth, Where the summer maketh mirth ; Where young violets have birth ; Where the lily bendeth. Lay her there, the lovely one ! With the rose, her funeral stone ; And for tears, such showers alone As the rain of April lendeth."

"Low it lieth—earth to earth— And to which that earth gave birth— Palace, market-street, and fane ; Dust that never asks in vain, Hath reclaimed its own again. Dust, the wide world’s king."

"And such a task it is to steer A people in their high career, When old opinions war, and change Is sudden, violent, and strange ; And men recall the past, to say, So shall not be the coming day."

"He cometh from the purple hills, Where the fight has been to-day; He bears the standard in his hand— Shout round the victor’s way. The sun-set of a battle won, Is round his steps from Marathon."

"They were poor, and by their cabin, Pale want sat at the door ; And the summer to their harvest Brought insufficient store."

"How many are the lovely lays That haunt our English tongue, Defrauded of their poet’s praise Forgotten he who sung."

"It shall never be lowered, the black flag we bear ; If the sea be denied us, we sweep through the air."

"A little while hast thou to be a child, Thy lot is all too high ; Thy face is very fair, thine eyes are mild, But duties on thine arduous path are piled— A nation’s hopes and fears blend with thy destiny."

"Hither, famed Ulysses, steer, Pass not, pride of Greece, along To our haven come and hear, Come and hear the Sirens' song."

"Human heart this history Is thy fated lot, Even such thy watching For what cometh not Till with anxious waiting dull Round thee fades the beautiful."

"’Twas the deep forest bodied forth that fane, So rose the arches of the old oak trees, So wreathed the close set branches at their side, So through the open spaces gleamed the sun ; While like an anthem sang the morning birds."

"The prayer for another, to Heaven addrest, Comes back to the breather thrice blessing and blest."

"’Tis strange how much of this wide world is lonely, Earth hath its trackless forests dark and green, And its wild deserts of the sand, where only The wind, a weary wanderer, hath been."

"It is the minstrel’s part to fling Around the present’s common cope, The solemn hues on Memory’s wing, The spiritual light of Hope. The scene that to a careless eye Seems nothing but itself to be, Has charmed earth and haunted sky — Seen as the minstrel’s eye can see. Himself is but an instrument Inspired by that diviner hour, When first Imagination lent To earth its passion and its power."

"Thus with some sweet dream’s assistance, Float they down life’s stream; Would to heaven our whole existence Could be such a dream!"

"Again I am beside the lake, The lonely lake which used to be The wide world of the beating heart, When I was, love, with thee."

"A fearful thing, the granted wish— The very shape it takes, By some strange mockery of our hope, Another misery makes."

"Life in its many shapes was there, The busy and the gay; Faces that seemed too young and fair To ever know decay. …. There came a slow and silent band In sad procession by: Reversed the musket in each hand, And downcast every eye. They bore the soldier to his grave; The sympathising crowd Divided like a parted wave By some dark vessel ploughed. …. Again, all filled with light and breath, I passed the crowded street— Oh, great extremes of life and death, How strangely do ye meet!"

"I come from my home in the depth of the sea, I come that thy dreams may be haunted by me ; Not as we parted, the rose on my brow, But shadowy, silent, I visit thee now."

"Alas, alas ! those ancient towers, Where never now the vespers ring, But lonely at the midnight hours, Flits by the bat on dusky wing. No more beneath the moonlight dim, No more beneath the planet ray, Those arches echo with the hymn That bears life’s meaner cares away."

"Sympathy is the softener of death, and memory of the loved and the lost is the earthly shadow of their immortality. But who turns aside amid those crowds that hurry through the thronged and noisy streets?—No one can love London better than I do; but never do I wish to be buried there. It is the best place in the world for a house, and the worst for a grave."

"Few save the poor feel for the poor, The rich know not how hard It is to be of needful food And needful rest debarred."

"Mournfully they pass away, The dearest and the fairest ; Beauty, thou art common clay, Common doom thou sharest."

"See, he bears the line away, Round him flies the snowy spray. I have given him length and line, One last struggle, he is mine. Fling the green arbutus bough On the glowing ashes now ; Let the cup with red wine foam,— I have brought the salmon home."

"For years, long years, Years that make centuries—those dimlit aisles, Where rainbows play, from coloured windows flung, Have echoed to the voice of prayer and praise ; With the last lights of evening flitting round, Making a rosy atmosphere of hope."

"Our prize is won, our chase is o’er, Turn the vessel to the shore. Place yon rock, so that the wind, Like a prisoner, howl behind ; Which is darkest—wave, or cloud ? One a grave, and one a shroud."

"Summer is come, with her leaves and her flowers— Summer is come, with the sun on her hours; The lark in the clouds, and the thrush on the bough, And the dove in the thicket, make melody now. The noon is abroad, but the shadows are cool Where the green rushes grow in the dark forest pool."

"The sledge is yoked, away we go, Amid the firs, o’er the soundless snow."

"None watched the lonely Indian girl,— She passed unmarked of all, Until they saw her slight canoe Approach the mighty Fall! Upright, within that slender boat They saw the pale girl stand, Her dark hair streaming far behind— Uprais’d her desperate hand. The air is filled with shriek and shout— They call, but call in vain; The boat amid the waters dash'd— ’Twas never seen again!"

"But this sweet palace was for peace, Built by the water-side, When Zerid sheathed the sword and won The Persian for his bride."

"You must come back, my brother, For Christmas is so near, And Christmas is the crowning time, The purple of the year ;"

"Float on—float on—my haunted bark, Above the midnight tide; Bear softly o’er the waters dark The hopes that with thee glide."

"A stranger to her forest home, That fair young stranger came; They raised for him the funeral song— For him the funeral flame. Love sprang from pity,—and her arms Around his arms she threw; She told her father, “If he dies, Your daughter dieth too.” For her sweet sake they set him free— He lingered at her side; And many a native song yet tells Of that pale stranger’s bride."

"City of idol temples, and of shrines, Where folly kneels to falsehood—how the pride Of our humanity is here rebuked !"

"None heed the wandering boy who sings, An orphan though so young; None think how far the singer brings The songs which he has sung."

"Summer, shining summer, Art thou bringing now Colours to the red rose, Green leaves to the bough, Music to the singing birds, And honey to the bee ; Summer, shining summer, Oh, welcome unto thee."

"Thou beautiful new comer, With white and maiden brow ; Thou fairy gift from summer, Why art thou blooming now ? This dim and sheltered alley Is dark with winter green ; Not such as in the valley At sweet spring-time is seen."

"A strain of music like the rushing wind, But deep and sweet As when the waters meet, In one mysterious harmony combined. So swells the mighty organ, rich and full, As if it were the soul Which raised the glorious whole, Of that fair building vast and wonderful."

"She comes ! So comes the Moon, when has she found A silvery path wherein through heaven to glide ? Fling the white veil—a summer cloud—around ; She is a bride !"

"How wonderful the common street, Its tumult and its throng, The hurrying of the thousand feet That bear life's cares along. How strongly is the present felt, With such a scene beside; All sounds in one vast murmur melt The thunder of the tide."

"She leaves it to the sacred stream, She leaves it to the tide, Her little child—her darling one, And she has none beside."

"Come what will, of weal or wo, ’Tis the best the worst to know."