Edwin Waugh: Poems and Songs (2)

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Christmas Song.

I.


IN the dark-clouded sky no star shews a gleam;
    The drift-laden gale whistles wild in the tree;
The ice-mantle creeps o'er the murmuring stream,
    That glittering runs through the snow-covered lea;
But, hark! the old bells fling the news to the wind!
    Good Christians awake to their genial call;
The gale may blow on, we'll be merry and kind;
    Blithe yule, and a happy new year to us all!
        Bring in the green holly, the box, and the yew,
            The fir, and the laurel, all sparkling with rime;
        Hang up to the ceiling the mistletoe-bough,
            And let us be jolly another yule-time!


II.


While, garnished with plenty, together we meet
    In carolling joy, as the glad moments flee,
Thus sheltered away from the frost and the sleet,
    With friends all around us, in festival glee,
We'll still keep the heavenly lesson in mind,
    The gentle Redeemer was born at this tide;
The wind may blow keenly, but we will be kind,
    And think of the poor folk that shiver outside.
        Bring in the green holly, the box, and the yew,
            The fir, and the laurel, all sparkling with rime;
        Hang up to the ceiling the mistletoe-bough,
            And let us be jolly another yule-time!


III.


He's a cur who can bask in the fire's cheery light,
    And hearken, unheeded, the winter wind blow,
And care not a straw for the comfortless wight
    Who wanders about in the frost and the snow;
But we'll think of the mournful the while we are glad;
    Our hearts shall be kind as the winter is keen;
And we'll share our good cheer with the poor and the sad,
    Who sorrow and struggle in corners unseen.
        Bring in the green holly, the box, and the yew,
            The fir, and the laurel, all sparkling with rime;
        Hang up to the ceiling the mistletoe-bough,
            And let us be jolly another yule-time!

 

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Love and Gold.

I.


WE were but poor young people,
    My Margaret and I;
And well I knew she loved me,
    Although her looks were shy:
But I longed to see strange countries,
    That lie beyond the main;
And when I'd gathered riches,
    Come flaunting home again.


II.


When I parted from my true love,
    A rover's fate to try,
She was full of strange forebodings,
    And tears were in her eye.
Pale looks of silent sorrow
    She gave to all my glee,
When I said, "I'll win some gold, love,
    And bring it back to thee!"


III.


But my heart was proudly beating,
    And I was in my prime,
So, in chase of golden treasure,
    I went from clime to clime;
In giddy chase of pleasure,
    Beyond the foaming sea,
All heedless of the maiden
    Who pined at home for me.


IV.


So I sought for gold, and won it,
    And still I wanted more,
And as my treasure gathered,
    Was poorer than before:
For it made me proud and heartless;
    It made me hard and cold;
It made me slight my true love,
    That cursèd yellow gold


V.


But, in spite of all my riches,
    I was growing old and worn;
So I took a ship for England,
    The place where I was born;
I took a ship for England,
    With all my golden store,
To dazzle those that knew me
    Full thirty years before.


VI.


When I landed with my gold-bags,
    The friends of old were gone;
And, in spite of all my riches,
    I felt myself alone.
Though strangers fluttered round me
    I knew their hearts were cold;
And I sought in vain the true love,
    That's never bought with gold.


VII.


My skin was parched and yellow,
    My hair was thin and grey,
And she that loved me dearly,
    Was sleeping in the clay.
She had long been in the churchyard,
    Sleeping sweet and sound;
And I was but an outcast
    Upon the lonely ground.


VIII.


Now to her grave I wander,
    And sit upon the stone,
Where all is still and silent,
    Except my bitter moan:
But I shall soon be going,
    For I am ill and old;
And my gold will deck the mourners,
    Who wish my body cold.

 

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Mountaineer's Song.

I.


COME, all you lads that wander free
    Upon the mountains wild;
That love sweet nature's liberty,
    And will not be beguiled;
With you, as blithe as moorland wind,
    I'll rove by hill and glen;
Life's greatest bliss we oft shall find
    Far from the haunts of men.


CHORUS.—Then, let the winds blow high or low,
                       Beneath the changeful sky;
                   This world so fine shall all be mine
                       Until the day I die.


II.


I care not for the stately hall,
    It is no place for me;
My purse is light, my wants are small,
    My heart is fain and free;
In lowly nest I take my rest,
    And shelter from the cold;
I bend to no man's haughty crest,
    I envy no man's gold.
            CHORUS.—Then, let the winds blow.


III.


The king may wear his jewelled crown
    Upon a weary head;
The couch on which he lays him down
    May be a sleepless bed;
The massive walls of courtly halls
    May close him in with care;
In knightly towers, and guarded bowers,
    Black grief may find him there.
            CHORUS.—Then, let the winds blow.


IV.


For me o'erhead, the heavens are spread,
    With hill and dale below;
Each murmuring stream, each sunny gleam,
    And all the winds that blow;
Where'er I stray, my lonely way
    Strewn with delight I find;
My greatest wealth is rustic health,
    My bliss a peaceful mind.
            CHORUS.—Then, let the winds blow.


V.


For me, in posied mantle green,
    Glad nature decks the spring;
For me, amidst the vernal scene,
    The happy wild-birds sing;
For my delight, each lovely sight
    The changing season thrills;
For me, the wild breeze, day and night,
    Harps on the heathery hills.


CHORUS.—Then, let the winds blow high or low,
                       Beneath the changeful sky;
                   This world so fine shall all be mine,
                       Until the day I die.

 

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The Moorland Maid.

I.


THERE'S a limpid rindling fountain,
    Yonder moorland hills among;
From the heather-breasted mountain
    Tinkling drips its liquid song;
To its lonely music list'ning,
    Once a maiden sat thereby;
Oh, that maiden's dark eye glist'ning,—
    It will haunt me till I die.


II.


In that fragrant, wild seclusion,
    With the soaring lark above,
Blooming nature's glad profusion
    Listen'd to our vows of love;
Sunny skies, and flowers around us,
    On my rustic darling smiled;
And the dewy twilight found us
    Lingering still amid the wild.


III.


Oh, mild hour, when eve's lone planet
    Gilds the pearls on every blade;
Angel-zephyrs came to fan it,—
    Blissful hour of mystic shade;
Sweet the wild-bird's trilling vespers
    Died upon the dewy lea;
But my darling's gentle whispers
    Never more will fade from me.


IV.


Ah, that scene is now too sadd'ning,
    Saddest in its richest bloom;
Summer flowers, the wild hills gladdening,
    Move my heart to deeper gloom;
Birds may hail the scented blossom
    Oft on smiling hill and plain,
But the green earth's silent bosom
    Never will yield my love again.


V.


Thus to meet thee, but to sever;
    Thus to love, and then to part,—
Oh, the bliss, the pain, for ever
    Mingling in my lonely heart:
Oh, those lovely glances, darting
    Modest gleams of timid glee;
Oh, the last sad hour of parting,
    'Tween my own true love and me.


VI.


Farewell to yon breezy mountain,
    Farewell to the flow'ry dell;
Farewell to the rindling fountain,
    And the lonely moorland well;
Farewell to the streamlet, purling
    Sweetly through yon silent glen;
Oh, farewell, the dark-eyed darling
    I shall never see again!

 

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Wild and free.

I.


I WISH I was on yonder moor,
    And my good dog with me,
Through the bonny heather-flower
    Wading, wild and free:
                  Wild and free;
                  Wild and free;
        Where the moorland breezes blow.


II.


Oh, the wilderness is my delight,
    Where the whirring red grouse springs,
From his heathery nest on the mountain's
        breast,
    With the dew upon his wings:
                  Wild and free;
                  Wild and free;
        Where the moorland breezes blow.


III.


At the gloaming hour, in grove and bower,
    The throstle chants with glee;
But the plover sings his evening hymn
    To the lone waste, wild and free:
                  Wild and free;
                  Wild and free;
        Where the moorland breezes blow.


IV.


On the heathy hills I'll take my rest,
    And there my bed shall be;
With the lady-fern above my breast,
    Waving wild and free;
                  Wild and free;
                  Wild and free ;
        Where the moorland breezes blow.

 

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Heigho for Cobblers!

I.


OF all the craftsmen in this world,
    The cobbler lad for me,
With his pegs an tacks, an' his hemp an' wax,
    An' his lapstone on his knee.
            Welt it, an' pelt it;
            Pelt it, an' welt it;
        Sing, heigho for cobblers!


II.


The lads that patch these poor men's shoon,
    I fain would have you know,
They are the friends on whom depends
    What footing you must go.
            Twitch it, an' stitch it;
            Stitch it, an' twitch it;
        Sing, heigho for cobblers!


III.


Saint Crispin was a lad of wax,
    And he tugged the 'tachin-end;
And he plied his awl in his good old stall,
    The soles of men to mend:
            Stump it, an' clink it;
            Clink it, an' stump it;
        Sing, heigho for cobblers!


IV.


Then, here's good luck to the old cow's hide,
    Likewise the good lapstone;
The man whose footsteps never slide,
    Shall seldom need to moan:
            Ring it, an' ding it;
            Ding it, an' ring it;
        And, heigho for cobblers!


V.


The man that keeps his top-knot cool
    Will never come to harm,
If he gets a lad with a leather-brat
    To keep his poor feet warm:
            Thump it, an' stump it;
            Stump it, an' thump it;
        Sing, heigho for cobblers!


VI.


Good luck attend the cobbler's awl,
    His hemp, an' nails, an' tacks,—
His knife, an' last, an' blackin'-ball,
    His bristles, an' his wax!
            'Tack it, an' catch it;
            Catch it, an' tack it;
        Sing, heigho for cobblers!


VII.


And when, at last, he quits his awl,
    And lays him down to rest,
He shall sleep sound 'neath a grassy mound
    With a lapstone on his breast:
            End it, an' mend it;
            Mend it, an' end it;
        Sing, heigho for cobblers!

 

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Christmas Morning.

I.


COME all you weary wanderers,
    Beneath the wintry sky;
This day forget your worldly cares,
    And lay your sorrows by;
        Awake, and sing
        The church bells ring;
    For this is Christmas morning!


II.


With grateful hearts salute the morn,
    And swell the streams of song,
That laden with great joy are borne,
    The willing air along;
        The tidings thrill
        With right good will;
    For this is Christmas morning!


III.


We'll twine the fresh green holly wreath,
    And make the yule-log low;
And gather gaily underneath
    The winking mistletoe;
        All blithe and bright
        By the glad fire-light;
    For this is Christmas morning!


IV.


Come, sing the carols old and true,
    That mind us of good cheer,
And, like a heavenly fall of dew,
    Revive the drooping year;
        And fill us up
        A wassail-cup ;
    For this is Christmas morning!


V.


To all poor souls we I strew the feast,
    With kindly heart, and free;
One Father owns us, and, at least,
    To-day we'll brothers be;
        Away with pride,
        This holy tide ;
    For it is Christmas morning!


VI.


So now, God bless us one and all
    With hearts and hearthstones warm
And may He prosper great and small,
    And keep us out of harm;
        And teach us still,
        His sweet good-will,
    This merry Christmas morning!

 

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Here's to My Native Land.

I.


HERE'S to my native land;
    And here's to the heathery hills,
Where the little birds sing on the blooming
        boughs,
    To the dancing moorland rills.


II.


There's a lonely little cot,
    And it stands by a spreading tree,
Where a kind old face has looked from the
        door
    Full many a time for me;—


III.


On the slope of a flowery dell,
    And hard by a rippling brook;
And it's oh for a peep at the chimney-top,
    Or a glint of the chimney-nook!


IV.


And there is a still churchyard,
    Where many an old friend lies;
And I fain would sleep in my native ground
    At last, when they close my eyes.


V.


When summer days were fine,
    The lads of the fold and I
Have roved the moors, till the harvest moon
    Has died in the morning sky.


VI.


Oh, it's sweet in the leafy woods
    On a sunny summer's day;
And I wish I was helping the moorland lads
    To tumble their scented hay!


VII.


Though many a pleasant nook
    In many a land I've seen,
I'd wander back to my own green hills,
    If the wide world lay between.


VIII.


They say there's bluer skies
    Across the foaming sea:—
Each man that is born has a land of his own,
    And this is the land for me!

 

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Minnie.

I.


MY Minnie's as shy as a little wild rose,
That fills all around with delight as it blows;
                Its leaves, pleasant-scented,
                Unfolding, contented
        To sweeten the nook where it grows.


II.


Kate flutters her wings, and a lady would be;
She's ribboned, and jewelled, and flounced to the
            knee;
                But she's keen, and she's cold,
                And she's proud of her gold,
        The dule take her ribbons for me!


III.


My Minnie's as poor as a little red-breast,
"With nought in the wide world but God and its
            nest;"
                Yet the star of a king
                Is a pitiful thing
        To the jewel that grows in her breast.


IV.


Kate's handsome and bold, and she's haughty and
            chill;
She's a winterly smile for the heart she can kill;
                And she bears off the bell
                From the girls of the dell,
        With a clapper that never lies still.


V.


Though Minnie's as blithe as the skylark that
            springs
From its roost in the meadow, with dew on its
            wings—
                'Tis her own little nest,
                And the mate she loves best,
        That gladden the song that she sings.


VI.


What care I for riches and gaudy array—
What care I to flaunt with the heartlessly gay?
                If my little wild rose
                Love me on to life's close,
And sweeten its troublesome way.

 

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Life's Twilight.

I.


NOW silver threads begin to shine
    Among my thinning hair;
And down the slope of life's decline
    I thoughtfully repair.
The fire that once was in mine eyes
    Has dimmed its fervid ray,
And every hour of life that flies,
    Is stealing light away.
Oh, let me, with untroubled breast,
    A while in shadow lie,
Before I lay me down to rest,
    And bid the world "Good bye."


II.


With Time, that wrestler old and grim,
    I've had a gallant round;
But ah, there's little chance with him
    Who bringeth all to ground.
Although the world still rolleth on
    Its merry, motley way,
My little part of life is done,
    Except to watch the play.
Then let me, with untroubled breast,
    A while in shadow lie,
Before I lay me down to rest,
    And bid the world "Good bye."


III.


In youth, to pleasure's lightest trill,
    My heart leaped light and free;
Now, she may play what tune she will,
    It is not so with me;
For though a smile may sometimes steal
    Across my furrowed brow,
My joys are all akin, I feel,
    To contemplation now.
Then let me, with untroubled breast,
    A while in shadow lie,
Before I lay me down to rest,
    And bid the world "Good bye."

 

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Nightfall.

I.


THE green leaves answer to the night-wind's sigh,
And dew-drops winking, on the meadows lie;
                    The sun's gone down
                    O'er the drowsy town;
And the brooks are singing to the listening moon.


II.


The soft wind whispers on its moody way;
The plumy woodlands in the moonlight play;
                    Night's tapers gleam
                    In the gliding stream;
Heaven's eyes are watching while the earth doth dream.


III.


The lovely light that dwells in woman's eyes,
Softly curtained by the fringed lids lies;
                    Sleep's Lethean hand
                    Waves o'er the land,
And the weary toiler to his shelter hies.


IV.


Old nurse, whose lullaby can soothe them all,
Oh, hap them kindly in thy downy pall!
                    They've gone astray
                    On life's rough way;
But, rest them; rest them for another day.


V.


The living, sleeping in their warm beds lie;
The dead are sleeping in the churchyard, nigh;
                    The mild moon's beam
                    O'er all doth stream,
And life and death appear a mingling dream.


VI.


Decay, that in my very breath doth creep,
Thou surely art akin to this soft sleep,
                    That shows the way
                    To a bed of clay,
Whose wakeless slumbers close the mortal day.


VII.


And thus, with ceaseless roll, time's silent wave
Lands me each night upon a mimic grave,
                    Whose soft repose
                    Hints at life's close,
Death's fleets are cruising where life's current flows.

 

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Oh! Come Across the Field.

I.


NOW, from dreary winter's dream awaking,
    Glad nature robes herself to meet the spring;
Hark, how the blithesome birds are making
    Among the trees their songs of welcoming!
            Oh, come across the fields, my love,
                And through the woods with me;
            As nature moves toward the spring,
            So moves my heart to thee, my love,
                So moves my heart to thee!


II.


See, from their silent shelters sweetly peeping,
    The budding wild-flowers steal with timid glee;
See the soft fresh verdure, gently creeping,
    Is mantling over the delighted lea!
            Then come across the fields, my love,
                And through the woods with me;
            As nature moves toward the spring,
            So moves my heart to thee, my love,
                So moves my heart to thee!


III.


Oh! listen, love; it is the throttle's carol,
    In yonder elm-tree ringing loud and clear;—
"First come the buds, and then the bonny blossom—
    The golden summer time will soon be here!"
            Then come across the fields, my love,
                And through the woods with me;
            As nature moves toward the spring,
            So moves my heart to thee, my love,
                So moves my heart to thee!


IV.


My heart is like a flowerless wintry wild,
    Where tuneless joy sits lone, with folded wing,
Until thy beauty comes, enchantress mild,
    To melt the gloom, and make the flowers spring!
            Oh, shine upon this longing heart,
                And I thy charms will sing,
            For thy sweet re-appearing
            Is like another spring, my love,
                Is like another spring!

 

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God Bless Thee, Old England.

I.


GOD bless thee, old England, the home of the free;
A garden of roses, begirt by the sea!
The wild waves that fondle thy darling green shore
Shall sing thy proud story till time be no more;
And nations unborn, looking over the wave,
Shall tell of the isle of the free and the brave,
Where liberty's battle, through ages of old,
Was fought in the hearts of the just and the bold;—
                             Old England, the Queen of the Sea!


II.


May truth ever flourish thy children among;
And deeds that awaken the spirit of song
Inspire future bards with emotion divine,
Till earth has no anthem so noble as thine!
Green cradle of manliness, beauty, and worth!
May thy name be a watchword of joy in the earth
When I have long mouldered beneath the green sod,—
A country devoted to freedom and God;—
                             Old England, the Queen of the Sea!

 

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The Victims of War.

I.


HARK! from beyond the heaving main
    Wild havoc yells afar;
The kings of earth have roused again
    The fiendish game of war.
        Slaughter and flame,
        Ruin and shame;
Ah, me! for the pranks that rulers play,
The poor must suffer, and bleed, and pay!


II.


From slaughtered babes and blazing cot,
    The frantic mother flies;
And prone upon his wasted plot
    The bleeding peasant lies.
        Rapine and flame,
        Murder and shame;
Ah, me! for the pranks of the dominant few
The millions must suffer, and sorely rue.


III.


The pilaged town, the trampling hoof,
    The ruthless, slashing blade;
The murd'rous yell, the crashing roof,
    The thundering cannonade.
            Slaughter and flame,
            Havoc and shame;
Ah, me! for the pranks that rulers play,
The poor must suffer, and bleed, and pay!


IV.


The savage rout, the hellish shout,
    That drowns the dying wail;
The matron's moan, the strong man's groan,
    The rifle's deadly hail.
        Slaughter and flame,
        Ruin and shame;
Ah, me! for the pranks that rulers play,
The poor must suffer, and bleed, and pay!


V.


Thus ever runs the gory tale
    Of dark oppression's dreams;
Thus springs anew the bitter wail
    From craft's conflicting schemes.
        Slaughter and flame,
        Murder and shame;
Ah, me! for the pranks that rulers play,
The poor must suffer, and bleed, and pay!

 

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Twilight Carol.

I.


AT the close of day, her melting lay
    As Philomel began,
A maiden sang as she did stray,
    And thus the carol ran:


II.


Oh, the daisy, and the sweet bluebell,
    And the bonny celandine;
My darling's feet have touched the dell,
    And made the posies fine.


III.


Soft whispering gales, on viewless wings,
    Come o'er the rippling sea;
But ah, no news the west wind brings
    From my true love to me.


IV.


The wild bee roves the flowery wold;
    Be still, dear heart of mine;
My darling is a cup of gold
    That's running o'er with wine.


V.


Sweet bird, whose tender warble fills
    The ear of fading day,
Go, sing for me those liquid trills,
    That fond complaining lay.

 

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The Wounded Lark.

WRITTEN ON THE ILLNESS OF
AN EMINENT MUSICIAN.

I.


LAY low thine ear with kindly care,
    And gently tread the ground;
Some mourner haunts the grassy lair;
    What means this plaintive sound?


II.


Here, 'mongst his little nestlings, lies
    A lark, with broken wing,
Gazing aloft into the skies,
    Where once he used to sing.


III.


No more up-springing from the lawn,
    To greet the brightening sky,
High-poised, 'mid rosy tints of dawn,
    He'll thrill the world with joy.


IV.


No more above the sun-tipt hills
    He'll fan his happy wings;
His notes have sunk to mournful trills,
    And sorrow's all he sings.


V.


So prone lies he, whose genial power
    Once led the tuneful train;
So fate has changed his joyous dower
    To cadences of pain.


VI.


Thus, daily, minstrel tones do creep
    In sadness, one by one,
Into the silent land, where sleep
    The voices that are gone.

 

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The Old Board's Welcomed
Home.


BRING me a goblet of drink divine,
To welcome a minstrel friend of mine!
Enfranchised from the dreary crowd,
That wrapt his spirit like a shroud,
Once more he climbs the moorlands dun,
And hears his native rindles run;
Through pleasant vales he takes his way,
Where wild-flowers with the waters play;
And listens with enchanted mind
As wizard voices in the wind
Sing of his darling native earth,
The rude, the true, the hardy north!

His native dales, his native streams,—
The angels of his exile-dreams,—
Each dingle green, each breezy height,
Awakes his spirit to delight.
Oh, welcome to the fresh old hills!
The mossy crags, the tinkling rills,—
To field, and wood, and moorland glen,
Welcome, welcome home again!
Well may the pleasant summer air
Fondly play with thy silver hair;
Well may the brooklet's ripples clear
Leap as thy footsteps wander near;
Well may the wild-flowers on the lea,
Nodding their pretty heads to thee,
Scatter abroad their sweetest sweet,
Their fond old poet friend to meet;
They've waited, and have listened long,
For thee, oh, white-haired son of song!

Though tempests rage and clouds are black,
The sun keeps on his glorious track,
Serenely shining, to the west,
And, grandly smiling, sinks to rest.
Thy task, old bard, is nearly done:
Oh, may the evening coming on,
Long lingering sweetly round thy way,
Close like a cloudless summer day!

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Poor Travellers All.

I.


    POOR travellers all,
    Both great and small,
How thoughtlessly we play
    In a country
    Of mortality,
Where never a man can stay.


II.


    Our birth is but
    A starting foot
Upon the fatal road,
    Where death keeps watch
    O'er life, to snatch
The jewel back to God.


III.


    Time's sickle reaps,
    In restless sweeps,
The harvest of decay;
    On every ground
    His sheaves are bound,
And garnered in the clay.


IV.


    Though hints divine,
    In symbols fine,
With warnings strew the way,—
    Beseeching us,
    And teaching us,
The danger of delay,—


V.


    We dally still,
    With fitful will,
Among delusive joys;
    Heeding them not,
    Except for sport,—
As children play with toys.


VI.


    We romp and run
    Mad in the sun;
We murmur at the cloud;
    And where's the breast
    That's quite at rest
Until it's in a shroud?


VII.


    Poor travellers all,
    Both great and small,
How thoughtlessly we play,
    In a country
    Of mortality,
Where never a man can stay.

______________________

 
Alas! how hard it is to Smile.

I.


ALAS! how hard it is to smile
    When all within is sad;
And rooted sorrow to beguile
    By mingling with the glad.
The heart that swells with grief disdains
    Pretension's mean alloy,
And feels far less its keenest pains
    Than mockeries of joy.


II.


How few among the thoughtless crowds
    Can tell the jealous care
With which a gentle spirit shrouds
    Its pangs from worldly glare.
The harp of sorrow wooes the touch
    Of sympathy alone;
Its trembling fibres shrink from such
    As cannot feel their tone.


III.


The gay may sport upon the wave
    Of life's untroubled tides,—
Like birds that warble on a grave,
    They dream not what it hides;
But pleasure's wretched masquerade
    Wakes sorrow's keenest throe;—
The saddest look is not so sad
    As the strainèd smile of woe.

______________________

 
The Man of the Time.

I.


HE is a sterling nobleman
    Who lives the truth he knows;
Who dreads the slavery of sin,
    And fears no other foes.


II.


Who scorns the folly of pretence;
    Whose mind from cant is free;
Who values men for worth and sense,
    And hates hypocrisy.


III.


Who glows with love that's free from taint;
    Whose heart is kind and brave;
Who feels that he was neither meant
    For tyrant nor for slave.


IV.


Who loves the ground, wherever he roam,
    That's trod by human feet,
And strives to make the world a home
    Where peace and justice meet.


V.


Whose soul to clearer heights can climb,
    Above the shows of things,
Cleaving the mortal bounds of time,
    On meditative wings.


VI.


Malice can never mar his fame;
    A heaven-crowned king is he
His robe, a pure immortal aim;
    His throne, eternity.

______________________

 
The Wanderer's Hymn.

I.


HAPPY the heart that's simply pure;
    Happy the heart that's nobly brave;
Happy the man that breaks the lure
    That winds like death round folly's slave.


II.


Wandering in the worldly throng,
    The dust of earth still keeps us blind;
The judgment's weak, the passion's strong,
    The will as fitful as the wind.


III.


Disguised in joy's deceitful beams,
    A thousand fitful meteors ply
About our path the demon-schemes,
    That dazzle only to destroy.


IV.


Who can we ask for aid but Thee,
    Our only friend, our only guide?
What other counsellor have we?
    Where else, oh, where, can we abide?


V.


Oh! hear and help us while we pray;
    And travel with us all the way!
Oh! hold our hands, and be our stay!
    Oh! set us right whene'er we stray!



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