The mountain brook sung lonesomelike And loitered on its way Ez if it waited for a child To jine it in its play; The wild flowers of the hillside Bent down their heads to hear...
"There, on the left!" said the colonel: the battle had shuddered and faded away, Wraith of a fiery enchantment that left only ashes and blood-sprinkled clay -...
When I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and clever, Pursuing fame with brush or pen Or counting metal disks forever, Then from the halls of Shadowland Beyond the trackless purple sea...
Ah God, life, law, so many names you keep, You great, you patient Effort, and you Sleep That does inform this various dream of living, You sleep stretched out for ever, ever giving...
We meet in joy, though we part in sorrow; We part to-night, but we meet to-morrow. Be it flood or blood the path that's trod, All the same it leads home to God: Be it furnace-fire voluminous,...
The skylark mounts up with the morn, The valleys are green with the Spring, The linnets sit in the whitethorn, To build mossy dwellings and sing; I see the thornbush getting green,...
She brought her alabaster flask Well-filled with precious nard; Nor did she deem the act a task, Nor look for great reward; She only thought of His great love, And felt her gift was small...
Thus early with the dead - Thou of the young, fair brow, the laughing eye, The light and joyous tread, - Mary, we little thought thou would'st be first to die!
The story of the following ballad was related to me, when a school boy, as a fact which had really happened in the North of England. I have adopted the metre of Mr. Lewis's Alonzo and Imogene--a poem deservedly popular. ...
The drowsy summer in the flowering limes Had laid her down at ease, Lulled by soft, sportive winds, whose tinkling chimes Summoned the wandering bees To feast, and dance, and hold high carnival...
How oft have I seen her upon the sea-shore, While tearful, her face, she would hide, In sad silence the loss of the Sailor deplore Who from infancy call'd her his bride, ...
My Mary's as sweet as the flowers that grow, By the side of the brooklet that runs near her cot; Her brow is as fair as the fresh fallen snow, And the gleam of her smile can be never forgot....
One balmy summer night, Mary, Just as the risen moon Had thrown aside her fleecy veil, We left the gay saloon; And in a green, sequestered spot, Beneath a drooping tree,...
Young Mary, loitering once her garden way, Felt a warm splendour grow in the April day, As wine that blushes water through. And soon, Out of the gold air of the afternoon,...
If John marries Mary, and Mary alone, 'Tis a very good match between Mary and John. Should John wed a score, oh, the claws and the scratches! It can't be a match''tis a bundle of matches.
I look upon the hedgerow flower, I gaze upon the hedgerow tree, I walk alone the silent hour, And think of Mary Appleby. I see her in the brimming streams, I see her in the gloaming hour,...
O thou to whom, athwart the perish'd days And parted nights long sped, we lift our gaze, Behold! I greet thee with a modern rhyme, Love-lit and reverent as befits the time,...