Clerk, corresponding, 'Rooster and Comb', Here I sit idle 'Thinking of home'; I must be grafting, Living to earn, More correspondence, 'Write by return.'
My dear old friends - It jes beats all, The way you write a letter So's ever' last line beats the first, And ever' next-un's better! - W'y, ever' fool-thing you putt down You make so interestin',...
A man who keeps a diary, pays Due toll to many tedious days; But life becomes eventful then His busy hand forgets the pen. Most books, indeed, are records less Of fullness than of emptiness.
I thought those youthful hearts were bleak and bare, That not a germ had ever flourished there, Unless perchance the night-shade of despair, Which blooms amid the sunless wilderness. ...
The hours are past, love, Oh, fled they not too fast, love! Those happy hours, when down the mountain side, We saw the rosy mists of morning glide, And, hand in hand, went forth upon our way,...
Were they but dreams? Upon the darkening world Evening comes down, the wings of fire are furled, On which the day soared to the sunny west: The moon sits calmly, like a soul at rest,...
When first the fane, that, white, on Kingswood-Pen, Arrests, far off, the pausing stranger's ken, Echoed the hymn of praise, and on that day, Which seemed to shine with more auspicious ray,...
To a good Man of most dear memory This Stone is sacred. Here he lies apart From the great city where he first drew breath, Was reared and taught; and humbly earned his bread,...
So the days of my tramping are over, And the days of my riding are done, I'm about as content as a rover Will ever be under the sun; I write, after reading your letter, My pipe with old memories rife,...
While thro' the broken pane the tempest sighs, And my step falters on the faithless floor, Shades of departed joys around me rise, With many a face that smiles on me no more;...
Alone in Rome. Why, Rome is lonely too;-- Besides, you need not be alone; the soul Shall have society of its own rank. Be great, be true, and all the Scipios, The Catos, the wise patriots of Rome,...
Great and omnipotent that Power must be, That wings the whirlwind and directs the storm, That, by a strong convulsion, severed thee, And wrought this wondrous chasm in thy form. ...
Vertiginosus, inops, surdus, male gratus amicis; Non campana sonans, tonitru non ab Jove missum, Quod mage mirandum, saltem si credere fas est, Non clamosa meas mulier jam percutit aures.
Sons of the bright, green island, Gathered by the pine-fringed lake, In honour of his memory, Who battled for your sake, Listen, we too pay our tribute To a fame that well endures;...