Works

Wreath the bowl
With flowers of soul,
The brightest wit can find us;
We'll take a flight
Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.
Should Love amid
The wreaths be hid,...

The winds are singing a death-knell
Out on the main to-night;
The sky droops low -- and many a bark
That sailed from harbors bright,
Like many an one before,
Shall enter port no more:...

Dedicated to Louis Becke


You are now in London town,
Louis Becke,
Keeping up your old renown,
Writing yarns of women brown,
Getting yellow money down,
Or a cheque.
...

When Helen first saw wrinkles in her face
('T was when some fifty long had settled there
And intermarried and branch'd off awide)
She threw herself upon her couch and wept:...

Clerk, corresponding,
'Rooster and Comb',
Here I sit idle
'Thinking of home';
I must be grafting,
Living to earn,
More correspondence,
'Write by return.'

Clerk in employ of...

Air.--"Sleep on, sleep on, my Kathleen dear.
salvete, fratres Asini. ST. FRANCIS.


Write on, write on, ye Barons dear,
Ye Dukes, write hard and fast;
The good we've sought for many a year...

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.

When words we want, Love teacheth to indite;
And what we blush to speak, she bids us write.

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,...

If, in the month of dark December,
Leander, who was nightly wont
(What maid will not the tale remember?)
To cross thy stream broad Hellespont.

If, when the wint'ry tempest roar'd,...

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,...

Whoe'er he be that sojourns here,
I pity much his case,
Unless he's come to wait upon
The Lord their God, his Grace.

There's naething here but Highland pride
And Highland cauld and hunger;...

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.
...