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My little story, Cousin Rufus said,
Is not so much a story as a fact.
It is about a certain willful boy -
An aggrieved, unappreciated boy,
Grown to dislike his own home very much,...

We thought we ranked above the chance of ill.
Others might fall, not we, for we were wise,
Merchants in freedom. So, of our free-will
We let our servants drug our strength with lies....

Now eve's hours hot noon succeed;
And day's herald, wing'd with speed,
Flush'd with summer's ruddy face,
Hies to light some cooler place.
Now industry her hand has dropt,
And the din of labour's stopt:...

To be remember'd thus is fame,
And in the first degree;
And did the few, like her, the same,
The press might rest for me.


So Homer, in the mem'ry stored
Of many a Grecian belle,...

With rosy hand a little girl press'd down
A boss of fresh-cull'd cowslips in a rill:
Often as they sprang up again, a frown
Show'd she dislik'd resistance to her will:...

I hear it said yon land is poor,
In spite of those rich cowslips there -
And all the singing larks it shoots
To heaven from the cowslips' roots.
But I, with eyes that beauty find,...

Blown out of the prairie in twilight and dew,
Half bold and half timid, yet lazy all through;
Loath ever to leave, and yet fearful to stay,
He limps in the clearing, an outcast in gray.
...

A college professor one day
Was fishing in Chesapeake Bay;
Said a crab to his mate,
"Let's kick off the bait,
This business is too old to pay."

What does little birdie say
In her nest at peep of day?
Let me fly, says little birdie,
Mother, let me fly away.
Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till thy little wings are stronger....

The child not yet is lulled to rest.
Too young a nurse, the slender Night
So laxly holds him to her breast
That throbs with flight.

He plays with her and will not sleep....

(To a tune of Blake's)
I.
Baby, baby bright,
Sleep can steal from sight
Little of your light:
Soft as fire in dew,
Still the life in you
Lights your slumber through....

I

There's nothing I know of to make you spend
A day of your life at Cragwell End.
It's a village quiet and grey and old,
A little village tucked into a fold
(A sort of valley, not over wide)...

I.

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn,
And blithe awakes the morrow;
But a' the pride o' spring's return
Can yield me nocht but sorrow.

II.

I see the flowers and spreading trees...

Craigo Woods, wi' the splash o' the cauld rain beatin'
I' the back end o' the year,
When the clouds hang laigh wi' the weicht o' their load o' greetin'
And the autumn wind's asteer;...

'Tis strange how like a very dunce,
Man - with his bumps upon his sconce,
Has lived so long, and yet no knowledge he
Has had, till lately, of Phrenology -
A science that by simple dint of...

(To J.S.)


Still life, still life ... the high-lights shine
Hard and sharp on the bottles: the wine
Stands firmly solid in the glasses,
Smooth yellow ice, through which there passes...

The Crankadox leaned o'er the edge of the moon
And wistfully gazed on the sea
Where the Gryxabodill madly whistled a tune
To the air of "Ti-fol-de-ding-dee."
The quavering shriek of the Fly-up-the-creek...

(Mobile Bay, 1864)

Over the turret, shut in his iron-clad tower,
Craven was conning his ship through smoke and flame;
Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour,...

I wish it were spring in the world.

Let it be spring!
Come, bubbling, surging tide of sap!
Come, rush of creation!
Come, life! surge through this mass of mortification!...

I know, although when looks meet
I tremble to the bone,
The more I leave the door unlatched
The sooner love is gone,
For love is but a skein unwound
Between the dark and dawn.
...