Here No Fatted Oxen Be

Gold, nor purple tapestry:
But a well-disposéd mind;
But a gentle muse, and kind;
But bright wine to glad our souls,
Mantling in Boeotian bowls.

by Bacchylides.

Gentle Lady, Do Not Sing

Gentle lady, do not sing
Sad songs about the end of love;
Lay aside sadness and sing
How love that passes is enough.

Sing about the long deep sleep
Of lovers that are dead, and how
In the grave all love shall sleep:
Love is aweary now.

by James Joyce.

The Three Gentle Shepherds

Of gentle Philips will I ever sing,
With gentle Philips shall the valleys ring.
My numbers too for ever will I vary,
With gentle Budgell and with gentle Carey.
Or if in ranging of the names I judge ill,
With gentle Carey and with gentle Budgell:
Oh! may all gentle bards together place ye,
Men of good hearts, and men of delicacy.
May satire ne'er befool ye, or beknave ye,
And from all wits that have a knack, God save ye.

by Alexander Pope.

To The Kind Reader

No one talks more than a Poet;
Fain he'd have the people know it.

Praise or blame he ever loves;
None in prose confess an error,
Yet we do so, void of terror,

In the Muses' silent groves.

What I err'd in, what corrected,
What I suffer'd, what effected,

To this wreath as flow'rs belong;
For the aged, and the youthful,
And the vicious, and the truthful,

All are fair when viewed in song.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

Come, Gentle God

Come, gentle God of soft desire,
Come and possess my happy breast,
Not fury-like in flames and fire,
Or frantic folly's wildness dressed;

But come in friendship's angel-guise;
Yet dearer thou than friendship art,
More tender spirit in thy eyes,
More sweet emotions at thy heart.

O, come with goodness in thy train,
With peace and pleasure void of storm,
And wouldst thou me for ever gain,
Put on Amanda's winning form.

by James Thomson.

In Memoriam (Benjamin P. Avery)

God rest thy soul!
O, kind and pure,
Tender of heart, yet strong to wield control,
And to endure!

Close the clear eyes!
No greater woe
Earth’s patient heart, than when a good man dies,
Can ever know.

With us is night-
Toil without rest;
But where thy gentle spirit walks in light,
The ways are blest.

God’s peace be thine!
God’s perfect peace!
Thy meed of faithful service, until time
And death shall cease.

by Ina D. Coolbrith.

Thou Art More Kind Than Mother Dear

Thou art more kind than mother dear,
More soothing than the rays of moon
Thy love an ever flowing tide,
Sinks deeper than a common stream
I know of none that equals Thee -
Thou best of all immortal Gods
I wave my name above Thy head,
And part it at thy holy feet.
Ah! Sweeter than sweetest things,
And mightier than all the elements,
Thou rulest O'er the Universe,
And seest that it goes all right,
In silence do I lay my head
upon thy feet , and pray 'Forgive'

by Sant Tukaram.

With A Painted Ribbon

LITTLE leaves and flow'rets too,

Scatter we with gentle hand,
Kind young spring-gods to the view,

Sporting on an airy band.

Zephyr, bear it on the wing,

Twine it round my loved one's dress;
To her glass then let her spring,

Full of eager joyousness.

Roses round her let her see,

She herself a youthful rose.
Grant, dear life, one look to me!

'Twill repay me all my woes,

What this bosom feels, feel thou.

Freely offer me thy hand;
Let the band that joins us now

Be no fragile rosy band!

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

A Song. Go Tell Amynta, Gentle Swain

1.
Go tell Amynta, gentle swain,
I would not die, nor dare complain.
Thy tuneful voice with numbers join,
Thy voice will more prevail than mine;
For souls opprest and dumb with grief,
The gods ordain'd this kind relief.
That music should in sounds convey
What dying lovers dare not say.

2.
A sigh or tear perhaps she'll give,
But love on pity cannot live:
Tell her that hearts for hearts were made,
And love with love is only paid,
Tell her my pains so fast increase
That soon it will be past redress;
For the wretch that speechless lies,
Attends but death to close his eyes.

by John Dryden.

SIMPLE You were, and good. No kindlier heart
Beat than the heart within your gentle breast.
Labour You had, and happiness, and rest,
And were the maid of nations. Now You start
To feverish life, feeling the poisonous smart
Upon your lips of harlot lips close-pressed,
The lips of Her who stands among the rest
With greasy righteous soul and rotten heart.
O sunrise land, O land of gentleness,
What madness drives you to lust's hateful bed?
O thrice-accursèd England, wretchedness
For ever be on you, of whom 'tis said,
Prostitute plague-struck, that you catch and kiss
Innocent lives to make them foully dead!

by Francis William Lauderdale Adams.

Blind multitudes that jar confusedly
At strife, earth's children, will ye never rest
From toils made hateful here, and dawns distressed
With ravelling self-engendered misery?
And will ye never know, till sleep shall see.
Your graves, how dreadful and how dark indeed
Are pride, self-will, and blind-voiced anger, greed,
And malice with its subtle cruelty?

How beautiful is gentleness, whose face
Like April sunshine, or the summer rain,
Swells everywhere the buds of generous thought?
So easy, and so sweet it is; its grace
Smoothes out so soon the tangled knots of pain.
Can ye not learn it? will ye not be taught?

by Archibald Lampman.

A Timid Grace Sits Trembling In Her Eye

A timid grace sits trembling in her eye,
As loath to meet the rudeness of men's sight,
Yet shedding a delicious lunar light
That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy
The care-crazed mind, like some still melody:
Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess
Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness,
And innocent loves, and maiden purity:
A look whereof might heal the cruel smart
Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind:
Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart
Of him who hates his brethren of mankind.
Turned are those lights from me, who fondly yet
Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.

by Charles Lamb.

Garden And Cradle

When our babe he goeth walking in his garden,
Around his tinkling feet the sunbeams play;
The posies they are good to him,
And bow them as they should to him,
As fareth he upon his kingly way;
And birdlings of the wood to him
Make music, gentle music, all the day,
When our babe he goeth walking in his garden.

When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle,
Then the night it looketh ever sweetly down;
The little stars are kind to him,
The moon she hath a mind to him
And layeth on his head a golden crown;
And singeth then the wind to him
A song, the gentle song of Bethlem-town,
When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle.

by Eugene Field.

At Rest (B. P. A.)

God rest thy soul!
O kind and pure,
Tender of heart, yet strong to wield control,
And to endure

Close the clear eyes:
No greater woe
Earth’s patient heart, than when a good man dies,
The ways are blest.

With us is night,
Toil without rest, -
But where thy gentle spirit walks in light,
The ways are blest.

God’s peace be thine!
God’s perfect peace!
Thy meed of faithful service, until time
And death shall cease.

by Ina D. Coolbrith.

On The Soft And Gentle Motions Of Eudora

Divine Thalia strike th' Harmonious Lute,
But with a Stroke so Gentle as may sute
The silent gliding of the Howers,
Or yet the calmer growth of Flowers;
Th' ascending or the falling Dew,
Which none can see, though all find true.
For thus alone,
Can be shewn,
How downie, how smooth,
Eudora doth Move,
How Silken her Actions appear,
The Aire of her Face,
Of a gentler Grace
Then those that do stroke the Eare.
Her Address so sweet,
So Modestly Meet,

That 'tis not the Lowd though Tuneable String,
Can shewforth so soft, so Noyseless a Thing!
O This to express from thy Hand must fall,
Then Musicks self, something more Musical.

by Anne Killigrew.

Mellem Dit Bryst Og Din Kind

Mellem dit Bryst og din Kind
dèr sank jeg i Kjærligheds-Drømme,
vugget saa sagtelig ind.
som baaren af bølgende Strømme.
Som Aftenbrisen, saa sval og let,
paa min Pande vifted dit Aandedræt,
og langsomt standsed mit Sind,
som en Baad, der svæver ved Solesæt
mellem Sø og faldende Vind -
imellem dit Bryst og din Kind.

Mellem din Kind og dit Bryst
dér fik mine Tanker en Dvale;
fra Hjertekildernes Røst
fornam de en Eventyr-Tale;
Melodisk nynned dit sunde Blod
lig Nymfestemmer fra Livets Flod
under Elskovslundenes Kyst;
og just som min Drøm ved Dybet stod,
jeg vaagned af Elskov kyst -
imellem din Kind og dit Bryst.

by Karl Adolph Gjellerup.

I DRINK fresh nourishment, new blood

From out this world more free;
The Nature is so kind and good

That to her breast clasps me!
The billows toss our bark on high,

And with our oars keep time,
While cloudy mountains tow'rd the sky

Before our progress climb.

Say, mine eye, why sink'st thou down?
Golden visions, are ye flown?

Hence, thou dream, tho' golden-twin'd;

Here, too, love and life I find.

Over the waters are blinking

Many a thousand fair star;
Gentle mists are drinking

Round the horizon afar.
Round the shady creek lightly

Morning zephyrs awake,
And the ripen'd fruit brightly

Mirrors itself in the lake.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

Reforming Oneself

It has been raining again. I have been indoors, meditating on the shortcomings of life.
I wish there were more kindly persons in the world. Our competitive life develops selfishness and unkindness.
I am determined to do something about it. I cannot hope to convert many persons. To convert one person, I shall do well.
I will begin with the person I know best - myself.
When it rains and one is much indoors one is likely to meditate on the shortcomings of life.
Let me think - how shall I make myself kind, gentle considerate?
I do believe it has stopped raining.
I can go out now. I'll go and shoot on the archery range.
I'll not bother to reform myself today. Perhaps tomorrow - if it is raining, and I must stay indoors, and meditate on the shortcomings of life.

by Max Ehrmann.

Stanzas To A Hindoo Air

Oh! my lonely--lonely--lonely--Pillow!
Where is my lover? where is my lover?
Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover?
Far--far away! and alone along the billow?

Oh! my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pil­low!
Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay?
How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly,
And my head droops over thee like the willow!

Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow!
Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking,
In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking;
Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow.

Then if thou wilt--no more my lonely Pillow,
In one embrace let these arms again enfold him,
And then expire of the joy-but to behold him!
Oh! my lone bosom!-oh! my lonely Pillow!

by George Gordon Byron.

Thou wilt come no more, gentle Annie,
Like a flower thy spirit did depart;
Thou art gone, alas! like the many
That have bloomed in the summer of my heart.


Chorus

Shall we nevermore behold thee;
Never hear thy winning voice again -
When the Springtime comes, gentle Annie,
When the wild flowers are scattered o'er the plain?


We have roamed and loved mid the bowers
When thy downy cheeks were in their bloom;
Now I stand alone mid the flowers
While they mingle their perfumes o'er thy tomb.

Chorus

Ah! the hours grow sad while I ponder
Near the silent spot where thou art laid,
And my heart bows down when I wander
By the streams and the meadows where we strayed.

Chorus

by Stephen Collins Foster.

Gentle Lena Clare

I'm thinking of sweet Lena Clare,
With deep blue eyes and waving hair,
Her voice is soft, her face is fair
My gentle Lena Clare.
I love her careless winning ways,
I love her wild and birdlike lays,
I love the grass whereon she strays
My gentle Lena Clare.
Gentle Lena Clare
My dear lov'd Lena Clare
Her heart is light, her eyes are bright,
My gentle Lena Clare.
Gentle Lena Clare
My dear lov'd Lena Clare
Her heart is light, her eyes are bright,
My gentle Lena Clare.
Gentle Lena Clare
My dear lov'd Lena Clare
Her heart is light, her eyes are bright,
My gentle Lena Clare.
3
Her home is in the shady glen,
When summer comes I'll seek again,
On mountain height and lowland plain;
— — My gentle Lena Clare.

by Stephen Collins Foster.

After The Concert

The blackened skies have reached the garden walk;
Yet my poor heart tonight cannot be not the restless…
The lights that have been failed, the lost of sounds talk,
Are they the remnants of the dream in sadness?

Oh, how sad it was, the satin of her dress,
Her breast was very white, among the straps black fair!
How sorry I was then to see her eyes distressed,
Her hands in snowy gloves, resigned as to a prayer!

And how much her soul was mercilessly dispersed,
Among the tearless, cold-hearted and unsettled!
Like sounds, bred in silence, were there spelled –
The starry sounds – lilac, bright, and gentle!

Like at an anguish’s flesh, from broken a lace,
In dazzling light of moon, with gentleness and fire,
Roll dawn amethysts into the dewy mire,
And die without trace.

by Innokenty Fedorovich Annensky.

The morn of life is past,
And ev'ning comes at last;
It brings me a dream of a once happy day,
Of merry forms I've seen
Upon the village green,
Sporting with my old dog Tray.

Chorus:
Old dog Tray's ever faithful;
Grief cannot drive him away;
He's gentle, he is kind,
I'll never, never find
A better friend than old dog Tray.

The forms I called my own
Have vanish'd one by one,
The lov'd ones, the dear ones have all pass'd away;
Their happy smiles have flown,
Their gentle voices gone,
I've nothing left but old dog Tray.

Chorus.

When thoughts recall the past,
His eyes are on me cast,
I know that he feels what my breaking heart would say;
Although he cannot speak,
I'll vainly, vainly seek
A better friend than old dog Tray

by Stephen Collins Foster.

Blind Bartimeus

As Jesus went into Jericho town,
Twas darkness all, from toe to crown,
About blind Bartimeus.
He said, 'My eyes are more than dim,
They are no use for seeing him:
No matter-he can see us!'

'Cry out, cry out, blind brother-cry;
Let not salvation dear go by.-
Have mercy, Son of David.'
Though they were blind, they both could hear-
They heard, and cried, and he drew near;
And so the blind were saved.

O Jesus Christ, I am very blind;
Nothing comes through into my mind;
'Tis well I am not dumb:
Although I see thee not, nor hear,
I cry because thou may'st be near:
O son of Mary, come!

I hear it through the all things blind:
Is it thy voice, so gentle and kind-
'Poor eyes, no more be dim'?
A hand is laid upon mine eyes;
I hear, and hearken, see, and rise;-
'Tis He! I follow him!

by George MacDonald.

What Do The Futures Speak Of?

IN ANSWER TO A QUESTION IN THE GREEK GRAMMAR

They speak of never-withering shades,
And bowers of opening joy;
They promise mines of fairy gold,
And bliss without alloy.
They whisper strange enchanting things
Within Hope's greedy ears;
And sure this tuneful voice exceeds
The music of the spheres.

They speak of pleasure to the gay,
And wisdom to the wise;
And soothe the poet's beating heart
With fame that never dies.
To virgins languishing in love
They speak the minute nigh;
And warm consenting hearts they join,
And paint the rapture high.
In every language, every tongue,
The same kind things they say;
In gentle slumbers speak by night,
In waking dreams by day.
Cassandra's fate reversed is theirs;
She true, no faith could gain,—
They every passing hour deceive,
Yet are believed again.

by Anna Laetitia Barbauld.

SISTER of the first-born light,

Type of sorrowing gentleness!

Quivering mists in silv'ry dress
Float around thy features bright;
When thy gentle foot is heard,

From the day-closed caverns then

Wake the mournful ghosts of men,
I, too, wake, and each night-bird.

O'er a field of boundless span

Looks thy gaze both far and wide.

Raise me upwards to thy side!
Grant this to a raving man!
And to heights of rapture raised,

Let the knight so crafty peep

At his maiden while asleep,
Through her lattice-window glazed.

Soon the bliss of this sweet view,

Pangs by distance caused allays;

And I gather all thy rays,
And my look I sharpen too.
Round her unveil'd limbs I see

Brighter still become the glow,

And she draws me down below,
As Endymion once drew thee.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

To Mrs. Dulaney

What was thine errand here?
Thy beauty was more exquisite than aught
That from this marrèd earth
Takes its imperfect birth.
It was a radiant heavenly beauty, caught
From some far higher sphere,
And though an angel now, thou still must bear
The lovely semblance that thou here didst wear.
What was thine errand here?
Thy gentle thoughts, and holy, humble mind,
With earthly creatures coarse
Held not discourse,
But with fine spirits, of some purer kind,
Dwelt in communion dear;
And sure they speak to thee that language now,
Which thou wert wont to speak to us, below.
What was thine errand here?
To adorn anguish, and ennoble death,
And make infirmity
A patient victory.
And crown life's baseness with a glorious wreath,
That fades not on thy bier,
But fits, immortal soul! thy triumph still,
In that bright world where thou are gone to dwell.

by Frances Anne Kemble.

Sometimes, to solace my sad heart, I say,
Though late it be, though lily-time be past,
Though all the summer skies be overcast,
Haply I will go down to her, some day,
And cast my rests of life before her feet,
That she may have her will of me, being so sweet
And none gainsay!

So might she look on me with pitying eyes,
And lay calm hands of healing on my head:
'_Because of thy long pains be comforted;
For I, even I, am Love: sad soul, arise!_'
So, for her graciousness, I might at last
Gaze on the very face of Love, and hold Him fast
In no disguise.

Haply, I said, she will take pity on me,
Though late I come, long after lily-time,
With burden of waste days and drifted rhyme:
Her kind, calm eyes, down drooping maidenly,
Shall change, grow soft: there yet is time, meseems,
I said, for solace; though I know these things are dreams
And may not be!

by Ernest Christopher Dowson.

They Flee From Me That Sometime Did Me Seek

They flee from me that sometime did me seek
With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek,
That now are wild and do not remember
That sometime they put themself in danger
To take bread at my hand; and now they range,
Busily seeking with a continual change.

Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise
Twenty times better; but once in special,
In thin array after a pleasant guise,
When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,
And she me caught in her arms long and small;
Therewithall sweetly did me kiss
And softly said, 'dear heart, how like you this?'

It was no dream: I lay broad waking.
But all is turned thorough my gentleness
Into a strange fashion of forsaking;
And I have leave to go of her goodness,
And she also, to use newfangleness.
But since that I so kindly am served
I would fain know what she hath deserved.

by David McKee Wright.

The Death Of Schiller

'Tis said, when Schiller's death drew nigh,
The wish possessed his mighty mind,
To wander forth wherever lie
The homes and haunts of human-kind.

Then strayed the poet, in his dreams,
By Rome and Egypt's ancient graves;
Went up the New World's forest streams,
Stood in the Hindoo's temple-caves;

Walked with the Pawnee, fierce and stark,
The sallow Tartar, midst his herds,
The peering Chinese, and the dark
False Malay uttering gentle words.

How could he rest? even then he trod
The threshold of the world unknown;
Already, from the seat of God,
A ray upon his garments shone;--

Shone and awoke the strong desire
For love and knowledge reached not here,
Till, freed by death, his soul of fire
Sprang to a fairer, ampler sphere.

Then--who shall tell how deep, how bright
The abyss of glory opened round?
How thought and feeling flowed like light,
Through ranks of being without bound?

by William Cullen Bryant.

Mein Kind, Wir Waren Kinder

My child, we were just children,
Two happy kids, that’s all:
We crept into the henhouse,
And hid there in the straw.
We crowed like the cockerel,
And all the passers-by –
Thought our: ‘Cock-a-doodle-doo!’
Was the real cockerel’s cry.
We papered over the boxes
We found around the yard,
And we lived there together
In our elegant house of card.
The neighbour’s cat, the old one,
She often came for tea:
We paid her our respects, then,
I bowed and you curtseyed.
We asked how she was feeling,
Politely and with care:
Since then we’ve said the same
To many an ancient fur.
We often sat there chatting,
Sensibly, as folks do,
Complaining how much better
It was in our day too:
How love and faith and loyalty
Have vanished from the earth,
How dear the coffee is now,
How hard to garner wealth!….
They’re gone our games as children,
Everything goes, we see –
Wealth and Earth and ages,
Faith, love and loyalty.

by Heinrich Heine.

Awake, awake, my Lyre!
And tell thy silent master's humble tale
In sounds that may prevail;
Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:
Though so exalted she
And I so lowly be
Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.

Hark, how the strings awake!
And, though the moving hand approach not near,
Themselves with awful fear
A kind of numerous trembling make.
Now all thy forces try;
Now all thy charms apply;
Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.

Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure
Is useless here, since thou art only found
To cure, but not to wound,
And she to wound, but not to cure,
Too weak too wilt thou prove
My passion to remove;
Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love.

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!
For thou canst never tell my humble tale
In sounds that will prevail,
Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;
All thy vain mirth lay by,
Bid thy strings silent lie,
Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.

by Abraham Cowley.

Singer of priceless melody,
Underguerdoned chorister of air,
Who from the lithe top of the tree
Pourest at will thy music rare,
As if a sudden brook laughed down the hill-side there.

The purple-blossomed fields of grass,
Waved sea-like to the idle wind,
Thick daisies that the stars surpass,
Being as fair and far more kind;
All sweet uncultured things thy wild notes bring to mind.

When that enraptured overflow
Of singing into silence dies,
Thy rapid fleeting pinions show
Where all thy spell of sweetness lies
Gathered in one small nest from the wide earth and skies.

Unconscious of thine audience,
Careless of praises as of blame,
In simpleness and innocence,
Thy gentle life pursues its aim,
So tender and serene, that we might blush for shame.

The patience of thy brooding wings
That droop in silence day by day,
The little crowd of callow things
That joy for weariness repay,
These are the living spring, thy song the fountain's spray.

by Rose Terry Cooke.

The World Is Full Of Kindness

The World is full of kindness—
And not the poor alone;
We Christians in our blindness
Bow down to hearts of stone;
The clever, bitter cynic,
Whose poisoned “soul” is dead,
And, like the rotten clinic,
Raves, helpless, on his bed.

The world is full of kindness—
But not the White alone;
The heathen in his blindness
Bows down to wood and stone;
But all men are his brothers,
In spite of all the “Powers,”
And the things he does for others
Shew whiter souls than ours.

The world is full of kindness—
But not the Lean alone;
The Fat man in his blindness
Bows down, and not to stone;
But when a friend’s in trouble,
And an honest friend at that,
Then I’d turn to the Fat man
In spite of all his fat.

The world is full of kindness
If it is let alone,
And men’s hearts in their blindness
Are neither ice nor stone.
In spite of all pretences,
We get it from Above;
In spite of all defences—
Red blood, kind hearts, and love.

by Henry Lawson.

Do Not Weep, Maiden, For War Is Kind

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom --
A field where a thousand corpses lie.

Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Swift blazing flag of the regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.

Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

by Stephen Crane.

Behold, where breathing love divine,
Our dying Master stands!
His weeping followers gathering round
Receive his last commands.
From that mild teacher's parting lips
What tender accents fell!
The gentle precept which he gave
Became its author well.
“Blest is the man whose softening heart
Feels all another's pain;
To whom the supplicating eye
Was never raised in vain.

“Whose breast expands with generous warmth
A stranger's woes to feel;
And bleeds in pity o'er the wound
He wants the power to heal.
“He spreads his kind supporting arms
To every child of grief;
His secret bounty largely flows,
And brings unasked relief.
“To gentle offices of love
His feet are never slow;
He views through mercy's melting eye
A brother in a foe.
“Peace from the bosom of his God,
My peace to him I give;
And when he kneels before the throne,
His trembling soul shall live.

“To him protection shall be shown,
And mercy from above
Descend on those who thus fulfill
The perfect law of love.”

by Anna Laetitia Barbauld.

Psalm 119. Last Part

Sanctified afflictions; or, Delight in the word of God.

ver. 67,59

Father, I bless thy gentle hand;
How kind was thy chastising rod,
That forced my conscience to a stand,
And brought my wand'ring soul to God!

Foolish and vain, I went astray
Ere I had felt thy scourges, Lord;
I left my guide, and lost my way;
But now I love and keep thy word.

ver. 71

'Tis good for me to wear the yoke,
For pride is apt to rise and swell;
'Tis good to bear my Father's stroke,
That I might learn his statutes well.

ver. 72

The law that issues from thy mouth
Shall raise my cheerful passions more
Than all the treasures of the south,
Or western hills of golden ore.

ver. 73

Thy hands have made my mortal frame,
Thy Spirit formed my soul within;
Teach me to know thy wondrous name,
And guard me safe from death and sin.

ver. 74

Then all that love and fear the Lord
At my salvation shall rejoice;
For I have hoped in thy word,
And made thy grace my only choice.

by Isaac Watts.

An Elegy On The Death Of A Mad Dog

Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran—
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad—
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wond'ring neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost its wits
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light
That showed the rogues they lied,—
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died!

by Oliver Goldsmith.

Why I Went To The Foot

Was ever a maiden so worried?
I’ll admit I am partial to Jim,
For Jimmie has promised to wed me
When I’m old enough to wed him.

But then I love teacher, too, dearly,
She’s always so lovely to me,
And she’s pretty and kind and sweet-tempered,
And gentle as gentle can be.

I wouldn’t for worlds hurt Jim’s feelings,
For he never would like me again—
But there was my dearest, sweet teacher,
And I’d die if my words gave her pain.

'Two plus two equals what?' was the problem.
And I knew teacher thought it made 'four';
But Jimmie said 'six,' and maintained it
As long as he stood on the floor.

And I saw I must soon choose between them,
For I was the next in the line.
Should I side with my teacher or Jimmie?
What a sad situation was mine!

And just as my heart with that problem
Of friendship was so sorely vexed
I was called on to answer the other,
For teacher had said, sharply, 'Next!'

It was then that the brilliant thought struck me,
That by compromise I could contrive
To hurt neither teacher nor Jimmie,
And that’s how I came to say 'five.'

by Ellis Parker Butler.

I sit with my feet in the oven,

My nose close up to the pipe ;
I 'm as jokey as any spring robin,

That 's fresh and is rather unripe.

I still wear my ear muffs and cap ;

I still to my overcoat cling ;
Still I feel it my duty to sit

And warble of ; Beautiful Spring.

But my warble is husky and harsh,
And my melody suffers from cracks ;

For the froglets down there in the marsh
Are shivering with humps on their backs.

Of my country I 'm awfully proud ;

So I close to the cooking stove cling,
And lilt, like a dog in a shroud,

Of the coming of Beautiful Spring.

The neck of old winter's giraffic,

It reaches far out into May ;
O, come with your sonnet seraphic,

Sweet robin, come early, I pray.

But be sure and put overshoes on ;

Bring an overcoat over your wing,
And a bag full of mufflers and socks,

When you herald Ethereal Spring.


But still will I manfully sit,

While I close to the cooking stove cling ;
In the voice of a frosted tomtit

Will I sing of Ethereal Spring.

by Robert Kirkland Kernighan.