Epitaph On A Nephew, In Catworth Church, Huntingdonshire

Stay, stranger, stay, and drop one tear.
She always weeps, who laid him here;
And will do till her race is run;
His father's fifth, her only son.

by John Dryden.

My Friend Attacks My Friend!

118

My friend attacks my friend!
Oh Battle picturesque!
Then I turn Soldier too,
And he turns Satirist!
How martial is this place!
Had I a mighty gun
I think I'd shoot the human race
And then to glory run!

by Emily Dickinson.

It sounded as if the Streets were running

It sounded as if the Streets were running
And then - the Streets stood still -
Eclipse - was all we could see at the Window
And Awe - was all we could feel.

By and by - the boldest stole out of his Covert
To see if Time was there -
Nature was in an Opal Apron,
Mixing fresher Air.

by Emily Dickinson.

The wail of France comes o'er the sea, -
She mourns for thee, departed chief;
And we, the children of the Free,
Re-echo back the notes of grief.

Thy course was like the morning sun,
That lights two worlds, the east and west;
Thy brilliant, glorious race is run,
Thou takest thine eternal rest.

Thy fame shall pass from age to age,
From clime to clime, from sire to son;
And History, on her glowing page,
Shall write thy name with Washington.

by Anne Charlotte Lynch Botta.

OH who shall say that we are free !
Surely life's chains are strong to bind
From youth to age, from birth to death,
Body and mind.

We run the riotous race of youth,
Then turn from evil things to good :
'Tis but a slower pulse, a chill
Of youth's hot blood.

We mount the difficult steeps of thought,
Or pace the dusty paths of gain :
'Tis but that sense receding leaves
A keener brain.

Time takes this too, and then we turn
Our dim eyes to the hidden shore ;
Life palls, and yet we long to live,
Ay, nothing more.

by Sir Lewis Morris.

Who shall declare the joy of the running!
Who shall tell of the pleasures of flight!
Springing and spurning the tufts of wild heather,
Sweeping, wide-winged, through the blue dome of light.
Everything mortal has moments immortal,
Swift and God-gifted, immeasurably bright.

So with the stretch of the white road before me,
Shining snowcrystals rainbowed by the sun,
Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue shadows,
Strong with the strength of my horse as we run.
Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight!
Joy! With the vigorous earth I am one.

by Amy Lowell.

Identity: A Sonnet

Identity: A Sonnet
That I am I, I surely know full well ;
I know my littleness and little place,
And how I feebly run my life's great race ;
Yet if an angel came with power to tell
Me how to be another I, and dwell
In his environment and ampler space,
Myself, annihilate; I'd set my face,
And be myself, though prisoned in a cell.
God made me, me, in changeless entity,
And could I be another, where were I ?
'Tis not that others are not nobler far ;
My light a spark, the while they sun-like shine
But living here or in some distant star,
Their lives are theirs, and mine for ever mine.

by Gerard Addington D Arcy Irvine.

A Baby Running Barefoot

When the bare feet of the baby beat across the grass
The little white feet nod like white flowers in the wind,
They poise and run like ripples lapping across the water;
And the sight of their white play among the grass
Is like a little robin’s song, winsome,
Or as two white butterflies settle in the cup of one flower
For a moment, then away with a flutter of wings.

I long for the baby to wander hither to me
Like a wind-shadow wandering over the water,
So that she can stand on my knee
With her little bare feet in my hands,
Cool like syringa buds,
Firm and silken like pink young peony flowers.

by David Herbert Lawrence.

Aunt Chloe's Politics

Of course, I don't know very much
About these politics,
But I think that some who run 'em,
Do mighty ugly tricks.

I've seen 'em honey-fugle round,
And talk so awful sweet,
That you'd think them full of kindness
As an egg is full of meat.

Now I don't believe in looking
Honest people in the face,
And saying when you're doing wrong,
That 'I haven't sold my race.'

When we want to school our children,
If the money isn't there,
Whether black or white have took it,
The loss we all must share.

And this buying up each other
Is something worse than mean,
Though I thinks a heap of voting,
I go for voting clean.

by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper.

Where Lies The Land? —(Wordsworth)

‘Where lies the land of which thy soul would know? '
Beyond the wearied wold, the songless dell,
The purple grape and golden asphodel,

Beyond the zone where streams baptismal flow.
Where lies the land to which thy soul would go? '
There where the unvexed senses darkling dwell,
Where never haunting, hurrying footfall fell,
Where toil is not, nor builded hope laid low.

Rest! Rest! to thy hushed realm how one by one
Old Earth's tired ages steal away and weep,
Forgotten or unknown, long duty done.

Ah, God! when death in seeming peace shall steep
Life's loud turmoil, and Time his race hath run-
Shall heart of man at length find rest and sleep?

by Hall Caine.

Melville And Coghill - The Place Of The Little Hand

DEAD, with their eyes to the foe,
Dead, with the foe at their feet;
Under the sky laid low
Truly their slumber is sweet,
Though the wind from the Camp of the
Slain Men blow,
And the rain on the wilderness beat.

Dead, for they chose to die
When that wild race was run;
Dead, for they would not fly,
Deeming their work undone,
Nor cared to look on the face of the sky,
Nor loved the light of the sun.

Honor we give them and tears,
And the flag they died to save,
Rent from the raid of the spears,
Wet from the war and the wave,
Shall waft men’s thoughts through the dust of the years,
Back to their lonely grave!

by Andrew Lang.

The Setting Sun

'Tis sweet to trace the setting sun
Wheel blushing down the west;
When his diurnal race is run,
The traveller stops the gloom to shun,
And lodge his bones to rest.

Far from the eye he sinks apace,
But still throws back his light
From oceans of resplendent grace,
Whence sleeping vesper paints her face,
And bids the sun good night.

To those hesperian fields by night
My thoughts in vision stray,
Like spirits stealing into light,
From gloom upon the wing of flight,
Soaring from time away.

Our eagle, with his pinions furl'd,
Takes his departing peep,
And hails the occidental world,
Swift round whose base the globes are whirl'd,
Whilst weary creatures sleep.

by George Moses Horton.

The Handsome Heart

at a Gracious Answer


‘But tell me, child, your choice; what shall I buy
You?’—‘Father, what you buy me I like best.’
With the sweetest air that said, still plied and pressed,
He swung to his first poised purport of reply.

What the heart is! which, like carriers let fly—
Doff darkness, homing nature knows the rest—
To its own fine function, wild and self-instressed,
Falls light as ten years long taught how to and why.

Mannerly-hearted! more than handsome face—
Beauty’s bearing or muse of mounting vein,
All, in this case, bathed in high hallowing grace…

Of heaven what boon to buy you, boy, or gain
Not granted?—Only … O on that path you pace
Run all your race, O brace sterner that strain!

by Gerard Manley Hopkins.

Of The Going Down Of The Sun

What, hast thou run thy race, art going down?
Thou seemest angry, why dost on us frown?
Yea, wrap thy head with clouds and hide thy face,
As threatening to withdraw from us thy grace?
O leave us not! When once thou hid'st thy head,
Our horizon with darkness will be spread.
Tell who hath thee offended, turn again.
Alas! too late, intreaties are in vain.

Comparison.

Our gospel has had here a summer's day,
But in its sunshine we, like fools, did play;
Or else fall out, and with each other wrangle,
And did, instead of work, not much but jangle.
And if our sun seems angry, hides his face,
Shall it go down, shall night possess this place?
Let not the voice of night birds us afflict,
And of our misspent summer us convict.

by John Bunyan.

Psalm Xix: The Heavens Declare Thy Glory, Lord

The heavens declare thy glory, Lord,
In every star thy wisdom shines;
But when our eyes behold thy word,
We read thy name in fairer lines.

The rolling sun, the changing light,
And night and day, thy power confess;
But the blest volume thou hast writ
Reveals thy justice and thy grace.

Sun, moon, and stars convey thy praise
Round the whole earth, and never stand;
So when thy truth began its race,
It touched and glanced on every land.

Nor shall thy spreading gospel rest
Till through the world thy truth has run
Till Christ has all the nations blest,
That see the light or feel the sun.

Great Sun of righteousness, arise,
Bless the dark world with heavenly light:
Thy gospel makes the simple wise;
Thy laws are pure, thy judgments right.

by Isaac Watts.

Dance Of The Sunbeams

WHEN morning is high o'er the hilltops
On river and stream and lake,
Wherever a young breeze whispers,
The sun-clad dancers wake.
One after one up-springing,
They flash from their dim retreat.
Merry as running laughter
Is the news of their twinkling feet.
Over the floors of azure
Wherever the wind-flaws run,
Sparkling, leaping, and racing,
Their antics scatter the sun.
As long as water ripples
And weather is clear and glad,
Day after day they are dancing,
Never a moment sad.
But when through the field of heaven
The wings of storm take flight,
At a touch of the flying shadows
They falter and slip from sight.
Until at the gray day's ending,
As the squadrons of cloud retire,
They pass in the triumph of sunset
With banners of crimson fire.

by Bliss William Carman.

While with ceaseless course the sun
Hasted through the former year,
Many souls their race have run,
Never more to meet us here;
Fixed in an eternal fate,
They have done with all below.
We a little longer wait,
But how little -- none can know.

As the winged arrow flies
Speedily the mark to find;
As the lightning from the skies
Darts, and leaves no trace behind,
Swiftly thus our fleeting days
Bear us down life's rapid stream.
Upward, Lord, our spirits raise;
All below is but a dream.

Thanks for mercies past receive,
Pardon of our sins renew;
Teach us, henceforth how to live
With eternity in view.
Bless Thy Word to young and old,
Fill us with a Saviour's love;
And when life's short tale is told,
May we dwell with Thee above.

by John Newton.

HERE in this sequester'd close
Bloom the hyacinth and rose,
Here beside the modest stock
Flaunts the flaring hollyhock;
Here, without a pang, one sees
Ranks, conditions, and degrees.

All the seasons run their race
In this quiet resting-place;
Peach and apricot and fig
Here will ripen and grow big;
Here is store and overplus,--
More had not Alcinoüs!

Here, in alleys cool and green,
Far ahead the thrush is seen;
Here along the southern wall
Keeps the bee his festival;
All is quiet else--afar
Sounds of toil and turmoil are.

Here be shadows large and long;
Here be spaces meet for song;
Grant, O garden-god, that I,
Now that none profane is nigh,--
Now that mood and moment please,--
Find the fair Pierides!

by Henry Austin Dobson.

The Christian race.

Isa. 40:28-31.

Awake, our souls; away, our fears,
Let every trembling thought begone;
Awake, and run the heav'nly race,
And put a cheerful courage on.

True, 'tis a strait and thorny road,
And mortal spirits tire and faint;
But they forget the mighty God,
That feeds the strength of every saint.

Thee, mighty God! whose matchless power
Is ever new and ever young,
And firm endures, while endless years
Their everlasting circles run.

From thee, the overflowing spring,
Our souls shall drink a fresh supply,
While such as trust their native strength
Shall melt away, and droop, and die.

Swift as an eagle cuts the air,
We'll mount aloft to thine abode
On wings of love our souls shall fly,
Nor tire amidst the heav'nly road.

by Isaac Watts.

An unconverted state; or, Converting grace.

[Great King of glory and of grace,
We own, with humble shame,
How vile is our degen'rate race,
And our first father's name.]

From Adam flows our tainted blood,
The poison reigns within;
Makes us averse to all that's good,
And willing slaves to sin.

[Daily we break thy holy laws,
And then reject thy grace;
Engaged in the old serpent's cause,
Against our Maker's face.l

We live estranged afar from God,
And love the distance well;
With haste we run the dangerous road
That leads to death and hell.

And can such rebels be restored?
Such natures made divine?
Let sinners see thy glory, Lord,
And feel this power of thine.

We raise our Fathers name on high
Who his own Spirit sends
To bring rebellious strangers nigh,
And turn his foes to friends.

by Isaac Watts.

Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace;
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more than what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain.
For when as each thing bad thou hast intombed,
And last of all thy greedy self consumed,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss,
And Joy shall overtake us as a flood;
When every thing that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine
About the supreme throne
Of Him, t' whose happy-making sight alone
When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall climb,
Then, all this earthly grossness quit,
Attired with stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time.

by John Milton.

Letter In Verse

Like boys that run behind the loaded wain
For the mere joy of riding back again,
When summer from the meadow carts the hay
And school hours leave them half a day to play;
So I with leisure on three sides a sheet
Of foolscap dance with poesy's measured feet,
Just to ride post upon the wings of time
And kill a care, to friendship turned in rhyme.
The muse's gallop hurries me in sport
With much to read and little to divert,
And I, amused, with less of wit than will,
Run till I tire.--And so to cheat her still.
Like children running races who shall be
First in to touch the orchard wall or tree,
The last half way behind, by distance vext,
Turns short, determined to be first the next;
So now the muse has run me hard and long--
I'll leave at once her races and her song;
And, turning round, laugh at the letter's close
And beat her out by ending it in prose.

by John Clare.

Rest, warrior, rest! thine hour is past,—
Thy longest war-whoop, and thy last,
Still rings upon the rushing blast,
That o'er thy grave sweeps drearily.
Rest, warrior, rest! thy haughty brow,
Beneath the hand of death bends low,
Thy fiery glance is quenchèd now,
In the cold grave's obscurity.
Rest, warrior, rest! thy rising sun
Is set in blood, thy day is done;
Like lightning flash thy race is run,
And thou art sleeping peacefully.
Rest, warrior, rest! thy foot no more
The boundless forest shall explore,
Or trackless cross the sandy shore,
Or chase the red deer rapidly.
Rest, warrior, rest! thy light canoe,
Like thy choice arrow, swift and true,
Shall part no more the waters blue,
That sparkle round it brilliantly.
Rest, warrior, rest! thine hour is past,
Yon sinking sunbeam is thy last,
And all is silent, save the blast,
That o'er thy grave sweeps drearily.

by Frances Anne Kemble.

Dan Wasn’t Thrown From His Horse

THEY SAY he was thrown and run over,
But that is sheer nonsense, of course:
I taught him to ride when a kiddy,
And Dan wasn’t thrown from his horse.

The horse that Dan rode was a devil—
The kind of a brute I despise,
With nasty white eyelashes fringing
A pair of red, sinister eyes.

And a queerly-shaped spot on his forehead,
Where I put a conical ball
The day that he murdered Dan Denver,
The pluckiest rider of all.

’Twas after the races were over
And Duggan (a Talbragar man)
And two of the Denvers, and Barney
Were trying a gallop with Dan.

Dan’s horse on a sudden got vicious,
And reared up an’ plunged in the race,
Then threw back his head, hitting Dan like
A sledge-hammer, full in the face.

Dan stopped and got down, stood a moment,
Then fell to the ground like a stone,
And died about ten minutes after;
But they’re liars who say he was thrown.

by Henry Lawson.

To Those Who Loved Her

Though gentle, loving, pure, and fair
A little maid of promise rare,
Who might in life's eventful race
Have won a bright and envied place—
Weep not for her.

Had she been granted length of life,
Her golden hair with beauty rife,
With which you fondly lov'd to play.
Care might have early ting'd with grey—
Weep not for her.

In paths not those prescribed by God,
With daring feet she might have trod.
With sin's dark dyes her soul have stained.
And ne'er a heavenly home have gain'd—
Weep not for her.

Tears might have dimm'd her sparkling eye.
Which you'd have lack'd the power to dry,
Though yearning to extract the dart
That rankled in her wounded heart—
Weep not for her.

Deep furrows too, in her smooth brow
Might have been cut by Griefs stem plough ;
But her life's glass has run its sands,
And safe she dwells with angel bands—
Weep not for her.

by John Bradford.

Psalm 119 Part 16

Prayer for quickening grace.

ver. 25,37

My soul lies cleaving to the dust;
Lord, give me life divine;
From vain desires and every lust
Turn off these eyes of mine.

I need the influence of thy grace
To speed me in thy way,
Lest I should loiter in my race,
Or turn my feet astray.

ver. 107

When sore afflictions press me down,
I need thy quick'ning powers;
Thy word that I have rested on
Shall help my heaviest hours.

ver. 156,40

Are not thy mercies sovereign still,
And thou a faithful God?
Wilt thou not grant me warmer zeal
To run the heav'nly road?

ver. 159,40

Does not my heart thy precepts love,
And long to see thy face?
And yet how slow my spirits move
Without enliv'ning grace!

ver. 93

Then shall I love thy gospel more,
And ne'er forget thy word,
When I have felt its quick'ning power,
To draw me near the Lord.

by Isaac Watts.

A morning hymn.

Psa. 19:5,8; 73:24,25.

God of the morning! at whose voice
The cheerful sun makes haste to rise,
And like a giant doth rejoice
To run his journey through the skies.

From the fair chambers of the east
The circuit of his race begins,
And, without weariness or rest,
Round the whole earth he flies and shines.

O like the sun may I fulfil
Th' appointed duties of the day,
With ready mind and active will
March on and keep my heav'nly way.

[But I shall rove and lose the race,
If God, my sun, should disappear,
And leave me in this world's wild maze,
To follow every wand'ring star.

Lord, thy commands are clean and pure,
Enlight'ning our beclouded eyes;
Thy threat'nings just, thy promise sure,
Thy gospel makes the simple wise.]

Give me thy counsel for my guide,
And then receive me to thy bliss;
All my desires and hopes beside
Are faint and cold compared with this.

by Isaac Watts.

You sleep upon your mother's breast,
Your race begun,
A welcome, long a wished-for Guest,
Whose age is One.

A Baby-Boy, you wonder why
You cannot run;
You try to talk - how hard you try! -
You're only One.

Ere long you won't be such a dunce:
You'll eat your bun,
And fly your kite, like folk who once
Were only One.

You'll rhyme and woo, and fight and joke,
Perhaps you'll pun!
Such feats are never done by folk
Before they're One.

Some day, too, you may have your joy,
And envy none;
Yes, you, yourself, may own a Boy,
Who isn't One.

He'll dance, and laugh, and crow; he'll do
As you have done:
(You crown a happy home, though you
Are only One.)

But when he's grown shall you be here
To share his fun,
And talk of times when he (the Dear!)
Was hardly One?

Dear Child, 'tis your poor lot to be
My little Son;
I'm glad, though I am old, you see, -
While you are One.

by Frederick Locker-Lampson.

The books of nature and of Scripture compared.

THE heav'ns declare thy glory, Lord,
In every star thy wisdom shines
But when our eyes behold thy word,
We read thy name in fairer lines.

The rolling sun, the changing light,
And nights and days, thy power confess
But the blest volume thou hast writ
Reveals thy justice and thy grace.

Sun, moon, and stars convey thy praise
Round the whole earth, and never stand:
So when thy truth begun its race,
It touched and glanced on every land.

Nor shall thy spreading gospel rest
Till through the world thy truth has run,
Till Christ has all the nations blest
That see the light or feel the sun.

Great Sun of Righteousness, arise,
Bless the dark world with heav'nly light;
Thy gospel makes the simple wise,
Thy laws are pure, thy judgments right.

Thy noblest wonders here we view
In souls renewed and sins forgiv'n;
Lord, cleanse my sins, my soul renew,
And make thy word my guide to heaven.

by Isaac Watts.

A Play Festival In Ogden Park

Oh gay and shining June time!
Oh meadow brave and bright,
Abloom with little children,
All tossing in the light!
They dance and circle singing—
Oh, what a joy to see!
They twinkle in the sunshine,
They shout in company.

Beyond are pointed houses
Patterned against the blue,
With bushes flower-embroidered,
And trees all trim and true.
Around are rows of people
Watching the dainty show,
Guarding the fairy kingdom
Where blossom babies blow.

Their merry little footsteps
Race with the tricksy air,
That puffs their filmy dresses
And frees their shining hair.
All pink and white and golden
Under the round gold sun,
Winging the wind with laughter,
They ring and wreathe and run.

Oh, sweet and soft the world is,
Ever so glad and gay,
All garlanded with children
Who sing and prank and play !
You posy girls wide-petalled,
And boys all round and red,
Dance in the sun forever
Till time goes off to bed!

by Harriet Monroe.

Yon sound's neither sheep-bell nor bark,
They're running-they're running, Go hark!
The sport may be lost by a moment's delay;
So whip up the puppies and scurry away.
Dash down through the cover by dingle and dell,
There's a gate at the bottom-I know it full well;
And they're running-they're running,
Go hark!

They're running-they're running, Go hark!
One fence and we're out of the park;
Sit down in your saddles and race at the brook,
Then smash at the bullfinch; no time for a look;
Leave cravens and skirters to dangle behind;
He's away for the moors in the teeth of the wind,
And they're running-they're running,
Go hark!

They're running-they're running, Go hark!
Let them run on and run till it's dark!
Well with them we are, and well with them we'll be,
While there's wind in our horses and daylight to see:
Then shog along homeward, chat over the fight,
And hear in our dreams the sweet music all night
Of-They're running-they're running,
Go hark!


Eversley, 1856.

by Charles Kingsley.

To The Committee Of The Cayley Portrait Fund

O wretched race of men, to space confined!
What honour can ye pay to him, whose mind
To that which lies beyond hath penetrated?
The symbols he bath formed shall sound his praise,
And lead him on through unimagined ways
To conquests new, in worlds not yet created.

First, ye Determinants! in ordered row
And massive column ranged, before him go,
To form a phalanx for his safe protection.
Ye powers of the nth roots of — 1!
Around his head in ceaseless cycles run,
As unembodied spirits of direction.

And you, ye undevelopable scrolls!
Above the host wave your emblazoned rolls,
Ruled for the record of his bright inventions.
Ye Cubic surfaces! by threes and nines
Draw round his camp your seven-and-twenty lines—
The seal of Solomon in three dimensions.

March on, symbolic host! with step sublime,
Up to the flaming bounds of Space and Time!
There pause, until by Dickenson depicted,
In two dimensions, we the form may trace
Of him whose soul, too large for vulgar space,
In n dimensions flourished unrestricted.

by James Clerk Maxwell.

Gwine to Run All Night; or, De Camptown Races

De Camptown ladies sing dis song
Doo dah! doo dah!
De Camptown racetrack five miles long
Oh! doo dah day!
I come down dah wid my hat caved in
Doo dah! doo dah!
I go back home wid a pocket full of tin
Oh! doo dah day!
Gwine to run all night!
Gwine to run all day!
I'll bet my money on de bobtail nag,
Somebody bet on de bay.
De long tail filly, and de big black hoss
Doo dah! doo dah!
Dey fly de track, and dey both cut across
Oh! doo dah day!
De blind hoss sticken in a big mud hole
Doo dah! doo dah!
Can't touch bottom wid a ten foot pole
Oh! doo dah day!
Old muley cow come on to de track
Doo dah! doo dah!
De bobtail fling her ober his back
Oh! doo dah day!
Den fly along like a railroad car
Doo dah! doo dah!
Runnin' a race wid a shootin' star
Oh! doo dah day!
See dem flyin' on a ten mile heat
Doo dah! doo dah!
Round de race track, den repeat
Oh! doo dah day!
I win my money on de bobtail nag
Doo dah! doo dah!
I keep my money in an old tow bag
Oh! doo dah day!

by Stephen Collins Foster.

The Undying Race

Here in the narrow broken way
Where silently we go.
Steadfast above their valiant clay
Forgotten crosses show.
Our whispers call to many a ghost
Across the flare-light pale,
And from their graves the Breton host
Stand up beside the Gael.

Year upon year of ancient sleep
Have rusted on our swords,
But once again our place we keep
Against the Saxon hordes.
Since Arthur ruled in Brittany,
And all the world was new.
The fires that burned our history,
Bum in our spirits too.

One speech beyond their memory
Binds us together still,
One dream of home wherein we see
River and sea and hill.
When in the night-time Fingal's peers
Fight their old wars again,
The blood of twice two thousand years
Leaps high in every vein.

Old songs that waked King Arthur's knights
Stir in our memory yet.
Old tales of olden heroes fights
That we cannot forget,
To die as Fingal's warriors died
The great men long ago,
Breton and Gael stand side by side
Against the ancient foe.

by Ewart Alan Mackintosh.

Of The Boy And Butterfly

Behold, how eager this our little boy
Is for a butterfly, as if all joy,
All profits, honours, yea, and lasting pleasures,
Were wrapped up in her, or the richest treasures
Found in her would be bundled up together,
When all her all is lighter than a feather.

He halloos, runs, and cries out, 'Here, boys, here!'
Nor doth he brambles or the nettles fear:
He stumbles at the molehills, up he gets,
And runs again, as one bereft of wits;
And all his labour and his large outcry
Is only for a silly butterfly.

Comparison

This little boy an emblem is of those
Whose hearts are wholly at the world's dispose.
The butterfly doth represent to me
The world's best things at best but fading be.
All are but painted nothings and false joys,
Like this poor butterfly to these our boys.

His running through nettles, thorns, and briers,
To gratify his boyish fond desires,
His tumbling over molehills to attain
His end, namely, his butterfly to gain,
Doth plainly show what hazards some men run
To get what will be lost as soon as won.

by John Bunyan.

Song Of The Canadian Cradler

With my cradle scythe, feeling brisk and blithe,
In the breeze-tempered heat of this fine day;
I'll haste to the field with the wheaten yield,
And there will I manfully cut my way.

Now in all my walks, with broad, rapid strokes;
I bring down the waving grain quite low.
Every sweep I try seems to make it sigh,
But cheerful on, and still on I go.

I heed not the sweat, making my clothes wet,
The toil and care will be well repaid;
For this golden store drives want from my door,
And the surplus is farmers' profit made.

Binder now keep pace, for this hard-run race
Will tell on the field ere night come in;
And rest will be sweet in our plain retreat,
Until a new day with its toil begin.

O, I think I see with exhuberant glee,
The shocks in good order standing round,
And well-laden teams in my bright day-dreams,
Are now trotting briskly over the ground.

Then hasten the day when our grain and hay
Well secured beneath our good barn dome-
Will inspire our hearts to perform their parts
In the cherished joy of Harvest Home.

by Thomas Cowherd.

I8 The Kuan's Canticles

I hush the wail along my trail
Past hamlet, home and hollow,

While on I go with noiseless flow
And robin red-breasts follow.

And like a psalm, benign and calm,

I blight the brow of winter ;
I snap the chains that hold the reins

The fields of ice I splinter ;
And like the tide I run and ride,

The bated winds I swallow ;
Triumphant still past rock and rill,

And robin red-breasts follow.

A wing of light from night to night

My perfumed chariot passes,
And I can hear in meadows clear

The whispering of the grasses ;
With joyous face I onward race

Past hopeless height and hollow,
While swift and strong with simple song

My robin red-breasts follow.

The north wind bleeds the rustling reeds

The happy news is telling,
And I can hear in forests near

The juicy leaf -buds swelling ;
I onward rush without the thrush,

The red bird or the swallow,
You need n't mind, for close behind

My robin red-breasts follow.

by Robert Kirkland Kernighan.

Sapientia Lunae

The wisdom of the world said unto me:
'_Go forth and run, the race is to the brave;
Perchance some honour tarrieth for thee!_'
'As tarrieth,' I said, 'for sure, the grave.'
For I had pondered on a rune of roses,
Which to her votaries the moon discloses.

The wisdom of the world said: '_There are bays:
Go forth and run, for victory is good,
After the stress of the laborious days._'
'Yet,' said I, 'shall I be the worms' sweet food,'
As I went musing on a rune of roses,
Which in her hour, the pale, soft moon discloses.

Then said my voices: '_Wherefore strive or run,
On dusty highways ever, a vain race?
The long night cometh, starless, void of sun,
What light shall serve thee like her golden face?_'
For I had pondered on a rune of roses,
And knew some secrets which the moon discloses.

'Yea,' said I, 'for her eyes are pure and sweet
As lilies, and the fragrance of her hair
Is many laurels; and it is not meet
To run for shadows when the prize is here';
And I went reading in that rune of roses
Which to her votaries the moon discloses.

by Ernest Christopher Dowson.

Psalm 51 Part 2

Original and actual sin confessed.

Lord, I am vile, conceived in sin;
And born unholy and unclean;
Sprung from the man whose guilty fall
Corrupts the race, and taints us all.

Soon as we draw our infant breath,
The seeds of sin grow up for death;
Thy law demands a perfect heart,
But we're defiled in every part.

[Great God, create my heart anew,
And form my spirit pure and true;
O make me wise betimes to spy
My danger and my remedy.]

Behold, I fall before thy face;
My only refuge is thy grace:
No outward forms can make me clean
The leprosy lies deep within.

No bleeding bird, nor bleeding beast,
Nor hyssop branch, nor sprinkling priest,
Nor running brook, nor flood, nor sea,
Can wash the dismal stain away.

Jesus, my God, thy blood alone
Hath power sufficient to atone;
Thy blood can make me white as snow
No Jewish types could cleanse me so.

While guilt disturbs and breaks my peace,
Nor flesh nor soul hath rest or ease;
Lord, let me hear thy pard'ning voice,
And make my broken bones rejoice.

by Isaac Watts.

The Home Of The Spirit

Answer me, burning stars of night,
Where is the spirit gone,
That past the reach of human sight,
As a swift breeze hath flown?
And the stars answer'd me: 'We roll
In light and power on high;
But of the never-dying soul
Ask that which cannot die.'

O many-toned and chainless wind,
Thou art a wanderer free;
Tell me if thou its place canst find,
Far over mount and sea?
And the wind murmur'd in reply:
'The blue deep I have cross'd,
And met its barks and billows high,
But not what thou hast lost.'

Ye clouds that gorgeously repose
Around the setting sun,
Answer - Have ye a home for those
Whose earthly race is run?
The bright clouds answer'd: 'We depart,
We vanish from the sky;
Ask what is deathless in thy heart
For that which cannot die.'

Speak, then, thou voice of God within,
Thou of the deep low tone;
Answer me, through life's restless din -
Where is the spirit flown?
And the voice answer'd: 'Be thou still;
Enough to know is given;
Clouds, winds, and stars
their
part fulfil;

Thine
is to trust in Heaven.'

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans.