Now while so many turn with love and longing
To wan lands lying in the grey North Sea, To thee we turn, hearts, mem�ries, all belonging, Dear land of ours, to thee. West, ever west, with the strong sunshine marching Beyond the mountains, far from this soft coast, Until we almost see the great plains arching, In endless mirage lost. A land of camps where seldom is sojourning, Where men like the dim fathers of our race Halt for a time, and next day, unreturning, Fare ever on apace. Last night how many a leaping blaze affrighted The wailing birds of passage in their file: And dawn sees ashes dead and embers whited Where men had dwelt awhile. The sun may burn, the mirage shift and vanish And fade and glare by turns along the sky; The haze of heat may all the distance banish To the uncaring eye. By speech or tongue of bird or brute unbroken Silence may brood upon the lifeless plain, Nor any sign, far off or near, betoken Man in this vast domain. Though tender grace the landscape lacks, too spacious, Impassive, silent, lonely, to be fair, Their kindness swiftly comes more soft and gracious, Who live or tarry there. All that he has, in camp or homestead, proffers, To stranger guest at once a stranger host, Proudest to see accepted what he offers, Given without a boast. Pass, if you can, the drover�s cattle stringing Along the miles of the wide travelled road, Without a challenge through the hot dust ringing, Kind though abrupt the mode. A cloud of dust where polish�d wheels are flashing Passes along, and in it rolls the mail. Comes from the box, as on the coach goes dashing, The lonely driver�s hail. Or in the track a station youngster mounted Sits in his saddle smoking for a �spell,� Rides a while onward; then, his news recounted, Parts with a brief farewell. To-day these plains may seem a face defiant, Turn�d to a mortal foe, yet scorning fear; As when, with heaven at war, an Earth-born giant Saw the Olympian near. Come yet again! No child�s fair face is sweeter With young delight than this cool blooming land, Silent no more, for songs than wings are fleeter, No blaze, but sunshine bland. Thus in her likeness that strange nature moulding Makes man as moody, sad and savage too; Yet in his heart, like her, a passion holding, Unselfish, kind and true. Therefore, while many turn with love and longing To wan lands lying on the grey North Sea, To-day, possessed by other mem�ries thronging, We turn, wild West to thee!By Thomas William Heney
By Madison Julius CaweinPart IVLate AutumnThey who die young are blest. -Should we not envy such? They are Earth's happiest,God-loved and favored much! - They who die young are blest.1Sick and sad, propped among pillows, she sits at her window.'Though the dog-tooth violet comeWith April showers,And the wild-bees' music humAbout the flowers,We shall never wend as whenLove laughed leading us from menOver violet vale and glen,Where the bob-white piped for hours,And we heard the rain-crow's drum.Now November heavens are gray;Autumn killsEvery joy - like leaves of MayIn the rills. -Still I sit
The Marionettes ByWalter De La Mare Let the foul Scene proceed:There's laughter in the wings;'Tis sawdust that they bleed,But a box Death brings.How rare a skill is theirsThese extreme pangs to show,How real a frenzy wearsEach feigner of woe!Gigantic dins uprise!Even the gods must feelA smarting of the eyesAs these fumes upsweal.Strange, such a Piece is free,While we Spectators sit,Aghast at its agony,Yet absorbed in it!Dark is the outer air,Cold the night
Tune - "Bonnie wee thing."I.Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine,I wad wear thee in my bosom,Lest my jewel I should tine.Wishfully I look and languishIn that bonnie face o' thine;And my heart it stounds wi' anguish,Lest my wee thing be na mine.II.Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty&n
When the drums begin to beatDown the street,When the poles are fetched and guyed,When the tight-rope's stretched and tied,When the dance-girls make salaam,When the snake-bag wakes alarm,When the pipes set up their drone,When the sharp-edged knives are thrownWhen the red-hot coals are shown,To be swallowed by-and-by,Arre, Brethren, here come I!Stripped to loin-cloth in the sun,Search me well and watch me close!Tell me how my tricks are done,Tell me how the mango grows!Give a man who is not madeTo his tradeSwords to fling and catch again,Coins to ring and snatch again,Men to harm and cure again,Snakes to charm and lure again,He'll be hurt by his own blade,By his serpents disobeyed,By his clumsiness bewrayed,By the people laughed to scorn,So 'tis not with juggler born! Pinch of dust or withered flower,Chance-flung nut or borrowed staff,Serve his need and shore
As those of old drank mummiaTo fire their limbs of lead,Making dead kings from AfricaStand pandar to their bed;Drunk on the dead, and medicinedWith spiced imperial dust,In a short night they reeled to findTen centuries of lust.So I, from paint, stone, tale, and rhyme,Stuffed love's infinity,And sucked all lovers of all timeTo rarify ecstasy.Helen's the hair shuts out from meVerona's livid skies;Gypsy the lips I press; and seeTwo Antonys in your eyes.The unheard invisible
Vast was the wealth I carried in life's pack - Youth, health, ambition, hope and trust; but Time And Fate, those robbers fit for any crime,Stole all, and left me but the empty sack.Before me lay a long and lonely track Of darkling hills and barren steeps to climb; Behind me lay in shadows the sublimeLost lands of Love's delight.Alack!Alack!Unwearied, and with springing steps elate, I had conveyed my wealth along the road. The empty sack proved now a heavier load:&n
Coming, clean from the Maryland-endOf this great National Road of ours,Through your vast West; with the time to spend,Stopping for days in the main towns, whereEvery citizen seemed a friend,And friends grew thick as the wayside flowers, -I found no thing that I might narrateMore singularly strange or queerThan a thing I found in your sister-stateOhio, - at a river-town - down hereIn my notebook:Zanesville - situateOn the stream Muskingum - broad and clear,And navigable, through half the year,North, to Coshocton; south, as farAs Marietta.- But these f
He seemed so strange to me, every way -In manner, and form, and size,From the boy I knew but yesterday, -I could hardly believe my eyes!To hear his name called over there,My memory thrilled with gleeAnd leaped to picture him young and fairIn youth, as he used to be.But looking, only as glad eyes can,For the boy I knew of yore,&nb