Since thou and I first one another knew
So many years, dear Friend, have whirl'd them by,
That casual talk or jest may lord it thro'
Our hours of meeting when the crowd is nigh.
On that familiar scene, each other's mind,
There is no need for deep enquiring gaze:
No fear the trifles non-acceptance find
That confidence to confidence displays.
But when, more happy-grave, on serious things
Thy balanced judgment and quick insight turn,
Of thy true worth a mute conviction springs,
Whispering thy very self is yet to learn.

I strolled into the green heart of a wood,
One sunny summer noon, in quest of shade,
But all to me seemed somber and dismayed.
The trees were wan, buds bloomed not as they should;

Nature serene ne'er bore a darklier mood.
I heard no sound; bright butterflies arrayed
In gorgeous tints lurked in the reeds afraid;
I found a dead bird there, and understood.

For its sweet sake flowers droop and calm winds grieve;
Crickets its funeral song will sadly drone;
And leaves will fall its tender breast to shield.

I hail you, holy and entrancing nun!
Model of sanctity and faith supreme,
You are of piety the living dream,
Vestal, your soul is purer than the sun.

You are a thousand prayers all blent in one!
Angelic banners round your fair head stream!
Aureoles of saintly glory on you beam!
You, you, alone, on Earth have Heaven begun!

And when I see you in your various rôles,
Your sacred face hurls back all fears of hell,
And with a faith intense mine eyelids close!
Then, I believe in most celestial goals,
My thoughts upon religious matters dwell,

My sinnes are like the haires upon my head
And raise their Audit to as high a score:
In this they differ: these doe dayly shed;
But ah! my sinnes grow dayly more and more.
If by my haires thou number out my sinnes;
Heaven make me bald before the day begins.

My sinnes are like the sands upon the shore;
Which every ebbe layes open to the eye:
In this they differ: These are cover'd o'er
With every tide, My sinnes still open lye.
If thou wilt make my head a sea of teares,
O they will hide the sinnes of all my yeares.

My famous country values gold far less
Than conquest brave of such as gold possess.
To be o'ercome with wealth I do not use,
And to o'ercome with poison I refuse.
No hand loves more than mine to give to many;
No heart hates more than mine to take of any.
With so firm steel virtue my mind hath armed
That not by gold nor iron can it be harmed.

Freedom and power
He craved and sought
In deeds that flower
From the seeds of thought,
And ever for his people and land he wrought.

His aspiration,
Early and late,
Was to build a nation
Unfettered and great—
To establish a nation and to make a state.

His splendid vision
He followed still,
Though of sour derision
Oft poured his fill,
Oft served with the charred crusts of ill-will.

—Of the golden eagle
That floats on high,
Bird of birds most regal,
Men seldom spy
More than shadow on earth, black speck in the sky:

Alone and sad, through some deserted scene
Loitering I roam, with slow and measured pace
My eyes intent to shun the slightest trace
That marks where any human foot has been.
Alas! I find no other resting place
From the keen gaze of crowds, which in the shew
Of Joys gone by, would read upon my face
The ravage of the flame that burns below:
And thus at length, the mountain and the plain,
River and dell, and fount and forest know
What others know not—all my life of pain;
And Love as through wild solitudes I go
Comes whispering in my ear some tender strain,

I LOVE to watch these rugged hills,
By Hudson's rolling wave,
When angry clouds sweep o'er the sky,
And loud the tempests rave.

I love to watch the foaming surge
That heaves its sparkling crest,
But my home, the dearest spot to me,
Is in the far, far West.

I love to climb the rocky steep,
Or in the silent glade
To wander forth in pensive thought,
When twilight shadows fade.

But the rolling prairie's wide expanse
I love—I love the best—
My home,—the dearest spot to me,
Is in the far, far West.

Oh ! turn not from the weeping one
Whose heart is wrung with grief,
A tender look, a soothing word,
Might give that heart relief.

Nay, turn not from the weeping one,
For oh! ye little know
How bitter was the agony
That caused those tears to flow.

We are not always happiest
When we are heard to sing;
The gayest notes we warble
May thoughts of sadness bring.

The step elastic still may be,
The lip a smile impart,
And joy seem sparkling in the eye
While sorrow rends the heart.

Then turn not from the weeping one,

Now quenched each midnight window is. Now unimpeded
Darkness descends on roof and tree and slope;
And in my heart the houses that you have not needed
Put out their lights of comfort and of hope.