When somebody comes a-tripping down,
The winds all at play with her hair and gown;
The very same winds that are just too lazy
To lift a leaf or to swing a daisy,—
Then hold your heart with might and main;
She is crossing the meadow, “Sweet-thing” Jane.

She always chooses the cool of the day,
The way down to Lovetown, that 's her way;
She knows very well (what is well worth knowing)
There 's only one road—the road she is going;
And she knows she is sweet as a rose in the rain,
And she knows—she will tell you, “Sweet-thing” Jane.

Rise, Freemen! rise; the call goes forth,
Attend the high command—
Obedience to the word of God
Throughout this guilty land.

Rise, free the slave; oh! burst his chains,
And cast his fetters down;
Let virtue be your country's pride,
Her diadem and crown.

Then shall the day at length arrive,
When all shall equal be,
And Freedom's banner, waving high,
Proclaim that all are free.

Now to the right, now to the left I turn;
Her place is empty—and I burn.
I twist, and toss, and turn again
Rest brings no respite to my pain.
And restless still I shall abide
Until I have Gemella by my side.

Begone, unbelief! my Savior is near,
And for my relief will surely appear;
By pray'r let me wrestle, and he will perform;
With Christ in the vessel, I smile at the storm.

Though dark be my way, since he is my guide,
'Tis mine to obey, 'tis his to provide;
Tho' cisterns be broken, and creatures all fail,
The word he has spoken shall surely prevail.

Why should I complain of want or distress,
Temptation or pain? he told me no less;
The heirs of salvation, I know from his word,
Through much tribulation must follow their Lord.

Heaven is not any place. And hell with ardent arches
May be discerned amid the feathery-foliaged larches
Gleaming—Our own hearts make
The golden towers of heaven, the ramparts high and solemn
Relieved by marble white, and wealth of jewelled column:—
Our own souls' yearnings fan the fiery lake.

From our own thought the waves take life and exultation;
The earth moves nearer heaven with each new generation;
Heaven is no land remote,
Heaven is our old green earth. We can, if we will give it,
Impart more heavenly scent to London thick-leaved privet

The thoughts that haunt the poet like a dream,
Strange sweet ghost-shapes that through his fancy gleam,
Will one day haunt all hearts as well.
He fills the wide world with his love of flowers,
And with his love of summer sunlit hours,
And with his hate of hell.

The woman whom he loves and crowns shall stand
One day imperial over every land.
The passionate eyes that haunt his sleep
Shall one day flash upon the world, and make
(Not now the poet's, nay) the world's heart ache,
And make the world's eyes weep.

The river was ever a siren:
It sings to the reed-fringed shore;
It sings to the floating lilies,
And they love it more and more.
When the autumn leaves are golden
It gathers them all to its wave:
It takes, but it never tells them
That its waters are deep as the grave.

And it sings with a siren sweetness
As it eddies to and fro
To fairer things than blossoms,
With its tempting cold dark flow.
And some there are who listen,
And they plunge in the cold deep wave:
One moment the gold locks glisten—
But the moonlight cannot save!

Though streaming stormes, force ship to harbor haste,
To whom the Seas with rigor great threates wrack:
Whose cables cut, and ankers worne to waste,
Is forste streeke sayle in her so great a lack.
When Neptvne yet with Septer plaste in hande,
Shall calme the furious rigour of the Flood:
This Shyp repayrde, may safely sayle to lande,
Nought dreading Eolvs breth, that her withstood.
So H. doth hope his Howlke such porte shall finde,
When stormes be past, as will content his minde.

Yet sweeter and yet sweeter as we pass
Towards bitter death that slays all songs and flowers,
Becomes the scent that hovers o'er the bowers
Of youth; yet lovelier the bright green grass;
Yet tenderer fair passion's burning hours;
Yet softer all the varied songs of love;
Yet bluer the clear spotless heavens above;
And yet more manifold life's glorious powers.

Now for the first time human life is fair
In that there is no life beyond the grave:
Now for the first time shines the morning air
With true delight,—now first the branches wave

What though no fame the poet gains?
Does fame deserve his care?
Not unrewarded are his pains,
If he shall please the fair.

To Delia my lays belong,
Their constant theme is love;
Enough if she attend the song,
If she the theme approve.

'Twas love that made me first a bard,
From love my numbers flow,
Nor claim I ought, as my reward,
That Delia can't bestow.

How sweet from her a look a smile,
When once my labour's o'er;
It soothes the mem'ry of past toil,
And animates to more.

What would I do, what would I shun,