Short is the day, and night is long;
But he who waits for day
In darkness sits not quite so long,
And earlier hails the twilight gray,—
A little earlier hails the ray,
That drives the mists of night away.

So was this land cold, dead, and drear,
When to the rock-bound shore
That Pilgrim band, Christ-led, drew near,
The promise of a new-born year,—
Twilight, which shows that even here
The sun of gladness shall appear,
The land be dark no more.

So was the world dark, drear, and wild,
When on that blessed morn

Let the world with its futile aims pass away,
For I care not whether darkness tinge the day,
Nor whether the stars within the heavens stay—
(Let the world with its futile aims pass away!)

Life is so ruthless: the efforts of man are vain,
Let me have peace and the world forsworn again.

The terrible strife of mankind! to what does it tend?
Only the grave and oblivion's desperate end.

Let the world with its futile aims pass away:
Let me have peace in a perfect passion's sway;
So long as we Love, what matters the darkest day?

Lord, what is man that Thou
So mindful art of him? Or what's the Son
Of man, that Thou the highest heaven didst bow
And to his aide didst runne?
He is not worthy of the least
Of all Thy mercies at the best.

Man's but a piece of clay
That's animated by Thy heavenly breath,
And when that breath Thou tak'st away,
Hee's clay again by death.
He is not worthy of the least
Of all Thy mercies, at the best.

Baser then clay is he
For sin hath made him like the beasts that perish,
Though next the Angels he was in degree;

The Beast of Rome sent forth his might
'Gainst Ethiopia's silent hosts,
And in battle went the men
Who haunt the hills and plains like ghosts.

Askaris, grinning soldiers,
Like April fools at summer play,
Did shoulder arms for Italy
To give the Beast of Rome the day.

When blacks fight blacks in white men's wars
They're fools for all their valiant pain,
For they shall never hope for right
In whatsoever is the gain.

Ras Gugsa, ignoble of fame,
Betrayed the Emperor's goodwill;
His head should be upon the block,

This wild-rose, plucked by Avon's side,
Is not a whit more sweet or fair
Than those which brighten summer-tide
In dear New England's air;

But this is of a noble line
Which held, in yonder century,
A privilege, by right divine,
That now no gold could buy;

A privilege of rarer fame
Than any prince of royal blood,
Or any king on earth can claim;
So is this half-blown bud

Ennobled, not by wealth or wars,
But by the truth that it may trace
Its lineage back to ancestors
Who looked on Shakspeare's face.

The Ermine rather chose to die
A martyr of its purity,
Than that one uncouth soil should stain
Its hitherto preserved skin;
And thus resolv'd she thinks it good
To write her whiteness in her blood.
But I had rather die, than e'er
Continue from my foulness clear;
Nay, I suppose by that I live,
That only doth destruction give:
Madman I am, I turn mine eye
On every side, but what doth lie
Within, I can no better find;
Than if I ever had been blind.
Is this the reason thou dost claim
Thy sole prerogative, to frame
Engines against thyself? O, fly

We had tramped through field and forest,
O the long and dreary way!
With the stars alone to guide us,
For we dared not move by day—

Jack and I, two Union soldiers,
Just escaped from prison-shed,
Squalid, ghastly, shoeless, starving,
And no place to ask for bread;

Swimming rivers deep and swollen,
Crossing mountains grim and dark,
Wading marshes, crouched in thickets,
Trembling at the blood-hound's bark.

O the chill nights marched in silence,
As the weeks crept slowly past;
Leagues away the Union army,

The sleigh-bells danced that winter night;
Old Brattleboro rang with glee;
The windows overflowed with light;
Joy ruled each hearth and Christmas tree.
But to one the bells and mirth were naught:
His soul with deeper joy was fraught.
He waited until the guests were gone;
He waited to dream his dream alone;
And the night wore on.

Alone he stands in the silent night;
He piles the snow in the village square;
With spade for chisel, a statue white
From the crystal quarry rises fair.
No light save the stars to guide his hand,

How blest was the Created State
Of Man and Woman, e're they fell,
Compar'd to our unhappy ffate!
We need not fear another Hell:

Naked beneath cool Shades they lay,
Enjoyment waited on desire;
Each member did their wills obey:
Nor could a wish set pleasure higher.

But we, poor Slaves to hope and fear,
Are never of our Joys secure:
They lessen still, as they draw near;
And none but dull delights endure.

Then, Cloris, while I duty pay,
The nobler Tribute of a heart;
Be not you so severe, to say
You Love me for a frailer part.

Tell me, O youth so straight and tall,
So glad with eager thought!
Have you seen of late a bouncing boy
Brimful of merry sport?
Brimful of merry sport is he,
A lad of fifteen summers,
With velvet lip still smooth and fair,
But a fist that awes all comers.

He used to laugh with unconcern
Whene'er a school-girl met him,
Unconscious quite what wondrous power
She 'd have in time to fret him.
He only cared for “fellows” then,
And “ball,” and “tag,” and “shinny,”
And thought a chap who brushed his hair
Was just a fop or ninny.