Like one who lingers yet upon the sands,
Gazing his last upon the fading sail
That bears his friends afar to other lands.
I watch the bleak November daylight fail,
And, weltering in the pale and watery skies,
The dim stars falter forth, the cold moon rise.

I feel the silence on the hill and plain,
Like that chill hush which haunts an empty room
When, late deserted by a joyous train,
The lights die slowly down and all is gloom;
The cricket shrilling in the darkling wood
Adds but a drearier sense of solitude.

What's the word from Africa?
Kruger strikes at last.
Now he's where we've wanted him for ten years past.
Watch us while we do him up. Progress rules to-day.
Boers, get a move on you! Don't block the way!

Rude men, gross men, men averse to soap.
Bigots all, and ignorant; far too dull to cope
Equally with Englishmen trained to modern skill.
Now's our chance to show them how—ay, and so we will!

What's the news from Africa? Kimberley's shut in,
And Mafeking and Ladysmith. Still we're sure to win!
But dining at Pretoria this coming Christmas Day

This is the place where André met that death
Whose infamy was keenest of its throes,
And in this place of bravely-yielded breath
His ashes found a fifty-years' repose;

And then, at last, a transatlantic grave,
With those who have been kings in blood or fame,
As Honor here some compensation gave
For that once forfeit to a hero's name.

But whether in the Abbey's glory laid,
Or on so fair but fatal Tappan's shore,
Still at his grave have noble hearts betrayed
The loving pity and regret they bore.

In view of all he lost—his youth, his love,

Slowly , with grateful calm, the night has come,
And the exultant life which filled the air
With fanning wings and song and sound is dumb;
Each piping pleasurer has found its lair,
And sleep and utter peace reign everywhere.

There is no stir of wind among the leaves,
And not one wrinkle on the darkling stream;
The reeds stand motionless in clustered sheaves,
And through the shades the water-lilies gleam,
Floating, enfolded in a languorous dream.

From many flowers that nestle out of sight
In dewy lawns and dusky thicket-dells,

Have I not seen your face before
Where Perugino's angels stand
In those calm circles, and adore
With singing throat and lifted hand,

And pale hair folded crescent-wise,
About the placid forehead curled,
And the pale piety of eyes
Steadfast with peace upon the world?

I pause and watch you as you lean
Out of the doorway of your house,
With eyes grown happier to have seen
The Umbrian halo on your brows.

After the rain syringa bends
With scented blossoms at the ends
Of all its curving boughs. I think
That Pan himself might pause to drink
At such a fountain as I see.
The heavy headed peony
Drops silken petals, rosy sweet,
Upon a carpet for my feet.
And still the long wisteria drips
Its languid blossoms where the bee
In drowsiest contentment sips
From the deep wells of sweet that he
Has come so far to find. The rain
Sent him to hiding; with the sun
He shakes his pollen laden thighs
And lifts his strong, frail wings and flies

Once a Fairy called the Heart,
In a ruby Palace reigned;
More than kingdoms can impart—
More than wealth that Fairy gained!
He had armies, brave and strong;
Feelings high—Emotions true—
Passions that to gods belong—
Hosts which at his bidding flew!
From his Palace-chamber, small,
Ruby-built, and deep impearl'd,
Sent he missions unto all—
And his mandates ruled the World!

Sunbeams led by butterflies;—
Golden prisoners, beauty-bound!
Dragon moths of myriad dyes,
Swept like rainbows o'er the ground!
'Twas a spot for childhood made—

Of all the animals alive,
Whether it's birds or beeasts of prey,
Insecks, or anything to slive,
Like snaakes or lizards, far awaay
Wi' sneeaking habit;
Of all the pests you maay contrive,
I'll back the rabbit.

Yer corn in spring's all lush and green,
You smile to watch it sprout and grow,
But who is it, besides, has seen?
Who comes to crop each tender row?
Who's sure to nab it?
Who eeats as fast as he can go?
Of course … the rabbit.

If he would only live on weeds,
If he would eat the thistles up,

With restless agitations tost,
And low immers'd in woes,
When shall my wild distemper'd thoughts
Regain their lost repose?

Beneath the deep oppressive gloom
My languid spirits fade:
And all the drooping pow'rs of life
Decline to death's cold shade.

O Thou! the wretched's sure retreat,
These tort'ring cares controul,
And with the chearful smile of peace,
Revive my fainting soul!

Did ever thy relenting ear
The humble plea disdain?
Or when did plaintive mis'ry sigh,
And supplicate in vain?

Thou Pow'r supreme! by whose command I live,
The grateful tribute of my praise receive:
To thy indulgence I my Being owe,
And all the joys which from that Being flow.
Scarce eighteen suns have form'd the rolling year,
And run their destin'd courses round this sphere,
Since thy creative eye my form survey'd
Midst undistinguish'd heaps of matter laid.
Thy skill my elemental clay refin'd,
The vagrant particles in order join'd:
With perfect symmetry compos'd the whole,
And stamp'd thy sacred image on my soul:
A soul susceptible of endless joy,