Right happy is the man
Who treats the world as vain,
Compar'd with joys that Christians know,
Whose soul, redeem'd by blood,
And made alive to God,
The earnest feels of heaven below.

When the last trumpet's sound
Alarms creation round,
'Tis heart will glow with calm desire;
Such solid joy and peace
He knows, as will not cease
When earth dissolves in liquid fire.

His mansion-house will stand
When all the solid land
Links with the weight of wrath divine;
When darkness veils the skies,
His soul will thro' them rise,

Well may the pure Philanthropist complain
Of Barbarism's rude, protracted reign;
Well may he yearn to curb its savage sway,
When insult galls him on the public way;
When every human haunt, in every hour,
Can furnish proofs of a degrading power,—
Where lewd deportment and unpolished jeer
Offend the eye, and jar upon the ear,
And beings, fashioned by a Power benign,
Seem to forget their Maker's hand divine.
Turn to the city, and let Truth declare
How much of what we mourn is centred there;
At every step how many evils greet

Sometimes when I am weary, I have dipped
Into this great green gospel opened wide,
And read the tale which no one has denied—
That God is good. With honey life has dripped
When I the ancient knowledge drank and sipped,
Finding new meanings on the page's side,
Fresh wonder where the sweet inscriptions glide
Through the illuminated manuscript.

Enchanting story! How the record runs
Through the vast world upon each scented page,
With marginal designs and glossaries,
Footnotes and flowery borders, and the sun's
Eternal illustration! Youth and age

My heart is away with the lad of Bebside,
And never can I to another be tied;
Not to be titled a lord's wedded bride,
Could Jinny abandon the lad of Bebside.

He dances so clever, he whistles so fine,
He's flattered and wooed from the Blyth to the Tyne,
Yet spite of the proffers he meets far and wide,
I'm alone the beloved of the lad of Bebside.

He entered our door on the eve of the Fair,
And cracked with our folk in a manner so rare,
Next morning right early with spleen I was eyed
To link to the Fair with the lad of Bebside.

Receive him to thy arms, melodious shade!
Thou know'st his worth, for round one fountain ye
Together play'd, green wreaths of poesy
Twining for your young brows that shall not fade.
Few were your summers, when yon reverend pile,
Rear'd by good Edward, youthful king, whose dress
Marks still the Christ-boy 'mong the crowds that press
Round holy Paul's, you entered with a smile!
Methinks I see you 'neath those cloisters grey
Conning apart some Bard of elder days,
Spenser perchance, or Chaucer's pilgrim lay;
Or doth La Mancha's Knight your wonder raise?

‘I SHALL not think of it again,’
He said, but took with him the pain
Starting for a distant goal:
Years after, in another land,
He took my hand,
And said, ‘I think of that deed still,
Though on this further side the hill.’
I made this image of his soul.

Along a wave-lashed darkling strand
I saw a naked creature run,
And like himself another one,
Alike in shape, alike in size,
But darker and with fierier eyes,
Ran with him just one step behind,
With equal speed against the wind,
Filling his footprints on the sand

Look heah! Is I evah tole you 'bout de curious way I won
Anna Liza? Say, I nevah? Well heah's how de thing wuz done.

Lize, you know, wuz mighty purty—dat's been forty yeahs ago—
'N' 'cos to look at her dis minit, you might'n s'pose dat it wuz so.

She wuz jes de greates' 'traction in de country, 'n' bless de Lam'!
Eveh lovin' man wuz co'tin', but it lay 'twix me an' Sam.

You know Sam. We both wuz wu'kin' on de ole John Tompkin's place.
'N' evehbody wuz a-watchin' t'see who's gwine to win de race.

O THE sweet valley of deep grass,
Where through the summer stream doth pass,
In chain of shadow and still pool,
From misty morn to evening cool;
Where the black ivy creeps and twines
O'er the dark-armed, red-trunkèd pines,
Whence clattering the pigeon flits,
Or, brooding o'er her thin eggs, sits,
And every hollow of the hills
With echoing song the mavis fills.

Now the tide is safe and high,
In the fresh'ning morning breeze,
Over the harbour bar we hie
Out into the open seas.

With these fisher lads so strong
And knowing in the water ways,
I'll try to make a summer song,
The fisher's summer life to praise.

It seems to me the rounded sea
Begins to swell above the shore,
And the great gull, that fisher free,
Dives right down a yard or more.

With main and jib we bound along,
Through showers of spray we rise and dip,
But as for making any song,
That needs a sea apprenticeship.

There's the hill-road to Ardmore, Mary,
Here's the glen-road to Ardstrae:
Your home is younder, Mary,
And mine lies this way.

Will you come by the glen, Mary,
Or go the hill-road to Ardmore?
It is now and as you will, Mary,
For I will ask no more.

'Tis but a score years, Mary;
Since I bade you to Ardstrae;
And now you are not there, Mary
Nor walk the hill-side way.

Is it only a score years, Mary,
Since we parted by the shore,
And I watched you go, Mary,
By the hill-road to Ardmore?