In heavens eternal court it was decreed
How the first martyr for the cause should bleed
To clear the country of the hated brood
He whet his courage for the common good
Long hid before, a vile infernal here
Prevents Achilles in his mid career
Where'er this fury darts his Pois'nous breath
All are endanger'd to the shafts of death
The generous Sires beheld the fatal wound
Saw their young champion gasping on the ground
They rais'd him up, but to each present ear
What martial glories did his tongue declare
The wretch appal'd no longer can despise

Chant me a rhyme of Christmas—
Sing me a jovial song,—
And though it is filled with laughter,
Let it be pure and strong.

Let it be clear and ringing,
And though it mirthful be,
Let a low, sweet voice of pathos
Run through the melody.

Sing of the hearts brimmed over
With the story of the day—
Of the echo of childish voices
That will not die away.—

Of the blare of the tasseled bugle,
And the timeless clatter and beat
Of the drum that throbs to muster
Squadrons of scampering feet.

But O let your voice fall fainter,

When over the fair fame of friend or foe
The shadow of disgrace shall fall, instead
Of words of blame, or proof of thus and so,
Let something good be said.

Forget not that no fellow-being yet
May fall so low but love may lift his head:
Even the cheek of shame with tears is wet,
If something good be said.

No generous heart may vainly turn aside
In ways of sympathy; no soul so dead
But may awaken strong and glorified,
If something good be said.

And so I charge ye, by the thorny crown,
And by the cross on which the Saviour bled,

Amidst the memories of the past,
And cherished hopes sublime;
Whose glorious record shall outlast
The fading scroll of time;

We meet each other's hearts to cheer,
Sweet friendships to renew;
To serve the Faith we hold so dear,
Faith of the brave and true!

The faith, that doth the power control
Of foes without, within;
And gives the victory to the soul
O'er evil, death, and sin:

Which, to the wounded, brings relief,
And soothes the sufferer's pain;
And doth the mourner's secret grief,
With heavenly hopes, sustain.

A sad confession from the heart of man
It is, that War, dark hateful War, must be;
That ever thus, e'en since the world began,
Has been on earth the dire necessity!
Behold, he says, the truth on History's page,
Written in blood upon her lengthening scroll;
The warrior's wreaths still green from age to age,
And warlike glory still man's highest goal.
But deeper look, O man, into thy heart,
And Peace, a mightier need thou there shalt see;
As yet thou know'st thy nature but in part,
What thou hast been, but not what thou shalt be!

'Tis not that I am weary grown
Of being yours, and yours alone,
But with what face can I incline
To damn you to be only mine?
You, whom some kinder power did fashion
By merit and by inclination
The joy at least of a whole nation.

Let meaner spirits of your sex
With humble aims their thoughts perplex,
And boast if by their arts they can
Contrive to make one happy man;
While moved by an impartial sense
Favours, like Nature, you dispense
With universal influence.

See the kind seed-receiving earth
To every grain affords a birth:

‘Time's Conscience!’ cried the allerion.
‘How great the thrustlecock and thistle,
How small the lily and the lion,
How great and small and equal all,
How one and many, same and sorted,
How not unchanged and not distorted!’

And the money was made of gold,
And the gold was made of money,
And the cause of the quarrel was nothing,
And the arguers stopped counting
At how much, how many, one and plenty,
And peace came and was the same.

If then, if now, then then, now now,
No more and always and thus and so,
To not believe, to not doubt,

Hail heavenly pensive solitude—
Thy raptures now I feel
With thee the holy wise and good—
Would ever wish to dwell—
For taught by thee the world appears—
Just as it really is
A point a span a group of Cares,
Incapable to please.—
By thee inspir'd in early days
Fidelia and her friend—
Would leave the crouds insidious gaze
And moralize their end.—
Descried the snare that pleasure laid
To tempt their youthful feet
And always in thy gentle shade
Possess'd a safe retreat.—
Thus with that serious hour in view
They trod lifes rugged road

Thyrsis, when we parted, swore
Ere the spring he would return—
Ah! what means yon violet flower
And the buds that deck the thorn?
'Twas the Lark that upward sprung!
'Twas the Nightingale that sung!

Idle notes! untimely green!
Why this unavailing haste?
Western gales and skies serene
Speak not always winter past.
Cease, my doubts, my fears to move,
Spare the honour of my love.

Through the house what busy joy,
Just because the infant boy
Has a tiny tooth to show!
I have got a double row,
All as white, and all as small;
Yet no one cares for mine at all.
He can say but half a word,
Yet that single sound's preferred
To all the words that I can say
In the longest summer day.
He cannot walk, yet if he put
With mimic motion out his foot,
As if he thought he were advancing,
It's prized more than my best dancing.