Let me sing the song of the Fronts! Exhort me now to sing
Of those bold Fronts that are the screens of Everything.
In place of " Backs of Letters", to be read
With difficulty (see Swift) put Fronts instead.
" Each Atom by some other struck," Swift says,
" All Turns and Motions tries." Let me impress
A motion upon such Atoms, causing them
To integrate, and so " Behold a Poem"!
I would set all things whatsoever front to back,
All that go upright — by these tactics show
How the bold Fronts depend upon this knack

The rebels' cavalry are everywhere:
our generals did battle over and over again.
Between heaven and earth, lost in broad daylight,
everything was hidden in yellow dust!
And so their blood flowed in rivers and lakes,
their bows and armor lay scattered, away from their bodies.
Who can write an ode, " Summoning Their Souls? "
I entrust my tears to the green reeds.

O that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smiles I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child--chase all thy fears away!" . . .
My Mother! when I learnt that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss,

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM

O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine, — thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
" Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away! "
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it!) here shines on me still the same.
— Faithful remembrancer of one so dear!

I

This is the month, and this the happy morn,
Wherein the Son of Heav'n's eternal King,
Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing,
That he our deadly forfeit should release,
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

II

That glorious form, that light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty,
Wherewith he wont at Heav'n's high council-table

My thoughts flow in streams around this tower;
the rain slants in, splattering the room.
Sadly I stare at clouds like mountains,
remembering home far away.
There tonight is celebrated the Festival of Mid-Autumn.

Cotton blankets let in the cold,
dreams will not take shape;
in this hotel room the guttering lamp glimmers,
nearly goes out.
Midnight, two o'clock, four in the morning —
no human sounds at all.
I listen to the wind, listen to the rain,
listen to the sound of the pines.

In a hidden spot on the northern mountain,
reached by a wooden bridge,
the mountain spirit quietly keeps watch
over a grove of flowering kuei .
Fearing that the autumn winds may blow the blossoms down,
I will sleep among these flowers tonight,
along with the cranes and gibbons.

A traveler, I've been through a thousand changes.
Thinking of home, my insides turn over nine times!
Here in Yangchou they have good local wine:
What a pity that I'm drinking alone!

I. 1.

FAREWELL to Leyden's lonely bound,
The Belgian Muse's sober seat;
Where dealing frugal gifts around
To all the favourites at her feet,
She trains the body's bulky frame
For passive, persevering toils;
And lest, from any prouder aim,
The daring mind should scorn her homely spoils,
She breathes maternal fogs to damp its restless flame.

I. 2.