English

To this admir'd discouerer giue place,
Yee who first tam'd the sea, the windes outranne,
And match'd the daye's bright coach-man in your race,
Americus, Columbus, Magellan.
This is most true that your ingenious care
And well-spent paines another world brought forth,
For beasts, birds, trees, for gemmes and metals rare,
Yet all being earth, was but of earthly worth.
Hee a more precious world to vs descryes,
Rich in more treasure than both Indes containe,
Faire in more beauty than man's witte can faine,

What Samson embrac'd, when revenge for his eyes,
Provok'd the huge Warrior to tumbledown legions,
What oft, thro' the night, from some ruin'd church cries,
Harsh-voic'd as a native of Pluto's pale regions;

The Female whose folly all mankind impeach,
That e'er she was form'd to embitter enjoyment,
The little emphatical main-spring of Speech,
Whose pleasure is toil, and whose ease is employment;

Pick out the initials of each of their names,
Add his who destroy'd, and then bow'd down to Witches;

Let it content thee that I call thee dear—
Thou'rt wise and great, and others name thee so.
From me, what gentler tribute wouldst thou know
Than the slight hand, upon thy shoulder laid,
And the full heart, high throbbing, not afraid.

No, not afraid—of manly stature thou,
Of power compact, and temper fervor-tried,—
Yet I, a weakling, in thine armour hide,
Or, sick beyond the medicine of Art,
Hang on the healthful pulses of thine heart.

In waking dreams I see thine outstretched arms

Fain would I call that night which spreads so fast
Out of the vault of death's abysmal skies,
A gentle gloom like that of thy dark eyes:
Fain would I say that we, like children, cast
Our blindfold faces with a timid haste
Into a mother's lap—ere long to rise
Some little forfeit and some sweet surprise,
The playful future of a playful past.
But ah! it is not so. Reality
Makes a dread language of this ebbing breath;
Preaching those awful homilies of death
Which sound so like each other at their close.

Mr. Henry Ford
Had a little secret hoard,
To which he would add a dime
From time to time.

Nosegays I cry, and, though little you pay,
They're such as you cannot get every day.
Who'll buy? who'll buy?—'tis nosegays I cry.
Who'll buy? who'll buy?—'tis nosegays I cry.

Each mincing, ambling, lisping blade,
Who smiles, and talks of blisses
He never felt, is here portray'd
In form of a narcissus.
Nosegays I cry, &c.

Statesmen, like Indians, who adore
The sun, by courting power,
Cannot be shewn their likeness more
Than in th' humble sun-flower.
Nosegays I cry, &c.

O Christ, which art the head of every thing,
From whom a better life then this doth spring;
Thy Father's measure yet unmeasurèd,
Whom (whiles that He Himself contemplated
In His high mind) He streams forth light of light,
And sees Himself in's equal image bright;
Like whom the world, and the world's guardian, man,
Was made: but O, he suddainly began
To be rebellious, his high honour lost,
And prest with crimes (which him most dearly cost)
Becoming guilty of the greatest pain,
In this state lay, and had for ever laine,

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,

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;

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,