English

The fair maid who, the first of May,
Goes to the fields at break of day,
And washes in dew from the hawthorn tree,
Will ever after handsome be.

Soul , be your own
Pleasance and mart,
A land unknown,
A state apart.

Scowl, and be rude
Should love entice;
Call gratitude
The costliest vice.

Deride the ill
By fortune sent;
Be scornful still
If foes repent.

When curse and stone
Are hissed and hurled,
Aloof, alone
Disdain the world.

Soul, disregard
The bad, the good;
Be haughty, hard,
Misunderstood.

Be neutral; spare
No humblest lie;
And overbear
Authority.

Methinks this heart should rest awhile,
So stilly round the evening falls;
The veiled sun sheds no parting smile,
Nor mirth, nor music wakes my halls.

I have sat lonely all the day
Watching the drizzly mist descend
And first conceal the hills in grey
And then along the valleys wend.

And I have sat and watched the trees
And the sad flowers—how drear they blow:
Those flowers were formed to feel the breeze
Wave their light leaves in summer's glow.

Yet their lives passed in gloomy woe

Only the casket left, the jewel gone
Whose noble presence filled these stately rooms,
And made this spot a shrine where pilgrims came—
Stranger and friend—to bend in reverence
Before the great, pure soul that knew no guile;
To listen to the wise and gracious words
That fell from lips whose rare, exquisite smile
Gave tender beauty to the grand, grave face.

Upon these pictured walls we see thy peers,—
Poet, and saint, and sage, painter, and king,—
A glorious band;—they shine upon us still;

There is but one true way;
No other choice be mine;
Lord, every path must lead astray
Save only Thine.

A straight and narrow road
Hedged in with thorns indeed,
And every thorn most like a goad
To bid me heed.

They wound my human pride,
They rend my selfishness,
And when I seek to turn aside,
How sharp they press!

On every hand I hear
Alluring tongues of time,
And oft they win my outward ear
Like silver chime.

They call: “That way forsake;
A needless strife is thine;

Some don't believe in fairies,
But, as for me, I do.
For seeing is believing,
And haven't I seen—you?
A crown upon your forehead,
And stars within your hair,
With wings and things of gossamer
To match your dainty air.

And when my heavy eyelids
Shut out the day's routine,
I see the floating thistledown
That is my fairy queen—
The little feet, whose velvet
Falls soft as falls the dew,
The hands of grace that need no wand
To make a queen of you.

But can one send a fairy
And earthly valentine?

“Come , let us make a new world,” said the proud,—
“The iron image of our perfect plan.
Let those who cannot yield to those who can.
No place for tears, or pity, or the crowd
Of weaklings. Let no patriot's head be bowed
With his sire's shame: call no one courtesan
If she be breeder of the Mightier Man
Whose valor vaunts our glory far and loud.”

Mad pupils of a mad philosopher,
Think ye you have but armies to subdue?
Your foe is Woman! Hear the march of her
Through centuries, from the caverns to the blue

Pale as the ghost of thought, the glimmering horn
Steals through the portals of the western sky;
Pure as a frozen tear, white as the Morn,
When first she looks forth with uplifted eye.

Sweet as a white-robed bride, who walks alone
Some old accustomed path, by love made new;
The young moon threads her viewless course unknown,
Far through the gray vales of the falling dew.

No trumpet-blast upon the evening swells,
To note her coming; soft her trembling beams
Fall through the silence of celestial dells,

So from the castle gate, wherethrough
The autumn mist full coldly blew,
They 'gan to ride and no word said.
She mused, “'Twere better I were dead

Than thus my lord should frown on me.”
“Gramercy, sweet my lord,” quoth she,
“Meseems our steeds go prickingly.”
No word Sir Ablamour replied,
But with a groan he left her side,
Spurring his horse as though in pain
The while. And silence fell again.

Whereat she let her wimple fall,
And fastened well her snood withal,
While down her poor wan cheek perdie

Oh, ask me no more for the cause of my sadness,
Nor seek to discover the grief that I feel,
Enough that this breast hath no room now for gladness,
Enough that its wounds thou art pow'rless to heal!

As the bright sun at noonday by clouds may be hidden
This heart is oppress'd by the waters of grief,
Oh, let not its weakness too rashly be chidden!
Oh, check not the tear that alone brings relief!

There is never in Erin a sea-breeze that ruffles,
And never a cloud that o'ershadows her skies,