English

Man's heart is for himself a volume writ
In cipher, having no true key to it;
And other hearts discourse on every side
Language, to which no lips have e'er replied.

According to our measure and extent,
Despite long exile in these regions dim,
We must from God compute our soul's descent,
Seeing the soul on Him alone is bent,
And must in that degree partake of Him.

Above the palace of the cæsars blow
Poppies and buttercups, and rise cool trees:
The palms and pines and slender cypresses.
What pomps and passions buried under these,
Long time agone, such a great while ago!

My true love still is all that's fair,
She is flower and blossom blowing free,
For all her silence lying there
She sings a spirit song to me.

New lovers seek her in her bower,
The rain, the dew, the flying wind,
And tempt her out to be a flower,
Which throws a shadow on my mind.

To thee, Columbia! favored clime,
From Erin comes a bitter cry;
Oh! must she still with hunger pine,
Her famished sons by thousands die?

O gracious Heaven! who can portray
Those scenes of wretchedness and woe?
The heart grows faint, and turns away,
While tears for suffering Erin flow.

Convulsive to her throbbing breast
The mother clasps her starving child,
And heavily by want oppressed
Thy aid implores with anguish wild.

Canst thou those generous hearts forget,
That warmly beat and fought for thee?

Hail , Cytherea! whom the favour'd earth
Of Cyprus claims, exulting in thy birth.—
Bright queen! adorn'd with every winning grace,
The smile enchanting and the blooming face.
Goddess! o'er Cyprus' fragrant groves who reign,
And Salamis' high-cultivated plain;
O with thy breath inspire my humble lays,
So shall I sing in sweetest verse thy praise.

The quiet clouds, the quiet air,
The calm that haunts us everywhere
In these broad fields, where sunlight sees
Our homely cattle at their ease;
The woods, whose leaves of golden brown
Glide noiseless, as they flutter down;
The full, smooth river, seldom stirr'd
Save from within, that flows unheard
In irresistible advance;
And, over all this fair expanse,
The steadfast hills, that silently
Stand up against a silent sky:
Are these the things for you and me
To look upon, or care to see,
Amid the tumult of a war?

With Chloe , wanton Cupid , play'd,
At cards, and won all, from the Maid,
Her jealous doubts, her anxious fears,
Her sudden sighs, her angry tears.

She slaked,—the Urchin, won, beside,
Her cruel scorn, her haughty pride;
But worst, indeed, he waged his dart,
Turn'd trumps, and won her virgin heart!

I HOLD you to my lips and heart, fair flowers,
Dear, first-begotten children of the sun—
Whose summer lives in winter were begun;
Sweet aliens from the warm June's pleasant bowers,
Mocked at by cruel winds in desolate hours
Through which the sands of winter slowly run:
I touch your tender petals, one by one,
And miss no beauty born of summer showers.

I have a friend who to Life's winter days
Will bring the warmth and splendor of the June;
From him ye come, yet need not speak his praise,

Heavily hangs the rye
Bent to the trampled ground;
While brave men fighting die
Through blood the horses bound.

Under the white birch-tree
A Cossack bold is slain—
They lift him tenderly
Into the ruined grain.

Some one has borne him there,
Some one has put in place
A scarlet cloth, with prayer,
Over the up-turned face.

Softly a girl has come.
Dove-like she looks—all grey—
Stares at the soldier dumb
And, crying, goes away.

Then, swift, another maid
—Ah, how unlike she is!—