A THOUSAND miles from land are… Tossing about on the roaring sea; From billow to bounding billow cas… Like fleecy snow on the stormy bla… The sails are scatter’d abroad, li…

King Death was a rare old fellow! He sate where no sun could shine; And he lifted his hand so yellow, And poured out his coal-black wine… Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!

HOW many summers, love, Have I been thine? How many days, thou dove, Hast thou been mine? Time, like the winged wind

GAMARRA is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a noble bree… Full of fire, and full of bone, With all his line of fathers known… Fine his nose, his nostrils thin,

The brand is on thy brow, A dark and guilty spot; ’Tis ne’er to be erased! ’Tis ne’er to be forgot! The brand is on thy brow!

TOUCH us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently,—as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream. Humble voyagers are We,

WE are born; we laugh; we weep; We love; we droop; we die! Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep? Why do we live, or die? Who knows that secret deep?

SING, I pray, a little song, Mother dear! Neither sad nor very long: It is for a little maid, Golden-tressed Adelaide!

I am a Witch, and a kind old Witc… There’s many a one knows that— Alone I live in my little dark ho… With Pillycock, my cat. A girl came running through the ni…

I wakened on my hot, hard bed; Upon the pillow lay my head; Beneath the pillow I could hear My little watch was ticking clear. I thought the throbbing of it went

PEACE! what do tears avail? She lies all dumb and pale, And from her eye The spirit of lovely life is fadin… And she must die!

When I was twenty inches long, I could not hear the thrush’s song… The radiance of the morning skies Was most displeasing to my eyes. For loving looks, caressing words,

THE SEA! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free… Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth’s wide region… It plays with the clouds; it mocks…

Here’s a health to thee, Mary, Here’s a health to thee; The drinkers are gone, And I am alone, To think of home and thee, Mary.

The poplars in the fields of Fran… Are golden ladies come to dance; But yet to see them there is none But I and the September sun. The girl who in their shadow sits