THROUGH heat and cold, and show… Still onward cheerly driving! There’s life alone in duty done, And rest alone in striving. But see! the day is closing cool,

The burly driver at my side, We slowly climbed the hill, Whose summit, in the hot noontide, Seemed rising, rising still. At last, our short noon-shadows bi…

When first I saw our banner wave Above the nation’s council-hall, I heard beneath its marble wall The clanking fetters of the slave! In the foul market-place I stood,

On the isle of Penikese, Ringed about by sapphire seas, Fanned by breezes salt and cool, Stood the Master with his school. Over sails that not in vain

WITH a cold and wintry noon-ligh… On its roofs and steeples shed, Shadows weaving with t e sunlight From the gray sky overhead, Broadly, vaguely, all around me, l…

Tauler, the preacher, walked, one… Without the walls of Strasburg, b… Pondering the solemn Miracle of L… As one who, wandering in a starles… Feels momently the jar of unseen w…

A HARVEST IDYL. PROEM. I CALL the old time back: I bri… in tender memory of the summer day When, where our native river lapse…

The pines were dark on Ramoth hil… Their song was soft and low; The blossoms in the sweet May win… Were falling like the snow. The blossoms drifted at our feet,

In calm and cool and silence, once… I find my old accustomed place amo… My brethren, where, perchance, no… Shall utter words; where never hym… Nor deep-toned organ blown, nor ce…

HURRAH! the seaward breezes Sweep down the bay amain; Heave up, my lads, the anchor! Run up the sail again! Leave to the lubber landsmen

I would not sin, in this half-play… Too light perhaps for serious year… Of the enforced leisure of slow pa… Against the pure ideal which has d… My feet to follow its far-shining…

A TALE for Roman guides to tell To careless, sight-worn travellers… Who pause beside the narrow cell Of Gregory on the Caelian Hill. One day before the monk’s door cam…

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT C… Fold her, O Father, in Thine arm… And let her henceforth be A messenger of love between Our human hearts and Thee.

A CHRISTIAN! going, gone! Who bids for God’s own image? for… Which that poor victim of the mark… Hath in her suffering won? My God! can such things be?

Still linger in our noon of time And on our Saxon tongue The echoes of the home-born hymns The Aryan mothers sung. And childhood had its litanies