O joy of creation
To be!
O rapture to fly
And be free!
Be the battle lost or won,
Though its smoke shall hide the sun,
I shall find my love,—the one
Born for me!
I shall know him where he stands,...
Francis Bret Harte
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Captain of the Western wood,
Thou that apest Robin Hood!
Green above thy scarlet hose,
How thy velvet mantle shows!
Never tree like thee arrayed,
O thou gallant of the glade!When the fervid August sun
Scorches all it looks upon,
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“i was with Grant”—the stranger said;
Said the farmer, “Say no more,
But rest thee here at my cottage porch,
For thy feet are weary and sore.”“I was with Grant”—the stranger said;
Said the farmer, “Nay, no more,—
I prithee sit at my frugal... -
I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;
I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games;
And I ’ll tell in simple language what I know about the row
That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.But first I would remark, that it is not a...
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Say there! P’r’aps
Some on you chaps
Might know Jim Wild?
Well,—no offense:
Thar aint no sense
In gittin’ riled!Jim was my chum
Up on the Bar:
That ’s why I come
Down from up yar,
Lookin’ for Jim.
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No life in earth, or air, or sky;
The sunbeams, broken silently,
On the bared rocks around me lie,—Cold rocks with half-warmed lichens scarred,
And scales of moss; and scarce a yard
Away, one long strip, yellow-barred.Lost in a cleft! T is...
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Coward,—of heroic size,
In whose lazy muscles lies
Strength we fear and yet despise;
Savage,—whose relentless tusks
Are content with acorn husks;
Robber,—whose exploits ne’er soared
O’er the bee’s or squirrel’s hoard;
Whiskered chin, and... -
Beautiful! sir, you may say so. Thar is n’t her match in the county;
Is thar, old gal,—Chiquita, my darling, my beauty?
Feel of that neck, sir,—thar ’s velvet! Whoa! steady,—ah, will you, you vixen!
Whoa! I say. Jack, trot her out; let the gentleman look at her paces.... -
Know i not who thou mayst be
Carved upon this olive-tree,—
“Manuela of La Torre,”—
For around on broken walls
Summer sun and spring rain falls,
And in vain the low wind calls
“Manuela of La Torre.”Of that song no words remain...