Fair lady with the bandaged eye!
  I ’ll pardon all thy scurvy tricks,
So thou wilt cut me, and deny
  Alike thy kisses and thy kicks:
I ’m quite contented as I am,
  Have cash to keep my duns at bay,
Can choose between beefsteaks and ham,...

St. stephen’s cloistered hall was proud
  In learning’s pomp that day,
For there a robed and stately crowd
  Pressed on in long array.
A mariner with simple chart
  Confronts that conclave high,
While strong ambition stirs his heart,
And...

Above them spread a stranger sky;
  Around, the sterile plain;
The rock-bound coast rose frowning nigh;
  Beyond,—the wrathful main:
Chill remnants of the wintry snow
  Still choked the encumbered soil,
Yet forth those Pilgrim Fathers go
  ...

Ho! city of the gay!
  Paris! what festal rite
Doth call thy thronging million forth,
  All eager for the sight?
Thy soldiers line the streets
  In fixed and stern array,
With buckled helm and bayonet,
  As on the battle-day.

By...

Poet:

The news
the NEWS! our morning, noon, evening cry,
Day unto day repeats it till we die.
For this the cit, the critic, and the fop,
Dally the hour away in Tonsor’s shop;
For this the gossip takes her daily route,
And wears your threshold and your...

    gay, guiltless pair,
What seek ye from the fields of heaven?
    Ye have no need of prayer,
Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

    Why perch ye here,
Where mortals to their Maker bend?
    Can your pure spirits fear
The God ye never...

We are but two—the others sleep
  Through death’s untroubled night;
We are but two—O, let us keep
  The link that binds us bright.

Heart leaps to heart—the sacred flood
  That warms us is the same;
That good old man—his honest blood
  ...

Men of the North, look up!
    There ’s a tumult in your sky;
A troubled glory surging out,
    Great shadows hurrying by.

Your strength—where is it now?
    Your quivers—are they spent?
Your arrows in the rust of death,
    Your fathers...

Poet: John Neal

There are harps that complain to the presence of night,
  To the presence of night alone—
  In a near and unchangeable tone—
Like winds, full of sound, that go whispering by,
As if some immortal had stooped from the sky,
  And breathed out a blessing—and...

Poet: John Neal

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And...