O, have you been in Gudbrand’s dale, where Laagen’s mighty flood
Chants evermore its wild refrain unto the listening wood?
And have you seen the evening sun on those bright glaciers glow,
When valleyward it shoots and darts like shafts from elfin bow?
Have you beheld the maidens when the saeter path they tread
With ribbons in their sunny hair and milk-...
Nigger mighty happy w’en he layin’ by co’n—
Dat sun ’s a-slantin’;
Nigger mighty happy w’en he year de dinner ho’n—
Dat sun ’s a-slantin’;
En he mo’ happy still w’en de night draws on—
Dat sun ’s a-slantin’;
Dat sun ’s a-slantin’ des ez sho ’s you bo’n!
En it ’s rise up, Primus! fetch anudder yell:
Dat ole...
Hit ’s a mighty fur ways up de Far’well Lane,
My honey, my love!
You may ax Mister Crow, you may ax Mister Crane,
My honey, my love!
Dey ’ll make you a bow, en dey ’ll tell you de same,
My honey, my love!
Hit’s a mighty fur ways fer ter go in de night,
My honey, my love!
My honey, my love,...
Who drives the horses of the sun
Shall lord it but a day;
Better the lowly deed were done,
And kept the humble way.
The rust will find the sword of fame,
The dust will hide the crown;
Ay, none shall nail so high his name
Time will not tear it down.
The happiest heart that ever beat
Was in some quiet breast
That...
Dost deem him weak that owns his strength is tried?
Nay, we may safely lean on him that grieves:
The pine has immemorially sighed,
The enduring poplar’s are the trembling leaves.
To feel, and bow the head, is not to fear;
To cheat with jest—that is the coward’s art:
Beware the laugh that battles back the tear;
He ’s false to all...
Oak leaves are big as the mouse’s ear,
So, farmer, go plant. But the frost—
Beware! the witch o’ the year,
See that her palm be crossed.
The bee is abroad, and the ant;
Spider is busy; ho, farmer, go plant.
The winds blow soft from the glazy sea,
So, merchant, rig ship. But the wave—
Beware! salt water can be
A highway,...
I
the birds have hid, the winds are low,
The brake is awake, the grass aglow:
The bat is the rover,
No bee on the clover,
The day is over,
And evening come.
The heavy beetle spreads her wings,
The toad has the road, the cricket sings:
The bat is the rover,
No bee on the clover,
The day is over,
And...
The skilful listener, he, methinks, may hear
The grass blades clash in sunny field together,
The roses kissing, and the lily, whether
It joy or sorrow in the summer’s ear,
The jewel dew-bells of the mead ring clear
When morning lightly moves them in June weather,
The flocked hours flitting by on stealthy feather,
The last leaves’ wail at...
Whither leads this pathway, little one?—
It runs just on and on, is never done.
Whither leads this pathway, mistress fair?—
That path to town, sir; to the village square.
Whither leads this pathway, father old?—
To the white quiet of the churchyard fold.
The eagle of the armies of the West,
Dying upon his alp, near to the sky,
Through the slow days that paled the imperial eye,
But could not tame the proud fire of his breast,—
Gone with the mighty pathos! Only rest
Remains where passed that struggle stern and high;
Rest, silence, broken sometimes by the cry
Of mother and eaglets round the...
