A fleet with flags arrayed
  Sailed from the port of Brest,
And the Admiral’s ship displayed
  The signal: “Steer southwest.”
For this Admiral D’Anville
  Had sworn by cross and crown
To ravage with fire and steel
  Our helpless Boston Town...

O, whither sail you, Sir John Franklin?
  Cried a whaler in Baffin’s Bay.
To know if between the land and the pole
  I may find a broad sea-way.

I charge you back, Sir John Franklin,
  As you would live and thrive;
For between the land and the...

Into the woods my Master went,
Clean forspent, forspent.
Into the woods my Master came,
Forspent with love and shame.
But the olives they were not blind to Him;
The little gray leaves were kind to Him
The thorn-tree had a mind to Him
When...

She leaned her cheek upon her hand,
And looked across the glooming land;
She saw the wood from farm to farm
Touched by the twilight’s ghostly charm;
And heard the owl’s cry sound forlorn
Across the fields of waving corn,
And sighed with sad voice...

Poet: O

Broad bars of sunset-slanted gold
  Are laid along the field, and here
The silence sings, as if some old
  Refrain, that once rang long and clear,
  Came softly, stealing to the ear
Without the aid of sound. The rill
  Is voiceless, and the grass...

A Street there is in Paris famous,
  For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is—
  The New Street of the Little Fields;
And there ’s an inn, not rich and splendid,
  But still in comfortable case—
The which in...

Into the woods my Master went,
Clean forspent, forspent.
Into the woods my Master came,
Forspent with love and shame.
But the olives they were not blind to Him;
The little gray leaves were kind to Him;
The thorn-tree had a mind to Him
When...

’t Was the body of Judas Iscariot
  Lay in the Field of Blood;
’T was the soul of Judas Iscariot
  Beside the body stood.

Black was the earth by night,
  And black was the sky;
Black, black were the broken clouds,
  Tho’ the red Moon went...

From the French by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

TELL me now in what hidden way is
  Lady Flora the lovely Roman?
Where ’s Hipparchia, and where is Thais,
  Neither of them the fairer woman?
  Where is Echo, beheld of no man,
Only heard on river and mere...

When the ways are heavy with mire and rut,
  In November fogs, in December snows,
When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut,—
  There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
  But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows,
And the jasmine-...