Hiawatha's Lamentation
In those days the Evil Spirits, All the Manitos of mischief, Fearing Hiawatha’s wisdom, And his love for Chibiabos, Jealous of their faithful friendship, And their noble words and actions, Made at length a
Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like
The Beleaguered City
I have read, in some old, marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague. Beside the Moldau’s rushing stream, With the wan moon
THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT
Loud he sang the psalm of David! He, a Negro and enslaved, Sang of Israel’s victory, Sang of Zion, bright and free. In that hour, when night is calmest, Sang he from the Hebrew
Helen of Tyre
What phantom is this that appears Through the purple mist of the years, Itself but a mist like these? A woman of cloud and of fire; It is she; it is Helen of Tyre,
L'Envoi
Ye voices, that arose After the Evening’s close, And whispered to my restless heart repose! Go, breathe it in the ear Of all who doubt and fear, And say to them, “Be of good
AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY
The day is ending, The night is descending; The marsh is frozen, The river dead. Through clouds like ashes The red sun flashes On village windows That glimmer red. The snow recommences; The buried
THE NORMAN BARON
et plus profonde, ou l’interet et l’avarice parlent moins haut Que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin domestique, de Maladie, et de peril de mort, les nobles se repentirent de Posseder des serfs,
Morituri Salutamus: Poem for the Fiftieth Anniversary
Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis, Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies. Ovid, Fastorum, Lib. vi. “O Cжsar, we who are about to die Salute you!” was the gladiators’ cry In the arena, standing face
Autumn Within
It is autumn; not without But within me is the cold. Youth and spring are all about; It is I that have grown old. Birds are darting through the air, Singing, building without rest;
Sundown
The summer sun is sinking low; Only the tree-tops redden and glow: Only the weathercock on the spire Of the neighboring church is a flame of fire; All is in shadow below. O beautiful,
THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS
L’eternite est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans Cesse ces deux mots seulement dans le silence des tombeaux: “Toujours! jamais! Jamais! toujours!” JACQUES BRIDAINE. Somewhat back from the village street Stands
Voices Of the Night
PRELUDE. Pleasant it was, when woods were green, And winds were soft and low, To lie amid some sylvan scene, Where, the long drooping boughs between Shadows dark and sunlight sheen Alternate come and
DANTE
Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes, Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise, Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. Thy sacred song is like
Flowers
Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth’s firmament do shine. Stars they are,