The spring-wind pass'd through the forest, and whispered low in the leaves,
And the cedar toss'd her head, and the oak stood firm in his pride;
The spring-wind pass'd through the town, through the housetops, casements, and eaves,
An...
Two years ago I was thinking On the changes that years bring forth;
Now I stand where I then stood drinking The gust and the salt sea froth;
And the shuddering wave strikes,
With the waves subsiding and sinking,
The maiden sat by the river side (The rippling water murmurs by),
And sadly into the clear blue tide The salt tear fell from her clear blue eye
"'Tis fixed for better, for worse," she cried,"And to-morrow the bridegroom cl...
A Lay of the Loamshire Hunt Cup"Aye, squire," said Stevens, "they back him at evens;
The race is all over, bar shouting, they say;
The Clown ought to beat her;
Dick Neville is sweeter Than ever — he swears he can win ...
'Tis a wicked world we live in;
Wrong in reason, wrong in rhyme;
But no matter: we'll not give
While we still can come to time
We severed in Autumn early,
Ere the earth was torn by the plough;
The wheat and the oats and the
Are ripe for the harvest now
I'll tell you a story; but pass the "jack",
And let us make merry to-night, my men
Aye, those were the days when my beard was black —I like to remember them now and then —Then Miles was living, and Cuthbert there,
On his l...
I've something of the bull-dog in my breed,
The spaniel is developed somewhat less;
While life is in me I can fight and bleed,
But never the chastising hand caress
With short, sharp violent lights made vivid,
To the southward far as the sight can roam,
Only the swirl of the surges livid,
The seas that climb and the surfs that comb,
You'll take my tale with a little salt;
But it needs none, nevertheless
I was foiled completely - fair at fault -Disheartened, too,
I confess
Delilah[From a Picture]The sun has gone down, spreading wide on The sky-line one ray of red fire;
Prepare the soft cushions of Sidon,
Make ready the rich loom of Tyre
The day, with its toil and its sorrow,
Fauconshawe[A Ballad]To fetch clear water out of the spring The little maid Margaret ran;
From the stream to the castle's western wing It was but a bowshot span;
On the sedgy brink where the osiers cling Lay a dead man, pallid and wan