A fleet with flags arrayed
Sailed from the port of Brest,
62 lines
I hear along our street
Pass the minstrel throngs;
55 lines
O gift of God! O perfect day:
Whereon shall no man work, but play;
34 lines
Simon Danz has come home again,
From cruising about with his buccaneers;
65 lines
This is the place. Stand still, my steed,
Let me review the scene,
69 lines, 3 comments
"A soldier of the Union mustered out,"
Is the inscription on an unknown grave
14 lines
TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!—
43 lines
I said unto myself, if I were dead,
What would befall these children? What would be
14 lines, 1 comment
As the dim twilight shrouds
The mountain's purple crest,
41 lines
The sun is set; and in his latest beams
Yon little cloud of ashen gray and gold,
14 lines
On the green little isle of Inchkenneth,
Who is it that walks by the shore,
14 lines
When the summer fields are mown,
When the birds are fledged and flown,
14 lines, 15 comments
The day is ending,
The night is descending;
25 lines, 6 comments
I stand again on the familiar shore,
And hear the waves of the distracted sea
14 lines
Allah gives light in darkness,
Allah gives rest in pain,
14 lines
Sweet the memory is to me
Of a land beyond the sea,
102 lines
Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old,
She is my life, and my goods, and my gold.
50 lines
Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,
With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,
15 lines, 4 comments
Round Autumn's mouldering urn
Loud mourns the chill and cheerless gale,
54 lines
I leave you, ye cold mountain chains,
Dwelling of warriors stark and frore!
34 lines
Even as the Blessed, at the final summons,
Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave,
47 lines
I am poor and old and blind;
The sun burns me, and the wind
62 lines
Thus then, much care-worn,
The son of Healfden
130 lines
I know a maiden fair to see,
Take care!
34 lines
Black shadows fall From the lindens tall,
50 lines
O, how blest are ye whose toils are ended!
Who, through death, have unto God ascended!
29 lines
Blind Bartimeus at the gates
Of Jericho in darkness waits;
27 lines
St. Botolph's Town! Hither across the plains
And fens of Lincolnshire, in garb austere,
14 lines
By his evening fire the artist
Pondered o'er his secret shame;
34 lines
Witlaf, a king of the Saxons,
Ere yet his last he breathed,
49 lines
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