False to his art and to the high c… God laid upon him, Markham’s rebe… Beats all in vain the harp he touc… It yields a jingle and it yields n… No more the strings beneath his fi…

I dreamed I stood upon a hill, an… The godly multitudes walked to and… Beneath, in Sabbath garments fitl… With pious mien, appropriately sad… While all the church bells made a…

'Tis the census enumerator A-singing all forlorn: It’s ho! for the tall potater, And ho! for the clustered corn. The whiffle-tree bends in the bree…

Now Lonergan appears upon the boa… And Truth and Error sheathe their… No more in wordy warfare to engage… The commentators bow before the st… And bookworms, militant for ages p…

The friends who stood about my bed Looked down upon my face and said: 'God’s will be done-the fellow’s d… When from my body I was free I straightway felt myself, ah me!

Looking across the line, the Grec… ‘This border I will stain a Turke… The Moslem smiled securely and re… ‘No Greek has ever for his countr… While thus each patriot guarded hi…

Well, Mr. Kemble, you are called,… A great divine, and I’m a great p… You as a Congregationalist blink Some certain truths that I esteem… And dropp them in the coffers of m…

What! ‘Out of danger?’ Can the sl… Or canting Pharisee no more defam… Will Treachery caress my hand no… Nor Hatred He alurk about my door… Ingratitude, with benefits dismiss…

'O father, I saw at the church as… The populace gathered in numbers s… That they couldn’t get in; and the… And they looked as if suffering te… ‘Twas the funeral, child, of a gen…

In fair Yosemite, that den of thi… Wherein the minions of the moon di… The travelers’ purses, lo! the De… His larger share as leader still d… El Capitan, foreseeing that _his_…

‘What is that, mother?’ ‘The funny man, child. His hands are black, but his heart… ‘May I touch him, mother?’ ‘T were foolishly done:

De Young (in Chicago the story is… ‘Took his life in his hand,’ like… And stood before Buckley-who thou… For Buckley, the man-eating monst… ‘Count fairly the ballots!’ so ran…

Says Gerald Massey: ‘When I writ… Of souls of the departed guides my… How strange that poems cumbering o… Penned by immortal parts, have non…

Your influence, my friend, has gat… To east and west its tides encroac… There’ll be, on all God’s foot-st… No clean spot left for God to set…

Come, Stanford, let us sit at eas… And talk as old friends do. You talk of anything you please, And I will talk of you. You recently have said, I hear,