‘O for a knight like Bayard, Without reproach or fear; My light glove on his casque of st… My love-knot on his spear! ’O for the white plume floating

The Persian’s flowery gifts, the… Of fruitful Ceres, charm no more; The woven wreaths of oak and pine Are dust along the Isthmian shore… But beauty hath its homage still,

The roll of drums and the bugle’s… Vex the air of our vales-no more; The spear is beaten to hooks of pr… The share is the sword the soldier… Sing soft, sing low, our lowland r…

Blest land of Judea! thrice hallo… Where the holiest of memories pilg… In the shade of thy palms, by the… On the hills of thy beauty, my hea… With the eye of a spirit I look o…

In the old days (a custom laid asi… With breeches and cocked hats) the… Their wisest men to make the publi… And so, from a brown homestead, wh… Drinks the small tribute of the M…

'Midst the men and things which wi… Haunt an old man’s memory still, Drollest, quaintest of them all, With a boy’s laugh I recall Good old Abram Morrison.

AS they who, tossing midst the st… While turning shoreward, where a b… Meet the walled blackness of the h… So, on the turbulent waves of part… In gloom and tempest, men have see…

The land, that, from the rule of k… In freeing us, itself made free, Our Old World Sister, to us brin… Her sculptured Dream of Liberty, Unlike the shapes on Egypt’s sand…

Bland as the morning breath of Ju… The southwest breezes play; And, through its haze, the winter… Seems warm as summer’s day. The snow-plumed Angel of the Nort…

Our vales are sweet with fern and… Our hills are maple-crowned; But not from them our fathers chos… The village burying-ground. The dreariest spot in all the land

Thine are all the gifts, O God! Thine the broken bread; Let the naked feet be shod, And the starving fed. Let Thy children, by Thy grace,

Years since (but names to me befor… Two sisters sought at eve my door; Two song-birds wandering from thei… A gray old farm-house in the West… How fresh of life the younger one,

Is this the land our fathers loved… The freedom which they toiled to w… Is this the soil whereon they move… Are these the graves they slumber… Are we the sons by whom are borne

GREYSTONE, AUG. 4, 1886. Once more, O all-adjusting Death! The nation’s Pantheon opens wide; Once more a common sorrow saith A strong, wise man has died.

The shadows round the inland sea Are deepening into night; Slow up the slopes of Ossipee They chase the lessening light. Tired of the long day’s blinding h…