The burly driver at my side, We slowly climbed the hill, Whose summit, in the hot noontide, Seemed rising, rising still. At last, our short noon-shadows bi…

On the wide lawn the snow lay deep… Ridged o’er with many a drifted he… The wind that through the pine-tre… The naked elm-boughs tossed and sw… While, through the window, frosty-…

Not vainly did old poets tell, Nor vainly did old genius paint God’s great and crowning miracle, The hero and the saint! For even in a faithless day

WELCOME home again, brave seama… And the old heroic spirit of our e… With that front of calm endurance,… Pressed the iron of the prison, sm… Is the tyrant’s brand upon thee?…

PRELUDE ALONG the roadside, like the flo… That tawny Incas for their garden… Heavy with sunshine droops the gol… And the red pennons of the cardina…

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…

1640-1890. O river winding to the sea! We call the old time back to thee; From forest paths and water-ways The century-woven veil we raise.

‘BRING out your dead!’ The midn… Heard and gave back the hoarse, lo… Harsh fell the tread of hasty feet… Glanced through the dark the coars… Her coffin and her pall.

Last night, just as the tints of a… Of sunset faded from our hills and… I sat, vague listening, lapped in… To the leaf’s rustle, and the cric… Then, like that basket, flush with…

John Brown of Ossawatomie spake o… 'I will not have to shrive my soul… But let some poor slave-mother who… With her children, from the gallow… John Brown of Ossawatomie, they l…

Through Thy clear spaces, Lord, o… Formless and void the dead earth r… Deaf to Thy heaven’s sweet music,… To the great lights which o’er it… No sound, no ray, no warmth, no br…

THANK God for the token! one li… One spirit untrammelled, unbending… Like the oak of the mountain, deep… Erect, when the multitude bends to… When traitors to Freedom, and Hon…

ACROSS the frozen marshes The winds of autumn blow, And the fen-lands of the Wetter Are white with early snow. But where the low, gray headlands

Who, looking backward from his man… Sees not the spectre of his misspe… And, through the shade Of funeral cypress planted thick b… Hears no reproachful whisper on th…

All day the darkness and the cold Upon my heart have lain, Like shadows on the winter sky, Like frost upon the pane; But now my torpid fancy wakes,