When will the dead world cease to dream

His love was like the liberal air,— Embracing all, to cheer and bless; And every grief that mortals share Found pity in his tenderness.

White sail upon the ocean verge, Just crimsoned by the setting sun, Thou hast thy port beyond the surge, Thy happy homeward course to run And winged hope, with heart of fire, To gain the bliss of thy desire.

The golden time of Long Ago.

Though all the bards of earth were dead, And all their music passed away, What Nature wishes should be said She’ll find the rightful voice to say.

Ambition has but one reward for all: A little power, a little transient fame, A grave to rest in, and a fading name.

Fierce for the right, he bore his part In strife with many a valiant foe; But Laughter winged his polished dart, And kindness tempered every blow.