is his conquest. Life, if it should fret,
Has paid him tribute. He can bear to die,
He who has once been
happy! When I set
The world before me and survey its range,
Its mean ambitions, its scant fantasies,
shreds of pleasure which for lack of change
Men wrap around them and call happiness,
The poor delights
which are the tale and sum
Of the worlds courage in its martyrdom;
When I hear laughter from a tavern door,
When I see crowds agape and in the rain
on tiptoe and with stifled roar
To see a rocket fired or a bull slain,
When misers handle gold, when orators
strong mens hearts with glory till they 0156
When cities deck their streets for barren wars
laid waste their youth, and when 0156
Calmly the count of my own life and see
On what poor stuff my
manhoods dreams 0156
Till I too learnd what dole of vanity
Will serve a human soul for daily bread,
I remember that I once was young
And lived with Esther the worlds gods among.
SEVEN weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm
Upon the huge Atlantic, and once more
ride into still water and the calm
Of a sweet evening, screend by either shore
Of Spain and Barbary. Our
toils are oer,
Our exile is accomplishd. Once again
We look on Europe, mistress as of yore
Of the fair
earth and of the hearts of men.
Ay, this is the famed rock which Hercules
And Goth and Moor bequeathd
us. At this door
England stands sentry. God! to hear the shrill
Sweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze,
at the summons of the rock guns roar
To see her red coats marching from the hill!
I LIKE the hunting of the hare
Better than that of the fox;
I like the joyous morning air,
crowing of the cocks.
I like the calm of the early fields,
The ducks asleep by the lake,
The quiet hour which Nature
Before mankind is awake.
I like the pheasants and feeding things
Of the unsuspicious morn;
I like the flap of the wood-
As she rises from the corn.
I like the blackbirds shriek, and his rush
From the turnips as I pass by,
And the partridge hiding
her head in a bush
For her young ones cannot fly.
I like these things, and I like to ride
When all the world is in bed,
To the top of the hill where
the sky grows wide,
And where the sun grows red.
The beagles at my horse heels trot
In silence after me;
Theres Ruby, Roger, Diamond, Dot,
Slut and Margery,
A score of names well used, and dear,
The names my childhood knew;
The horn, with which I
rouse their cheer,
Is the horn my father blew.
I like the hunting of the hare
Better than that of the fox;
The new world still is all less fair
the old world it mocks.
I covet not a wider range
Than these dear manors give;
I take my pleasures without change,
as I lived I live.
I leave my neighbours to their thought;
My choice it is, and pride,
On my own lands to find my
In my own fields to ride.
The hare herself no better loves
The field where she was bred,
Than I the habit of these groves,
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