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465

Far into Wartburg, through all Italy,
In every town the Pope sent messengers,
Riding in furious haste; among them, one
Who bore a branch of dry wood burst in bloom;
The pastoral rod had borne green shoots of spring,
And leaf and blossom. God is merciful.

I Wonder Where My Papa Is?

© Julia A Moore

I wonder where my papa is,

Oh, where could he have gone,

Turn O The Tide

© Henry Van Dyke

The tide flows in to the harbour,

The bold tide, the gold tide, the flood o' the sunlit sea,

New-Englands Crisis

© Benjamin Tompson

IN seventy five the Critick of our years

Commenc'd our war with Phillip and his peers.

Burns

© John Greenleaf Whittier

No more these simple flowers belong
To Scottish maid and lover;
Sown in the common soil of song,
They bloom the wide world over.

The Ghost - Book III

© Charles Churchill

It was the hour, when housewife Morn

With pearl and linen hangs each thorn;

The Very Merry Voyage Of The Macaroni Man

© Carolyn Wells

This figure here before you is a Macaroni Man,

Who is built, as you may notice, on a most ingenious plan.

Marmion: Introduction to Canto II.

© Sir Walter Scott

But chief 'twere sweet to think such life
(Though but escape from fortune's strife),
Something most matchless good and wise,
A great and grateful sacrifice;
And deem each hour to musing given
A step upon the road to heaven.

The Invasion

© Sir Henry Newbolt

Spring, they say, with his greenery
Northward marches at last,
Mustering thorn and elm;
Breezes rumour him conquering,
Tell how Victory sits
High on his glancing helm.

'Gettin' Back'

© Henry Lawson

When we've arrived by boat or rail, and feeling pretty well,
And humped our heavy gladstones to the Great Norsouth Hotel;
And when we've had a wash and brush and changed biled rags for soft
And ate a hearty country meal our spirits go aloft!
(Damn the city!)

Fragment Of A Satire On Satire

© Percy Bysshe Shelley

If gibbets, axes, confiscations, chains,
And racks of subtle torture, if the pains
Of shame, of fiery Hells tempestuous wave,
Seen through the caverns of the shadowy grave,

The Forest Sanctuary - Part II.

Ave, sanctissima!
'Tis night-fall on the sea;
Ora pro nobis!
Our souls rise to thee!

Fragment

Descriptive of the miseries of War; from a Poem
called "The Emigrants," printed in 1793.
TO a wild mountain, whose bare summit hides
Its broken eminence in clouds; whose steeps