Last night, above the whistling wind, I heard the welcome rain, A fusillade upon the roof,
Brief words, when actions wait, are well: The prompter's hand is on his bell; The coming heroes, lovers, kings,
We know him well: no need of praise Or bonfire from the windy hill To light to softer paths and ways
No life in earth, or air, or sky; The sunbeams, broken silently, On the bared rocks around me lie,
Maud Muller all that summer day Raked the meadow sweet with hay; Yet, looking down the distant lane,
Brown foundling of the Western wood, Babe of primeval wildernesses! Long on my table thou hast stood
BOBBY, aetat. 3'. JOHNNY, aetat. 4'. BOBBY DO you know why they've put us in that back room,
Not ours, where battle smoke upcurls, And battle dews lie wet, To meet the charge that treason hurls
Drunk and senseless in his place, Prone and sprawling on his face, More like brute than any man
Serene, indifferent of Fate, Thou sittest at the Western Gate; Upon thy height, so lately won,
'Something characteristic,' eh? Humph! I reckon you mean by that Something that happened in our way,
In sixteen hundred and forty-one, The regular yearly galleon, Laden with odorous gums and spice,
This is the tale that the Chronicle Tells of the wonderful miracle Wrought by the pious Padre Serro,
Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands, And of armed men the hum; Lo! a nation's hosts have gathered
Name of my heroine, simply 'Rose;' Surname, tolerable only in prose; Habitat, Paris, that is where