Poems [23]
Other Friends.
When other friends are round thee, And other hearts are thine-- When other bays have crowned thee, More fresh and green than mine-- Then think how sad and lonely This doating heart will be, Which, while it beats, beats only, Beloved one, for thee!
Yet do not think I doubt thee, I know thy truth remains; I would not live without thee, For all the world contains. Thou art the start that guides me Along life's troubled sea; And whatever fate betides me, This heart still turns to thee.
Silent Grief.
Where is now my peace of mind? Gone, alas! for evermore: Turn where'er I may, I find Thorns where roses bloomed before! O'er the green-fields of my soul, Where the springs of joy were found, Now the clouds of sorrow roll, Shading all the prospect round!
Do I merit pangs like these, That have cleft my heart in twain? Must I, to the very lees, Drain thy bitter chalice, Pain? Silent grief all grief excels; Life and it together part-- Like a restless worm it dwells Deep within the human heart!
Love Thee, Dearest!
Love thee, dearest?--Hear me.--Never Will my fond vows be forgot! May I perish, and for ever, When, dear maid, I love thee not! Turn not from me, dearest!--Listen! Banish all thy doubts and fears! Let thine eyes with transport glisten! What hast thou to do with tears?
Dry them, dearest!--Ah, believe me, Love's bright flame is burning still! Though the hollow world deceive thee, Here's a heart that never will! Dost thou smile?--A cloud of sorrow Breaks before Joy's rising sun! Wilt thou give thy hand?--To-morrow, Hymen's bond will make us one!
I Love the Night.
I love the night when the moon streams bright On flowers that drink the dew-- When cascades shout as the stars peep out, From boundless fields of blue; But dearer far than moon or star, Or flowers of gaudy hue, Or murmuring trills of mountain-rills, I love, I love, love--you!
I love to stray at the close of the day, Through groves of forest-trees, When gushing notes from song-birds' throats Are vocal in the breeze. I love the night--the glorious night-- When hearts beat warm and true; But far above the night, I love, I love, I love, love--you!
The Miniature.
William was holding in his hand The likeness of his wife! Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand, With beauty, grace, and life. He almost thought it spoke:--he gazed Upon the bauble still, Absorbed, delighted, and amazed, To view the artist's skill.
"This picture is yourself, dear Jane-- 'Tis drawn to nature true: I've kissed it o'er and o'er again, It is much like you." "And has it kissed you back, my dear?" "Why--no--my love," said he. "Then, William, it is very clear 'Tis not at all LIKE ME!"
The Retort.
Old Nick, who taught the village-school, Wedded a maid of homespun habit; He was as stubborn as a mule, She was as playful as a rabbit.
Poor Jane had scarce become a wife, Before her husband sought to make her The pink of country-polished life, And prim and formal as a Quaker.
One day the tutor went abroad, And simple Jenny sadly missed him; When he returned, behind her lord She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him!
The husband's anger rose!--and red And white his face alternate grew! "Less freedom, ma'am!"--Jane sighed and said, "OH, DEAR! I DIDN'T KNOW 'TWAS YOU!"
Lines On A Poet.
How sweet the cadence of his lyre! What melody of words! They strike a pulse within the heart Like songs of forest-birds, Or tinkling of the shepherd's bell Among the mountain-herds.
His mind's a cultured garden, Where Nature's hand has sown The flower-seeds of poesy-- And they have freshly grown, Imbued with beauty and perfume To other plants unknown.
A bright career's before him-- All tongues pronounce his praise; All hearts his inspiration feel, And will in after-days; For genius breathes in every line Of his soul-thrilling lays.
A nameless grace is round him-- A something,
When other friends are round thee, And other hearts are thine-- When other bays have crowned thee, More fresh and green than mine-- Then think how sad and lonely This doating heart will be, Which, while it beats, beats only, Beloved one, for thee!
Yet do not think I doubt thee, I know thy truth remains; I would not live without thee, For all the world contains. Thou art the start that guides me Along life's troubled sea; And whatever fate betides me, This heart still turns to thee.
Silent Grief.
Where is now my peace of mind? Gone, alas! for evermore: Turn where'er I may, I find Thorns where roses bloomed before! O'er the green-fields of my soul, Where the springs of joy were found, Now the clouds of sorrow roll, Shading all the prospect round!
Do I merit pangs like these, That have cleft my heart in twain? Must I, to the very lees, Drain thy bitter chalice, Pain? Silent grief all grief excels; Life and it together part-- Like a restless worm it dwells Deep within the human heart!
Love Thee, Dearest!
Love thee, dearest?--Hear me.--Never Will my fond vows be forgot! May I perish, and for ever, When, dear maid, I love thee not! Turn not from me, dearest!--Listen! Banish all thy doubts and fears! Let thine eyes with transport glisten! What hast thou to do with tears?
Dry them, dearest!--Ah, believe me, Love's bright flame is burning still! Though the hollow world deceive thee, Here's a heart that never will! Dost thou smile?--A cloud of sorrow Breaks before Joy's rising sun! Wilt thou give thy hand?--To-morrow, Hymen's bond will make us one!
I Love the Night.
I love the night when the moon streams bright On flowers that drink the dew-- When cascades shout as the stars peep out, From boundless fields of blue; But dearer far than moon or star, Or flowers of gaudy hue, Or murmuring trills of mountain-rills, I love, I love, love--you!
I love to stray at the close of the day, Through groves of forest-trees, When gushing notes from song-birds' throats Are vocal in the breeze. I love the night--the glorious night-- When hearts beat warm and true; But far above the night, I love, I love, I love, love--you!
The Miniature.
William was holding in his hand The likeness of his wife! Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand, With beauty, grace, and life. He almost thought it spoke:--he gazed Upon the bauble still, Absorbed, delighted, and amazed, To view the artist's skill.
"This picture is yourself, dear Jane-- 'Tis drawn to nature true: I've kissed it o'er and o'er again, It is much like you." "And has it kissed you back, my dear?" "Why--no--my love," said he. "Then, William, it is very clear 'Tis not at all LIKE ME!"
The Retort.
Old Nick, who taught the village-school, Wedded a maid of homespun habit; He was as stubborn as a mule, She was as playful as a rabbit.
Poor Jane had scarce become a wife, Before her husband sought to make her The pink of country-polished life, And prim and formal as a Quaker.
One day the tutor went abroad, And simple Jenny sadly missed him; When he returned, behind her lord She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him!
The husband's anger rose!--and red And white his face alternate grew! "Less freedom, ma'am!"--Jane sighed and said, "OH, DEAR! I DIDN'T KNOW 'TWAS YOU!"
Lines On A Poet.
How sweet the cadence of his lyre! What melody of words! They strike a pulse within the heart Like songs of forest-birds, Or tinkling of the shepherd's bell Among the mountain-herds.
His mind's a cultured garden, Where Nature's hand has sown The flower-seeds of poesy-- And they have freshly grown, Imbued with beauty and perfume To other plants unknown.
A bright career's before him-- All tongues pronounce his praise; All hearts his inspiration feel, And will in after-days; For genius breathes in every line Of his soul-thrilling lays.
A nameless grace is round him-- A something,