Poems [27]
let mirth From his heart be driven: That is the deadliest sin on earth, And never is forgiven!
Art Will himself?--It must be so-- I learn it from thy moan, For none can feel another's wo As deeply as his own.
Yet wherefore strain thy tiny throat, While other birds repose? What means thy melancholy note?-- The mystery disclose!
Still "Whip poor Will!"--Art thou a sprite, From unknown regions sent To wander in the gloom of night, And ask for punishment?
Is thine a conscience sore beset With guilt?--or, what is worse, Hast thou to meet writs, duns, and debt-- No money in thy purse!
If this be thy hard fate indeed, Ah! well may'st thou repine: The sympathy I give I need-- The poet's doom is thine!
Art thou a lover, Will?--Has proved The fairest can deceive? This is the lot of all who've loved Since Adam wedded Eve!
Hast trusted in a friend, and seen No friend was he in need? A common error--men still lean Upon as frail a reed.
Hast thou, in seeking wealth or fame, A crown of brambles won? O'er all the earth 'tis just the same With every mother's son!
Hast found the world a Babel wide, Where man to Mammon stoops? Where flourish Arrogance and Pride, While modest Merit droops?
What, none of these?--Then, whence thy pain? To guess it who's the skill? Pray have the kindness to explain Why should I whip poor Will?
Dost merely ask thy just desert? What, not another word?-- Back to the woods again, unhurt-- I will not harm thee, bird!
But use thee kindly--for my nerves, Like thine, have penance done: "Use every man as he deserves, Who shall 'scape whipping?"--None!
Farewell, poor Will!--Not valueless This lesson by thee given: "Keep thine own counsel, and confess Thyself alone to Heaven!"
The Exile to his Sister.
As streams at morn, from seas that glide, Rejoicing on their sparkling way, Will turn again at eventide, To mingle with their kindred spray-- Even so the currents of the soul, Dear sister, wheresoe'er we rove, Will backward to our country roll, The boundless ocean of our love.
You northern star, now burning bright, The guide by which the wave-tossed steer, Beams not with a more constant light Than does thy love, my sister dear. From stars above the streams below Receive the glory they impart; So, sister, do thy virtues glow Within the mirror of my heart.
Near the Lake.
Near the lake where drooped the willow, Long time ago!-- Where the rock threw back the billow Brighter than snow-- Dwelt a maid, beloved and cherished By high and low; But with autumn's leaf she perished, Long time ago!
Rock and tree and flowing water, Long time ago!-- Bee and bird and blossom taught her Love's spell to know! While to my fond words she listened, Murmuring low, Tenderly her dove-eyes glistened, Long time ago!
Mingled were our hearts for ever, Long time ago! Can I now forget her?--Never! No--lost one--no! To her grave these tears are given, Ever to flow: She's the star I missed from heaven, Long time ago!
The Pastor's Daughter.
An ivy-mantled cottage smiled, Deep-wooded near a streamlet's side, Where dwelt the village-pastor's child, In all her maiden bloom and pride. Proud suitors paid their court and duty To this romantic sylvan beauty: Yet none of all the swains who sought her, Was worthy of the pastor's daughter.
The town-gallants crossed hill and plain, To seek the groves of her retreat; And many followed in her train, To lay their riches at her feet. But still, for all their arts so wary, From home they could not lure the fairy. A maid without a heart they thought her, And so they left the pastor's daughter.
One balmy eve in dewy spring A bard became her father's guest: He struck his harp, and every string To love vibrated in her breast. With that true faith which can not falter, Her hand was given at the alter, And faithful was the heart he brought her To wedlock and the pastor's daughter.
How seldom
Art Will himself?--It must be so-- I learn it from thy moan, For none can feel another's wo As deeply as his own.
Yet wherefore strain thy tiny throat, While other birds repose? What means thy melancholy note?-- The mystery disclose!
Still "Whip poor Will!"--Art thou a sprite, From unknown regions sent To wander in the gloom of night, And ask for punishment?
Is thine a conscience sore beset With guilt?--or, what is worse, Hast thou to meet writs, duns, and debt-- No money in thy purse!
If this be thy hard fate indeed, Ah! well may'st thou repine: The sympathy I give I need-- The poet's doom is thine!
Art thou a lover, Will?--Has proved The fairest can deceive? This is the lot of all who've loved Since Adam wedded Eve!
Hast trusted in a friend, and seen No friend was he in need? A common error--men still lean Upon as frail a reed.
Hast thou, in seeking wealth or fame, A crown of brambles won? O'er all the earth 'tis just the same With every mother's son!
Hast found the world a Babel wide, Where man to Mammon stoops? Where flourish Arrogance and Pride, While modest Merit droops?
What, none of these?--Then, whence thy pain? To guess it who's the skill? Pray have the kindness to explain Why should I whip poor Will?
Dost merely ask thy just desert? What, not another word?-- Back to the woods again, unhurt-- I will not harm thee, bird!
But use thee kindly--for my nerves, Like thine, have penance done: "Use every man as he deserves, Who shall 'scape whipping?"--None!
Farewell, poor Will!--Not valueless This lesson by thee given: "Keep thine own counsel, and confess Thyself alone to Heaven!"
The Exile to his Sister.
As streams at morn, from seas that glide, Rejoicing on their sparkling way, Will turn again at eventide, To mingle with their kindred spray-- Even so the currents of the soul, Dear sister, wheresoe'er we rove, Will backward to our country roll, The boundless ocean of our love.
You northern star, now burning bright, The guide by which the wave-tossed steer, Beams not with a more constant light Than does thy love, my sister dear. From stars above the streams below Receive the glory they impart; So, sister, do thy virtues glow Within the mirror of my heart.
Near the Lake.
Near the lake where drooped the willow, Long time ago!-- Where the rock threw back the billow Brighter than snow-- Dwelt a maid, beloved and cherished By high and low; But with autumn's leaf she perished, Long time ago!
Rock and tree and flowing water, Long time ago!-- Bee and bird and blossom taught her Love's spell to know! While to my fond words she listened, Murmuring low, Tenderly her dove-eyes glistened, Long time ago!
Mingled were our hearts for ever, Long time ago! Can I now forget her?--Never! No--lost one--no! To her grave these tears are given, Ever to flow: She's the star I missed from heaven, Long time ago!
The Pastor's Daughter.
An ivy-mantled cottage smiled, Deep-wooded near a streamlet's side, Where dwelt the village-pastor's child, In all her maiden bloom and pride. Proud suitors paid their court and duty To this romantic sylvan beauty: Yet none of all the swains who sought her, Was worthy of the pastor's daughter.
The town-gallants crossed hill and plain, To seek the groves of her retreat; And many followed in her train, To lay their riches at her feet. But still, for all their arts so wary, From home they could not lure the fairy. A maid without a heart they thought her, And so they left the pastor's daughter.
One balmy eve in dewy spring A bard became her father's guest: He struck his harp, and every string To love vibrated in her breast. With that true faith which can not falter, Her hand was given at the alter, And faithful was the heart he brought her To wedlock and the pastor's daughter.
How seldom