Poems [44]
happy dome, And now the woodland cheerly rings With Mary's welcome home.
My Mary's voice!--I hear it thrill In rapture on the gale, As she comes gliding down the hill To meet me in the vale. In all the world, on land or sea, Where'er I chance to roam, No music is so sweet to me As Mary's welcome home.
The Sycamore Shade.
I knew a sweet girl, with a bonny blue eye, Who was born in the shade The wild sycamore made, Where the brook sang its song All the summer-day long, And the moments went merrily by, Like the birdlings the moments flew by.
I knew a fair maid, soul-enchanting in grace, Who replied to my vow, 'Neath the sycamore bough, "Like the brook to the sea, Oh, I yearn, love, for thee!" And she hid in my bosom her face-- In my bosom, her beautiful face.
I have a dear wife, who is ever my guide! Wooed and won in the shade The wild sycamore made, Where the brook sings it song All the summer-day long, And the moments in harmony glide, Like our lives they in harmony glide.
Up the Hudson.
Song and Chorus.
Up the Hudson!--Fleetly gliding To our haunts among the trees! Joy the gallant vessel guiding With a fresh and cheerful breeze! Wives and dear ones yearn to meet us-- (Hearts that love us to the core!) And with fond expressions greet us As we near the welcome shore!
Chorus.
Ho! ye inland seas and islands!-- (Echo follows where we go!) Ho! ye headlands, hills, and highlands! Ho! ye Undercliffeans, ho!
Up the Hudson!--Rock and river, Grove and glen pronounce His praise, Who, of every "Good the Giver," Leads us through these pleasant ways!-- Care recedes like water-traces Of our bark, as on we glide, Where the hand of nature graces Homesteads on the Hudson side!
Chorus.
Ho! ye inland seas and islands!-- (Echo follows where we go!) Ho! ye headlands, hills, and highlands! Ho! ye Undercliffeans, ho!
Only Thine.
I know that thou art mine, my love, I know that thou art fair; And lovelier than the orange-flowers That bind thy glossy hair: That thou hast every gentle grace Which nature can design-- I know that thou art mine, my love, I know that I am thine: Yes, thine, my love, I'm thine, my love, Thine, thine, and only thine.
I know that thou art true, my love, And welcome as the breeze Which comes, with healing on its wings, Across the summer seas: That thou hast every winning charm Which culture may refine-- I know that thou art mine, my love, I know that I am thine. Yes, thine, my love, I'm thine, my love, Thine, thine, and only thine.
Epigrams.
On Reading Grim's Attack Upon Clinton.
'Tis the opinion of the town That Grim's a silly elf: In trying to write Clinton down, He went RIGHT DOWN HIMSELF.
On Hearing that Morse Did Not "Invent" the Telegraph
First they said it would not do; But, when he got through it, Then they vowed they always knew That he didn't do it! Lies are rolling stones, of course, But they can't adhere to MORSE.
Address
For the benefit of William Dunlap.
(Spoken by Mrs. Sharpe)
What gay assemblage greets my wondering sight! What scene of splendor--conjured here to-night! What voices murmur, and what glances gleam! Sure 'tis some flattering unsubstantial dream. The house is crowded--everybody's here For beauty famous, or to science dear; Doctors and lawyers, judges, belles, and beaux, Poets and painters--and Heaven only knows Whom else beside!--And see, gay ladies sit Lighting with smiles that fearful place, the pit-- (A fairy change--ah, pray continue it.) Gray heads are here too, listening to my rhymes, Full of the spirit of departed times; Grave men and studious, strangers to my sight, All gather round me on this brilliant night. And welcome are ye all. Not now ye come To speak some trembling poet's awful doom; With frowning eyes a "want of mind" to trace In some new actor's inexperienced face, Or e'en us old ones (oh, for shame!)
My Mary's voice!--I hear it thrill In rapture on the gale, As she comes gliding down the hill To meet me in the vale. In all the world, on land or sea, Where'er I chance to roam, No music is so sweet to me As Mary's welcome home.
The Sycamore Shade.
I knew a sweet girl, with a bonny blue eye, Who was born in the shade The wild sycamore made, Where the brook sang its song All the summer-day long, And the moments went merrily by, Like the birdlings the moments flew by.
I knew a fair maid, soul-enchanting in grace, Who replied to my vow, 'Neath the sycamore bough, "Like the brook to the sea, Oh, I yearn, love, for thee!" And she hid in my bosom her face-- In my bosom, her beautiful face.
I have a dear wife, who is ever my guide! Wooed and won in the shade The wild sycamore made, Where the brook sings it song All the summer-day long, And the moments in harmony glide, Like our lives they in harmony glide.
Up the Hudson.
Song and Chorus.
Up the Hudson!--Fleetly gliding To our haunts among the trees! Joy the gallant vessel guiding With a fresh and cheerful breeze! Wives and dear ones yearn to meet us-- (Hearts that love us to the core!) And with fond expressions greet us As we near the welcome shore!
Chorus.
Ho! ye inland seas and islands!-- (Echo follows where we go!) Ho! ye headlands, hills, and highlands! Ho! ye Undercliffeans, ho!
Up the Hudson!--Rock and river, Grove and glen pronounce His praise, Who, of every "Good the Giver," Leads us through these pleasant ways!-- Care recedes like water-traces Of our bark, as on we glide, Where the hand of nature graces Homesteads on the Hudson side!
Chorus.
Ho! ye inland seas and islands!-- (Echo follows where we go!) Ho! ye headlands, hills, and highlands! Ho! ye Undercliffeans, ho!
Only Thine.
I know that thou art mine, my love, I know that thou art fair; And lovelier than the orange-flowers That bind thy glossy hair: That thou hast every gentle grace Which nature can design-- I know that thou art mine, my love, I know that I am thine: Yes, thine, my love, I'm thine, my love, Thine, thine, and only thine.
I know that thou art true, my love, And welcome as the breeze Which comes, with healing on its wings, Across the summer seas: That thou hast every winning charm Which culture may refine-- I know that thou art mine, my love, I know that I am thine. Yes, thine, my love, I'm thine, my love, Thine, thine, and only thine.
Epigrams.
On Reading Grim's Attack Upon Clinton.
'Tis the opinion of the town That Grim's a silly elf: In trying to write Clinton down, He went RIGHT DOWN HIMSELF.
On Hearing that Morse Did Not "Invent" the Telegraph
First they said it would not do; But, when he got through it, Then they vowed they always knew That he didn't do it! Lies are rolling stones, of course, But they can't adhere to MORSE.
Address
For the benefit of William Dunlap.
(Spoken by Mrs. Sharpe)
What gay assemblage greets my wondering sight! What scene of splendor--conjured here to-night! What voices murmur, and what glances gleam! Sure 'tis some flattering unsubstantial dream. The house is crowded--everybody's here For beauty famous, or to science dear; Doctors and lawyers, judges, belles, and beaux, Poets and painters--and Heaven only knows Whom else beside!--And see, gay ladies sit Lighting with smiles that fearful place, the pit-- (A fairy change--ah, pray continue it.) Gray heads are here too, listening to my rhymes, Full of the spirit of departed times; Grave men and studious, strangers to my sight, All gather round me on this brilliant night. And welcome are ye all. Not now ye come To speak some trembling poet's awful doom; With frowning eyes a "want of mind" to trace In some new actor's inexperienced face, Or e'en us old ones (oh, for shame!)