This is Palm Sunday: mindful of the day,
I bring palm branches, found upon my way:
But these will wither; thine shall never die,—
The sacred palms thou bearest to the sky!
Dear little saint, though but a child in years,
Older in wisdom than my gray...
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As doth his heart who travels far from home
Leap up whenever he by chance doth see
One from his mother-country lately come,
Friend from my home—thus do I welcome thee.
Thou art so late arrived that I the tale
Of thy high lineage on thy brow can trace,...
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Deep in a Rose’s glowing heart
I dropped a single kiss,
And then I bade it quick depart,
And tell my Lady this:
“The love thy Lover tried to send
O’erflows my fragrant bowl,
But my soft leaves would break and bend,
Should he send...
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There was a young lady of Niger
Who smiled as she rode on a Tiger;
They came back from the ride
With the lady inside,
And the smile on the face of the Tiger.* * * * *
There was a young maid who said, “Why
Can’t I...
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From “a Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Act III. Sc. 2.
O, IS all forgot?
All school-days’ friendship, childhood innocence?
We, Hermia, like two artificial gods,
Have with our needles created both one flower,
Both on one sampler, sitting on one...
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From “Irish Melodies”
O THE DAYS are gone when beauty bright
My heart’s chain wove!
When my dream of life, from morn till night,
Was love, still love!
New hope may bloom,
And days may come,
Of milder, calmer...
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Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it...
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Summoned from His Bride by the “Fiery Cross of Roderick Dhu”
From “The Lady of the Lake”
THE HEATH this night must be my bed,
The bracken curtain for my head,
My lullaby the warder’s tread,
Far, far from love and thee, Mary;
To-morrow eve, more...
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Grief hath been known to turn the young head gray,—
To silver over in a single day
The bright locks of the beautiful, their prime
Scarcely o’erpast; as in the fearful time
Of Gallia’s madness, that discrownèd head
Serene, that on the accursèd altar bled...
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* * *
The was a Young Lady of Bute,
Who played on a silver-gilt flute;
She played several jigs,
To her uncle's white pigs,
That amusing Young Lady of Bute.
Pub. 1846
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