Though i am humble, slight me not,
But love me for the Poet’s sake;
Forget me not till he ’s forgot,
For care or slight with him I take.
For oft he passed the blossoms by
And turned to me with kindly look;
Left flaunting flowers and open sky,
And wooed me by the shady brook.
And like the brook his voice was low:...
The birds their love-notes warble
Among the blossomed trees;
The flowers are sighing forth their sweets
To wooing honey-bees;
The glad brook o’er a pebbly floor
Goes dancing on its way,—
But not a thing is so like spring
As happy Alice Ray.
An only child was Alice,
And, like the blest above,
The gentle...
The night was dark and fearful,
The blast swept wailing by;
A watcher, pale and tearful,
Looked forth with anxious eye:
How wistfully she gazes—
No gleam of morn is there!
And then her heart upraises
Its agony of prayer.
Within that dwelling lonely,
Where want and darkness reign,
Her precious child, her...
Scene. the terraced roof of ABSALOM’S house, by night; adorned with vases of flowers, and fragrant shrubs; an awning spread over part of it. TAMAR and HADAD.
Tam. No, no, I well remember—proofs, you said,
Unknown to Moses.
Had. Well, my love, thou knowest
I ’ve been a traveller in various climes;
Trod Ethiopia’s scorching sands, and scaled...
My life is like the summer rose,
That opens to the morning sky,
But, ere the shades of evening close,
Is scattered on the ground—to die!
Yet on the rose’s humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if she wept the waste to see—
But none shall weep a tear for me!
My life is like the autumn leaf
That trembles...
Farewell, my more than fatherland!
Home of my heart and friends, adieu!
Lingering beside some foreign strand,
How oft shall I remember you!
How often, o’er the waters blue,
Send back a sigh to those I leave,
The loving and beloved few,
Who grieve for me,—for whom I grieve!
We part!—no matter how we part,
There...
Winged mimic of the woods! thou motley fool!
Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe?
Thine ever ready notes of ridicule
Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe.
Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe,
Thou sportive satirist of Nature’s school,
To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe,
Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule!
...
To kiss my Celia’s fairer breast,
The snow forsakes its native skies,
But proving an unwelcome guest,
It grieves, dissolves in tears, and dies.
Its touch, like mine, but serves to wake
Through all her frame a death-like chill,—
Its tears, like those I shed, to make
That icy bosom colder still.
I blame her not; from...
My son, thou wast my heart’s delight,
Thy morn of life was gay and cheery;
That morn has rushed to sudden night,
Thy father’s house is sad and dreary.
I held thee on my knee, my son!
And kissed thee laughing, kissed thee weeping;
But ah! thy little day is done,
Thou ’rt with thy angel sister sleeping.
The staff, on...
I love to steal awhile away
From every cumbering care,
And spend the hours of setting day
In humble, grateful prayer.
I love, in solitude, to shed
The penitential tear;
And all His promises to plead,
When none but God can hear.
I love to think on mercies past,
And future good implore;
And all my cares...
