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POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY.
She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true, For her heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo, But honored well are charms to sell
If priests the selling do.
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret,
The shadows lay along Broadway,
Walked spirits at her side.
And Honor charmed the air ;
FROM "THE PRINCESS.”
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
Dear as remembered kisses after death,
Not in the laughing bowers,
And where swift-footed hours
Steal the rich breath of enamored flowers,
'T was near the twilight-tide, And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride.
Not on a couch of case,
Viands that might a godlike palate please,
And music's soul-creative ecstasies,
Well satisfied with bliss of mortal birth,
And called her good as fair,
She kept with chary
But where the incessant din
While the long summer day is pouring in,
Till day is gone, and darkness doth begin, Dream I, - as in the corner where I lie, On wintry nights, just covered from the sky ! Such is my fate, — and, barren though it seem, Yet, thou blind, soulless scorner, yet I dream !
Then, when the gale is sighing, And when the leaves are dying,
And when the song is o'er, 0, let us think of those Whose lives are lost in woes,
Whose cup of grief runs o'er.
HENCE, ALL YE VAIN DELIGHTS.
HENCE, all ye vain delights,
But only melancholy,
And yet I dream, Dream what, were men more just, I might have been, How strong, how fair, how kindly and serene, Glowing of heart, and glorious of mien ; The conscious crown to Nature's blissful scene, In just and equal brotherhood to glean, With all mankind, exhaustless pleasure keen,
Such is my dream !
And yet I dream,
Bright with the lustre of integrity,
Nor swell the tide of human misery!
And yet I dream, Dream of a sleep where dreams no more shall come, My last, my first, my only welcome home! Rest, unbeheld since Life's beginning stage, Sole remnant of my glorious heritage, Unalienable, I shall find thee yet, And in thy soft embrace the past forget.
Thus do I dream !
Love will not clip him,
Maids will not lip him, Maud and Marian pass him by ;
Youth it is sunny,
Age has no honey, What can an old man do but die ?
They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of time
Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the crier on his round
Through the town.
June it was jolly,
O for its folly ! A dancing leg and a laughing eye !
Youth may be silly,
Wisdom is chilly, What can an old man do but die ?
Friends they are scanty,
Beggars are plenty,
Gold 's in his clutches,
(Buying him crutches !)— What can an old man do but die ?
But now he walks the streets,
So forlorn ;
“ They are gone."
In their bloom ;
On the tomb.
In the snow.
Like a staff ;
In his laugh.
At him here,
WHEN SHALL WE ALL MEET AGAIN?
WHEN shall we all meet again?
Though in distant lands we sigh, Parched beneath a hostile sky;
But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, -- and all that,
Are so queer !
There's not a blade will grow, boys, 'T is cropped out, I trow, boys, And Tommy's dead.
Send the colt to fair, boys,
THE APPROACH OF AGE.
FROM "TALES OF THE HALL."
Six years had passed, and forty ere the six,
choose. In fact, I felt a languor stealing on; The active arm, the agile hand, were gone; Small daily actions into habits grew, And new dislike to forms and fashions new. I loved my trees in order to dispose ; I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose ; Told the same story oft, --in short, began to prose.
Move my chair on the floor, boys,
There's something not right, boys,
You may give over plough, boys,
I'm not right, I doubt, boys, I've such a sleepy head, I shall nevermore be stout, boys, You may carry me to bed. What are you about, boys ? The prayers are all said, The fire's raked out, boys, And Tommy's dead. The stairs are too steep, boys, You may carry me to the head, The night's dark and deep, boys, Your mother's long in bed, "T is time to go to sleep, boys, And Tommy 's dead. I'm not used to kiss, boys, You may shake my hand instead. All things go amiss, boys, You may lay me where she is, boys, And I 'll rest my old head : "T is a poor world, this, boys, And Tommy's dead.
O, pour upon my soul again
That sad, unearthly strain That seems from other worlds to plain ! Thus falling, falling from afar, As if some melancholy star Had mingled with her light her sighs,
And dropped them from the skies. No, never came from aught below
This melody of woe, That makes my heart to overflow, As from a thousand gushing springs Unknown before ; that with it brings This nameless light --- if light it be
That veils the world I see.
For all I see around me wears
The hue of other spheres ; And something blent of smiles and tears Comes from the very air I breathe. 0, nothing, sure, the stars beneath, Can mould a sadness like to this,
So like angelic bliss !