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“God save all here,” – that kind wish flies
Still sweeter from his lips so sweet ; “God save you kindly," Norah cries,
“Sit down, my child, and rest and eat.”
Growing on 's cheek (but rfone knows how);
“Thanks, gentle Norah, fair and good,
We'll rest awhile our weary feet; But though this old man needeth food,
There 's nothing here that he can eat. flis taste is strange, he eats alone,
Beneath some ruined cloister's cope, Or on some tottering turret's stone,
While I can only live on — Hope !
T OTHER day, as I was twining
" A week ago, ere you were wed,
It was the very night before, Upon so many sweets I fed
While passing by your mother's door, -It was that dear, delicious hour
When Owen here the nosegay brought, And found you in the woodbine bower,
Since then, indeed, I've needed naught."
A blush steals over Norah's face,
A smile comes over Owen's brow, A tranquil joy illumes the place,
As if the moon were shining now; The boy beholds the pleasing pain,
The sweet confusion he has done, And shakes the crystal glass again,
And makes the sands more quickly run.
LOVE AND TIME.
“Dear Norah, we are pilgrims, bound
Upon an endless path sublime; We pace the green earth round and round,
And mortals call us Love and TIME; He seeks the many, I the few;
I dwell with peasants, he with kings. We seldom meet; but when we do,
I take his glass, and he my wings.
Two pilgrims from the distant plain
Come quickly o'er the mossy ground. One is a boy, with locks of gold
Thick curling round his face so fair ; The other pilgrim, stern and old,
Has snowy beard and silver hair. The youth with many a merry trick
Goes singing on his careless way; His old companion walks as quick,
But speaks no word by night or day.
Fast fadeth with a certain doom ;
Unnumbered flowers are seen to bloom. And thus before the sage, the boy
Trips lightly o'er the blooming lands, And proudly bears a pretty toy,
A crystal glass with diamond sands.
To see him frolic in the sun,
And make the sands more quickly run. And now they leap the streamlet o'er,
A silver thread so white and thin, And now they reach the open door,
And now they lightly enter in :
“And thus together on we go,
Where'er I chance or wish to lead ; And Time, whose lonely steps are slow,
Now sweeps along with lightning speed. Now on our bright predestined way
We must to other regions pass ;
Look well upon its truthful glass.
“How quick or slow the bright sands fall
Is hid from lovers' eyes alone, If you can see them more at all,
Be sure your heart has colder grown.
The icy hand, the freezing brow;
And then they 'll pass you know not how.'
She took the glass where Love's warm hands
A bright impervious vapor cast, She looks, but cannot see the sands,
Although she feels they ’re falling fast. But cold hours came, and then, alas !
She saw them falling frozen through, Till Love's warm light suffused the glass, And hid the loos'ning sands from view!
DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY.
DEATH AND CUPID.
Ah! who but oft hath marvelled why
The gods, who rule above, Should e'er permit the young to die,
The old to fall in love?
What delight in some sweet spot Combining love with garden plot, At once to cultivate one's flowers And one's epistolary powers ! Growing one's own choice words and fancies In orange tubs, and beds of pansies ; One's sighs, and passionate declarations, In odorous rhetoric of carnations ; Seeing how far one's stocks will reach, Taking due care one's flowers of speech To guard from blight as well as bathos, And watering every day one's pathos ! A letter comes, just gathered. We Dote on its tender brilliancy, Inhale its delicate expressions Of balm and pea, and its confessions Made with as sweet a maiden's blush As ever morn bedewed on bush : ('T is in reply to one of ours, Made of the most convincing flowers.) Then, after we have kissed its wit, And heart, in water putting it (To keep its remarks fresh), go round Our little eloquent plot of ground, And with enchanted hands compose Our answer, — all of lily and rose, Of tuberose and of violet, And little darling (mignonette) ; Of look at me and call me to you (Words, that while they greet, go through you; Of thoughts, of flames, forget-me-not, Bridexort, in short, the whole blest lot Of vouchers for a lifelong kiss, And literally, breathing bliss !
Ah! why should hapless human kind
Be punished out of season? Pray listen, and perhaps you 'll find
My rhyme may give the reason.
Death, strolling out one summer's day,
Met Cupid, with his sparrows; And, bantering in a merry way,
Proposed a change of arrows.
' Agreed !" quoth Cupid. “I foresee
The queerest game of errors ;
And I'll be King of Terrors ! ”
And so 't was done ; — alas, the day
That multiplied their arts !
A portion of his darts.
Despite the gods above,
JOHN GODFREY SAXE.
THE BIRTH OF PORTRAITURE.
As once a Grecian maiden wove
Her garland mid the summer bowers, There stood a youth, with eyes of love,
To watch her while she wreathed the flowers. The youth was skilled in painting's art,
But ne'er had studied woman's brow, Nor knew what magic hues the heart
Can shed o'er Nature's charm, till now.
LOVE LETTERS MADE OF FLOWERS.
Blest be Love, to whom we owe All that's fair and bright below.
An exquisite invention this,
His hand had pictured many a rose,
And sketched the rays that lit the brook ; But what were these, or what were those,
To woman's blush, to woman's look ? “Oh ! if such magic power there be,
This, this," he cried, “is all my prayer,
Awake !-- soft dews will soon arise
From daisied mead and thorny brake :
To paint that living light I see,
And fix the soul that sparkles there." His prayer as soon as breathed was heard ;
His pallet touched by Love grew warm, And painting saw her thus transferred
From lifeless flowers to woman's form. Still, as from tint to tint he stole,
The fair design shone out the more, And there was now a life, a soul,
Where only colors glowed before. Then first carnation learned to speak,
And lilies into life were brought ; While mantling on the maiden's cheek,
Young roses kindled into thought : Then hyacinths their darkest dyes
Upon the locks of beauty threw;
Awake ! -- within the musk-rose bower
I watch, pale flower of love, for thee. Ah, come ! and show the starry hour What wealth of love thou hid'st from me!
Show all thy love, for Love's sweet sake! Awake! - ne'er heed though listening night
Steal music from thy silver voice ;
Awake! awake ! --
UP! QUIT THY BOWER.
UP! quit thy bower ! late wears the hour,
Many may worship thee, that will I not ;
And thou of beams
On Eden's streams,
With love more warm than mine
In me, which, though forbidden yet to shine,
I feel was lighted at thy God's and thine. It may be hidden long : death and decay Our mother Eve bequeathed us, but my
heart Defies it; though this life must pass away,
Is that a cause for thee and me to part ? Thou art immortal ; so am I: I feel
I feel my immortality o'ersweep All pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and peal,
Like the eternal thunders of the deep, Into my ears this truth, “Thou liv'st forever !"
FOR LOVE'S SWEET SAKE.
FLY TO THE DESERT, FLY WITH ME.
SONG OF NOURMAHAL IN "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM.
AWAKE ! — the starry midnight hour
Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight;
Awake! awake !
“Fly to the desert, fly with me,