And what is life when love is fled? The world, unshared by thee? I'd rather slumber with the dead, Than such a waif to be! The bark that by no compass steers Is lost, which way soe'er she veers— And such is life to me!
A Hero of the Revolution.
Let not a tear be shed! Of grief give not a token, Although the silver thread And golden bowl be broken! A warrior lived—a Christian died! Sorrow's forgotten in our pride!
Go, bring his battle-blade, His helmet and his plume! And be his trophies laid Beside him in the tomb, Where files of time-marked veterans come With martial tramp and muffled drum!
Give to the earth his frame, To moulder and decay; But not his deathless name— That can not pass away! In youth, in manhood, and in age, He dignified his country's page!
Green be the willow-bough Above the swelling mound, Where sleeps the hero now In consecrated ground: Thy epitaph, O Delavan! God's noblest work—an honest man!
Rhyme and Reason.
Two children of the olden time In Flora's primrose season, Were born. The name of one was Rhyme That of the other Reason. And both were beautiful and fair, And pure as mountain stream and air.
As the boys together grew, Happy fled their hours— Grief or care they never knew In the Paphian bowers. See them roaming, hand in hand, The pride of all the choral band!
Music with harp of golden strings, Love with bow and quiver, Airy sprites on radiant wings, Nymphs of wood and river, Joined the Muses' constant song, As Rhyme and Reason passed along.
But the scene was changed—the boys Left their native soil— Rhyme's pursuit was idle joys, Reason's manly toil: Soon Rhyme was starving in a ditch, While Reason grew exceeding rich.
Since the dark and fatal hour, When the brothers parted, Reason has had wealth and power— Rhyme's poor and broken-hearted! And now, or bright, or stormy weather, They twain are seldom seen together.
'Twas night. Near the murmuring Saone, We met with no witnesses by, But such as resplendently shone In the blue-tinted vault of the sky: Your head on my bosom was laid, As you said you would ever be mine; And I promised to love, dearest maid, And worship alone at your shrine.
Your love on my heart gently fell As the dew on the flowers at eve, Whose blossoms with gratitude swell, A blessing to give and receive: And I knew by the glow on your cheek, And the rapture you could not control, No power had language to speak The faith or content of your soul.
I love you as none ever loved— As the steel to the star I am true; And I, dearest maiden, have proved That none ever loved me but you. Till memory loses her power, Or the sands of existence have run, I'll remember the star-lighted hour That mingled two hearts into one.
Wearies my Love?
Wearies my love of my letters? Does she my silence command? Sunders she Love's rosy fetters As though they were woven of sand? Tires she too of each token Indited with many a sigh? Are all her promises broken? And must I love on till I die?
Thinks my dear love that I blame her With what was a burden to part? Ah, no!—with affection I'll name her While lingers a pulse in my heart. Although she has clouded with sadness, And blighted the bloom of my years, I lover still, even to madness, And bless her through showers of tears.
My pen I have laid down in sorrow, The songs of my lute I forego: From neither assistance I'll borrow To utter my heart-seated wo! But peace to her bosom, wherever Her thoughts or her footsteps may stray: Memento of mine again never Will shadow the light of her way!
Fare The Well, Love.
Fare thee well, love!—We must sever! Nor for years, love; but for ever! We must meet no more—or only Meet as strangers—sad and lonely. Fare thee well!
Fare thee well, love!—How I languish For the cause of all my anguish! None have ever met and parted So forlorn and broken-hearted. Fare thee well!
Fare thee well, love—Till I perish All my truth for thee I'll cherish; And, when thou my requiem hearest, Know till death I loved thee, dearest. Fare thee well!
Thou Hast Woven the Spell.
Thou hast woven the spell that hath bound me, Through all the sad changes of years; And the smiles that I wore when I found thee, Have faded and melted in tears! Like the poor, wounded fawn from the mountain, That seeks out the clear silver tide, I have lingered in vain at the fountain Of hope—with a shaft in my side!
Thou hast taught me that Love's rosy fetters A pang from the thorns may impart; That the coinage of vows and of letters Comes not from the mint of the heart. Like the lone bird that flutters her pinion, And warbles in bondage her strain, I have struggled to fly thy domain, But find that the struggle is vain!
When life looks drear and lonely, love, And pleasant fancies flee, Then will the Muses only, love, Bestow a thought on me! Mine is a harp which Pleasure, love, To waken strives in vain; To Joy's entrancing measure, love, It ne'er can thrill again!— Why mock me, Bessy Bell?
Oh, do not ask me ever, love, For rapture-woven rhymes; For vain is each endeavor, love, To sound Mirth's play-bell chimes! Yet still believe me, dearest love, Though sad my song may be, This heart still dotes sincerest, love, And grateful turns to thee— My once fond Bessy Bell!
Those eyes still rest upon me, love! I feel their magic spell! With that same look you won me, love, Fair, gentle Bessy Bell! My doom you've idly spoken, love, You never can be mine! But though my heart is broken, love, Still, Bessy, it is thine! Adieu, false Bessy Bell!
The Day is Now Dawning.
The day is now dawning, love, Fled is the night— I go like the morning, love, Cheerful and bright. Then adieu, dearest Ellen: When evening is near, I'll visit thy dwelling, For true love is here.
Oh, come where the fountain, love, Tranquilly flows; Beneath the green mountain, love, Seek for repose; There the days of our childhood, In love's golden beam, 'Mong the blue-bells and wildwood, Passed on like a dream.
Oh, linger awhile, love!
I must away.
Oh, grant me thy smile, love, 'Tis Hope's cheering ray— With evening expect me.
To the moment be true, And may angels protect thee—
Sweet Ellen, adieu! Dear William, adieu!
When Other Friends.
When other friends are round thee, And other hearts are thine— When other bays have crowned thee, More fresh and green than mine— Then think how sad and lonely This doating heart will be, Which, while it beats, beats only, Beloved one, for thee!
Yet do not think I doubt thee, I know thy truth remains; I would not live without thee, For all the world contains. Thou art the start that guides me Along life's troubled sea; And whatever fate betides me, This heart still turns to thee.
Where is now my peace of mind? Gone, alas! for evermore: Turn where'er I may, I find Thorns where roses bloomed before! O'er the green-fields of my soul, Where the springs of joy were found, Now the clouds of sorrow roll, Shading all the prospect round!
Do I merit pangs like these, That have cleft my heart in twain? Must I, to the very lees, Drain thy bitter chalice, Pain? Silent grief all grief excels; Life and it together part— Like a restless worm it dwells Deep within the human heart!
Love Thee, Dearest!
Love thee, dearest?—Hear me.—Never Will my fond vows be forgot! May I perish, and for ever, When, dear maid, I love thee not! Turn not from me, dearest!—Listen! Banish all thy doubts and fears! Let thine eyes with transport glisten! What hast thou to do with tears?
Dry them, dearest!—Ah, believe me, Love's bright flame is burning still! Though the hollow world deceive thee, Here's a heart that never will! Dost thou smile?—A cloud of sorrow Breaks before Joy's rising sun! Wilt thou give thy hand?—To-morrow, Hymen's bond will make us one!
I Love the Night.
I love the night when the moon streams bright On flowers that drink the dew— When cascades shout as the stars peep out, From boundless fields of blue; But dearer far than moon or star, Or flowers of gaudy hue, Or murmuring trills of mountain-rills, I love, I love, love—you!
I love to stray at the close of the day, Through groves of forest-trees, When gushing notes from song-birds' throats Are vocal in the breeze. I love the night—the glorious night— When hearts beat warm and true; But far above the night, I love, I love, I love, love—you!
William was holding in his hand The likeness of his wife! Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand, With beauty, grace, and life. He almost thought it spoke:—he gazed Upon the bauble still, Absorbed, delighted, and amazed, To view the artist's skill.
"This picture is yourself, dear Jane— 'Tis drawn to nature true: I've kissed it o'er and o'er again, It is much like you." "And has it kissed you back, my dear?" "Why—no—my love," said he. "Then, William, it is very clear 'Tis not at all LIKE ME!"
Old Nick, who taught the village-school, Wedded a maid of homespun habit; He was as stubborn as a mule, She was as playful as a rabbit.
Poor Jane had scarce become a wife, Before her husband sought to make her The pink of country-polished life, And prim and formal as a Quaker.
One day the tutor went abroad, And simple Jenny sadly missed him; When he returned, behind her lord She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him!
The husband's anger rose!—and red And white his face alternate grew! "Less freedom, ma'am!"—Jane sighed and said, "OH, DEAR! I DIDN'T KNOW 'TWAS YOU!"
Lines On A Poet.
How sweet the cadence of his lyre! What melody of words! They strike a pulse within the heart Like songs of forest-birds, Or tinkling of the shepherd's bell Among the mountain-herds.
His mind's a cultured garden, Where Nature's hand has sown The flower-seeds of poesy— And they have freshly grown, Imbued with beauty and perfume To other plants unknown.
A bright career's before him— All tongues pronounce his praise; All hearts his inspiration feel, And will in after-days; For genius breathes in every line Of his soul-thrilling lays.
A nameless grace is round him— A something, too refined To be described, yet must be felt By all of human kind— An emanation of the soul, That can not be defined.
Then blessings on the minstrel— His faults let others scan: There may be spots upon the sun, Which those may view who can; I see them not—yet know him well A POET AND A MAN.
Beside a cottage-door, Sang Ella at her wheel; Ruthven rode o'er the moor, Down at her feet to kneel: A spotted palfrey gay Came ambling at his side, To bear the maid away As his affianced bride.
A high-born noble he, Of stately halls secure; A low-born peasant she, Of parentage obscure. How soft the honeyed words He breathes into her ears!— The melody of birds! The music of the spheres!
With love her bosom swells, Which she would fain conceal— Her eyes, like crystal wells, Its hidden depths reveal. While liquid diamonds drip From feeling's fountain warm, Flutters her scarlet lip— A rose-leaf in a storm!
As from an April sky The rain-clouds flit away, So from the maiden's eye Vanished the falling spray, Which lingered but awhile Her dimpled cheek upon— Then melted in her smile, Like vapor in the sun.
The maid is all his own! She trusts his plighted word, And, lightly on the roan, She springs beside her lord: She leaves her father's cot, She turns her from the door— That green and holy spot Which she will see no more!
They hied to distant lands, That lord and peasant-maid: The church ne'er joined their hands, For Ella was betrayed! Torn from her native bower, That modest rose of May, Drooped, in his stately tower, And passed from earth away.
They laid her in the ground, And Ella was forgot— Dead was her father found In his deserted cot. But Ruthven—what of him? He ran the story o'er, And, filling to the brim, He thought of it no more!
Twenty Years Ago
'Twas in the flush of summer-time, Some twenty years or more, When Ernest lost his way, and crossed The threshold of our door. I'll ne'er forget his locks of jet, His brow of Alpine snow, His manly grace of form and face, Some twenty years ago.
The hand he asked I freely gave— Mine was a happy lot, In all my pride to be his bride Within my father's cot. The faith he spoke he never broke: His faithful heart I know; And well I vow I love him now As twenty years ago.
Freedom spreads her downy wings Over all created things; Glory to the King of kings, Bend low to Him the knee! Bring the heart before His throne— Worship Him and Him alone!— He's the only King we own— And He has made us free!
The holiest spot a smiling sun E'er shed his genial rays upon, Is that which gave a Washington The drooping world to cheer! Sound the clarion-peals of fame! Ye who bear Columbia's name!— With existence freedom came— It is man's birthright here!
Heirs of an immortal sire, Let his deeds your hearts inspire; Weave the strain and wake the lyre Where your proud altars stand! Hail with pride and loud harrahs, Streaming from a thousand spars, Freedom's rainbow-flag of stars— The symbol of our land!
I Love Thee Still.
I never have been false to thee!— The heart I gave thee still is thine; Though thou hast been untrue to me, And I no more may call thee mine! I've loved, as woman ever loves, With constant soul in good or ill: Thou'st proved as man too often proves, A rover—but I love thee still!
Yet think not that my spirit stoops To bind thee captive in my train!— Love's not a flower at sunset droops, But smiles when comes her god again! Thy words, which fall unheeded now, Could once my heart-strings madly thrill! Love a golden chain and burning vow Are broken—but I love thee still!
Once what a heaven of bliss was ours, When love dispelled the clouds of care, And time went by with birds and flowers, While song and incense filled the air! The past is mine—the present thine— Should thoughts of me thy future fill, Think what a destiny is mine, To lose—but love thee, false one, still!
Look From Thy Lattice, Love.
Look from thy lattice, love— Listen to me! The cool, balmy breeze Is abroad on the sea! The moon, like a queen, Roams her realms above, And naught is awake But the spirit of love. Ere morn's golden light Tips the hills with its ray, Away o'er the waters— Away and away! Then look from thy lattice, love— Listen to me. While the moon lights the sky, And the breeze curls the sea! Look from thy lattice, love— Listen to me! In the voyage of life, Love our pilot will be! He'll sit at the helm Wherever we rove, And steer by the load-star He kindled above! His gem-girdled shallop Will cut the bright spray, Or skim, like a bird, O'er the waters away! Then look from thy lattice, love— Listen to me, While the moon lights the sky, And the breeze curls the sea!
She Loved Him.
She loved him—but she heeded not— Her heart had only room for pride: All other feelings were forgot, When she became another's bride. As from a dream she then awoke, To realize her lonely state, And own it was the vow she broke That made her drear and desolate!
She loved him—but the sland'rer came, With words of hate that all believed; A stain thus rested on his name— But he was wronged and she deceived; Ah! rash the act that gave her hand, That drove her lover from her side— Who hied him to a distant land, Where, battling for a name, he died!
She loved him—and his memory now Was treasured from the world apart: The calm of thought was on her brow, The seeds of death were in her heart. For all the world that thing forlorn I would not, could not be, and live— That casket with its jewel gone, A bride who has no heart to give!
Wealth sought the bower of Beauty, Dressed like a modern beau: Just then Love, Health, and Duty Took up their hats to go. Wealth such a cordial welcome met, As made the others grieve; So Duty shunned the gay coquette, Love, pouting, took French leave— He did! Love, pouting, took French leave!
Old Time, the friend of Duty, Next called to see the fair; He laid his hand on Beauty, And left her in despair Wealth vanished!—Last went rosy Health— And she was doomed to prove That those who Duty slight for Wealth, Can never hope for Love! Ah, no! Can never hope for Love!
St. Agnes' Shrine.
While before St. Agnes' shrine Knelt a true knight's lady-love, From the wars of Palestine Came a gentle carrier-dove. Round his neck a Silken string Fastened words the warrior writ: At her call he stooped his wing, And upon her finger lit.
She, like one enchanted, pored O'er the contents of the scroll— For that lady loved her lord With a pure, devoted soul. To her heart her dove she drew, While she traced the burning line; Then away his minion flew Back to sainted Palestine.
To and fro, from hand to hand Came and went a carrier-dove, Till throughout the Holy Land War resigned his sword to Love. Swift her dove, on wings of light, Brought the news from Palestine, And the lady her true knight Wedded at St. Agnes' shrine.
Droop not, brothers! As we go, O'er the mountains, Under the boughs of mistletoe, Log huts we'll rear, While herds of deer and buffalo Furnish the cheer. File o'er the mountains—steady, boys For game afar We have our rifles ready, boys!— Aha! Throw care to the winds, Like chaff, boys!—ha! And join in the laugh, boys!— Hah—hah—hah!
Cheer up, brothers! As we go, O'er the mountains, When we've wood and prairie-land, Won by our toil, We'll reign like kings in fairy-land, Lords of the soil! Then westward ho! in legions, boys— Fair Freedom's star Points to her sunset regions, boys— Aha! Throw care to the winds, Like chaff, boys!—ha! And join in the laugh, boys!— Hah—hah—hah!
The Prairie on Fire [See Notes]
The shades of evening closed around The boundless prairies of the west, As, grouped in sadness on the ground, A band of pilgrims leaned to rest: Upon the tangled weeds were laid The mother and her youngest born, Who slept, while others watched and prayed, And thus the weary night went on.
Thick darkness shrouded earth and sky— When on the whispering winds there came The Teton's shrill and thrilling cry, And heaven was pierced with shafts of flame! The sun seemed rising through the haze, But with an aspect dread and dire: The very air appeared to blaze!— O God! the Prairie was on fire!
Around the centre of the plain A belt of flame retreated denied— And, like a furnace, glowed the train That walled them in on every side: And onward rolled the torrent wild— Wreathes of dense smoke obscured the sky! The mother knelt beside her child, And all—save one—shrieked out, "We die."
"Not so!" he cried.—"Help!—Clear the sedge! Strip bare a circle to the land!" That done, he hastened to its edge, And grasped a rifle in his hand: Dried weeds he held beside the pan, Which kindled at a flash the mass! "Now fire fight fire!" he said, as ran The forked flames among the grass.
On three sides then the torrent flew, But on the fourth no more it raved! Then large and broad the circle grew, And thus the pilgrim band was saved! The flames receded far and wide— The mother had not prayed in vain: God had the Teton's arts defied! His scythe of fire had swept the plain!
Love can not be the aloe-tree, Whose bloom but once is seen; Go search the grove—the tree of love Is sure the evergreen: For that's the same, in leaf or frame, 'Neath cold or sunny skies; You take the ground its roots have bound, Or it, transplanted, dies!
That love thus shoots, and firmly roots In woman's heart, we see; Through smiles and tears in after-years It grows a fadeless tree. The tree of love, all trees above, For ever may be seen, In summer's bloom or winter's gloom, A hardy evergreen.
Like flights of singing-birds went by The cheerful hours of girlhood's day, When, in my native bowers, Of simple buds and flowers They wove a crown, and hailed me Queen of May!
Like airy sprites the lasses came, Spring's offerings at my feet to lay; The crystal from the fountain, The green bough from the mountain, They brought to cheer and shade the Queen of May.
Around the May-pole on the green, A fairy ring they tripped away; All merriment and pleasure, To chords of tuneful measure They bounded by the happy Queen of May.
Though years have passed, and Time has strown My raven locks with flakes of gray, Fond Memory brings the hours Of buds and blossom-showers When in girlhood I was crowned the Queen of May.
Come, come to me, love! Come, love!—Arise And shame the bright stars With the light of thine eyes; Look out from thy lattice— Oh, lady-bird, hear! A swan on the water— My gondola's near!
Come, come to me, love! Come, love!—My bride! O'er crystal in moonbeams We'll tranquilly glide: In the dip of the oar A melody flows Sweet as the nightingale Sings to the rose.
Come, come to me, love! Come, love!—The day Brings warder and cloister! Away, then—away! Oh, haste to thy lover! Not yon star above Is more true to heaven Then he to his love!
"The plaint of the wailing Whip-poor-will, Who mourns unseen and ceaseless sings Ever a note of wail and wo, Till Morning spreads her rosy wings, And earth and sky in her glances glow."
J. R. Drake.
Why dost thou come at set of sun, Those pensive words to say? Why whip poor Will?—What has he done? And who is Will, I pray?
Why come from yon leaf-shaded hill, A suppliant at my door?— Why ask of me to whip poor Will? And is Will really poor?
If poverty's his crime, let mirth From his heart be driven: That is the deadliest sin on earth, And never is forgiven!
Art Will himself?—It must be so— I learn it from thy moan, For none can feel another's wo As deeply as his own.
Yet wherefore strain thy tiny throat, While other birds repose? What means thy melancholy note?— The mystery disclose!
Still "Whip poor Will!"—Art thou a sprite, From unknown regions sent To wander in the gloom of night, And ask for punishment?
Is thine a conscience sore beset With guilt?—or, what is worse, Hast thou to meet writs, duns, and debt— No money in thy purse!
If this be thy hard fate indeed, Ah! well may'st thou repine: The sympathy I give I need— The poet's doom is thine!
Art thou a lover, Will?—Has proved The fairest can deceive? This is the lot of all who've loved Since Adam wedded Eve!
Hast trusted in a friend, and seen No friend was he in need? A common error—men still lean Upon as frail a reed.
Hast thou, in seeking wealth or fame, A crown of brambles won? O'er all the earth 'tis just the same With every mother's son!
Hast found the world a Babel wide, Where man to Mammon stoops? Where flourish Arrogance and Pride, While modest Merit droops?
What, none of these?—Then, whence thy pain? To guess it who's the skill? Pray have the kindness to explain Why should I whip poor Will?
Dost merely ask thy just desert? What, not another word?— Back to the woods again, unhurt— I will not harm thee, bird!
But use thee kindly—for my nerves, Like thine, have penance done: "Use every man as he deserves, Who shall 'scape whipping?"—None!
Farewell, poor Will!—Not valueless This lesson by thee given: "Keep thine own counsel, and confess Thyself alone to Heaven!"
The Exile to his Sister.
As streams at morn, from seas that glide, Rejoicing on their sparkling way, Will turn again at eventide, To mingle with their kindred spray— Even so the currents of the soul, Dear sister, wheresoe'er we rove, Will backward to our country roll, The boundless ocean of our love.
You northern star, now burning bright, The guide by which the wave-tossed steer, Beams not with a more constant light Than does thy love, my sister dear. From stars above the streams below Receive the glory they impart; So, sister, do thy virtues glow Within the mirror of my heart.
Near the Lake.
Near the lake where drooped the willow, Long time ago!— Where the rock threw back the billow Brighter than snow— Dwelt a maid, beloved and cherished By high and low; But with autumn's leaf she perished, Long time ago!
Rock and tree and flowing water, Long time ago!— Bee and bird and blossom taught her Love's spell to know! While to my fond words she listened, Murmuring low, Tenderly her dove-eyes glistened, Long time ago!
Mingled were our hearts for ever, Long time ago! Can I now forget her?—Never! No—lost one—no! To her grave these tears are given, Ever to flow: She's the star I missed from heaven, Long time ago!
The Pastor's Daughter.
An ivy-mantled cottage smiled, Deep-wooded near a streamlet's side, Where dwelt the village-pastor's child, In all her maiden bloom and pride. Proud suitors paid their court and duty To this romantic sylvan beauty: Yet none of all the swains who sought her, Was worthy of the pastor's daughter.
The town-gallants crossed hill and plain, To seek the groves of her retreat; And many followed in her train, To lay their riches at her feet. But still, for all their arts so wary, From home they could not lure the fairy. A maid without a heart they thought her, And so they left the pastor's daughter.
One balmy eve in dewy spring A bard became her father's guest: He struck his harp, and every string To love vibrated in her breast. With that true faith which can not falter, Her hand was given at the alter, And faithful was the heart he brought her To wedlock and the pastor's daughter.
How seldom learn the worldly gay With all their sophistry and art, The sweet and gentle primrose-way To woman's fond, devoted heart! They seek, but never find, the treasure Revealed in eyes of jet and azure. To them, like truth in wells of water, A fable is the pastor's daughter.
When I was in my teens, I loved dear Margaretta: I know not what it means, I can not now forget her! That vision of the past My head is ever crazing; Yet, when I saw her last, I could not speak for gazing! Oh, lingering bud of May! Dear as when first I met her; Worn in my heart always, Life-cherished Margaretta!
We parted near the stile, As morn was faintly breaking: For many a weary mile Oh how my heart was aching! But distance, time, and change, Have lost me Margaretta; And yet 'tis sadly strange That I can not forget her! O queen of rural maids— My dark-eyed Magaretta— The heart the mind upbraids That struggles to forget her!
My love, I know, will seem A wayward, boyish folly; But, ah! it was a dream Most sweet—most melancholy. Were mine the world's domain, To me 'twere fortune better To be a boy again, And dream of Margaretta. Oh! memory of the past, Why linger to regret her? My first love was my last! And that is Margaretta!
The Colonel!—Such a creature! I met him at the ball!— So fair in form and feature, And so divinely tall! He praised my dimpled cheeks and curls, While whirling through the dance, And matched me with the dark-eyed girls Of Italy and France!
He said, in accents thrilling— "Love's boundless as the sea; And I, dear maid, am willing To give up all for thee!" I heard him—blushed—"Would ask mamma"— And then my eyes grew dim! He looked—I said, "Mamma—papa— I'd give up all for him!"
My governor is rich and old; This well the Colonel knew. "Love's wings," he said, "when fringed with gold, Are beautiful to view!" I thought his 'havior quite the ton, Until I saw him stare When merely told that—brother—John— Papa—would—make—his—heir!
Next day and the day after I dressed for him in vain; Was moved to tears and laughter— He never came again! But I have heard, for Widow Dash He bought the bridal ring; And he will we her for her cash— The ugly, hateful thing!
The Sweep's Carol. [See Notes]
Through the streets of New York City, Blithely every morn, I carolled o'er my artless ditty, Cheerly though forlorn! Before the rosy light, my lay Was to the maids begun, Ere winters snows had passed away, Or smiled the summer sun. CAROL—O—a—y—e—o!
In summer months I'd fondly woo Those merry, dark-eyed girls, With faces of ebon hue, And teeth like eastern pearls! One vowed my love she would repay— Her heart my song had won— When winter snows had passed away, And smiled the summer sun. CAROL—O—a—y—e—o!
A year, alas! had scarcely flown— Hope beamed but to deceive— Ere I was left to weep alone, From morn till dewy eve! She died one dreary break of day!— Grief weighs my heart upon!— In vain the snows may pass away, Or smile the summer sun. CAROL—O—a—y—e—o!
The Seasons of Love.
The spring-time of love Is both happy and gay, For joy sprinkles blossoms And balm in our way; The sky, earth, and ocean, In beauty repose, And all the bright future Is COLEUR DE ROSE.
The summer of love Is the bloom of the heart, When hill, grove, and valley, Their music impart; And the pure glow of heaven Is seen in fond eyes, As lakes show the rainbow That's hung in the skies.
The autumn of love Is the season of cheer— Life's mild Indian summer, The smile of the year! Which comes when the golden Ripe harvest is stored, And yields its own blessings— Repose and reward.
The winter of love Is the beam that we win While the storm scowls without, From the sunshine within. Love's reign is eternal— The heart is his throne, And he has all seasons Of life for his own.
My Woodland Bride.
Here upon the mountain-side Till now we met together; Here I won my woodland bride, In flush of summer weather. Green was then the linden-bough, This dear retreat that shaded; Autumn winds are round me now, And the leaves have faded.
She whose heart was all my own, In this summer-bower, With all pleasant things has flown, Sunbeam, bird, and flower! But her memory will stay With me, though we're parted— From the scene I turn away, Lone and broken-hearted!
Oh, Think of Me!
Oh, think of me, my own beloved, Whatever cares beset thee! And when thou hast the falsehood proved, Of those with smiles who met thee— While o'er the sea, think, love, of me, Who never can forget thee; Let memory trace the trysting-place, Where I with tears regret thee.
Bright as you star, within my mind, A hand unseen hath set thee; There hath thine image been enshrined, Since first, dear love, I met thee; So in thy breast I fain would rest, If, haply, fate would let me— And live or die, so thou wert nigh, To love or to regret me!
My Bark is Out Upon the Sea.
My bark is out upon the sea— The moon's above; Her light a presence seems to me Like woman's love. My native land I've left behind— Afar I roam; In other climes no hearts I'll find Like those at home.
Of all yon sisterhood of stars, But one is true: She paves my path with silver bars, And beams like you, Whose purity the waves recall In music's flow, As round my bark they rise and fall In liquid snow.
The fresh'ning breeze now swells our sails! A storm is on! The weary moon's dim lustre fails— The stars are gone! Not so fades Love's eternal light When storm-clouds weep; I know one heart's with me to-night Upon the deep!
Will Nobody Marry Me?
Heigh-ho! for a husband!—Heigh-ho! There's danger in longer delay! Shall I never again have a beau? Will nobody marry me, pray! I begin to feel strange, I declare! With beauty my prospects will fade— I'd give myself up to despair If I thought I should die an old maid!
I once cut the beaux in a huff— I thought it a sin and a shame That no one had spirit enough To ask me to alter my name. So I turned up my nose at the short, And cast down my eyes at the tall; But then I just did it in sport— And now I've no lover at all!
These men are the plague of my life: 'Tis hard from so many to choose! Should any one wish for a wife, Could I have the heart to refuse? I don't know—for none have proposed— Oh, dear me!—I'm frightened, I vow! Good gracious! who ever supposed That I should be single till now?
The Star of Love.
The star of love now shines above, Cool zephyrs crisp the sea; Among the leaves the wind-harp weaves Its serenade for thee. The star, the breeze, the wave, the trees, Their minstrelsy unite, But all are drear till thou appear To decorate the night.
The light of noon streams from the moon, Though with a milder ray O'er hill and grove, like woman's love, It cheers us on our way. Thus all that's bright—the moon, the night, The heavens, the earth, the sea, Exert their powers to bless the hours We dedicate to thee.
Love comes and goes like a spell! How, no one knows, nor can tell! Now here—now there—then away! None dreameth where!—Well-a-day!
Love should be true as the star Seen in the blue sky afar!— Not here—now there—like the lay Of lutes in th' air!—Well-a-day!
Should love depart, not a tie Binds up the heart till we die!— Now here—now there—sad we stray Life is all care!—Well-a-day!
Not Married Yet!
I'm single yet—I'm single yet! And years have flown since I came out! In vain I sigh—in vain I fret— Ye gods! what are the men about? I vow I'm twenty!—O ye powers! A spinster's lot is hard to bear— On earth alone to pass her hours, And afterward lead apes—DOWN THERE!
No offer yet—no offer yet! I'm puzzled quite to make it out: For every beau my cap I set— What, what, what ARE the men about? They don't propose—they WON'T propose, For fear, perhaps, I'd not say, "Yes!" Just let them try—for Heaven knows I'm tired of single-blessedness.
Not married yet—not married yet— The deuce is in the men, I fear! I'm like a—something to be let, And to be LET ALONE—that's clear. They say, "She's pretty—but no chink— And love without it runs in debt!" It agitates my nerves to think That I have had no offer yet.
Lady of England.
Lady of England—o'er the seas Thy name was borne on every breeze, Till all this sunset clime became Familiar with Victoria's name.
Though seas divide us many miles, Yet, for the Queen of those fair isles, Which gave our fathers birth, there roves A blessing from this Land of Groves.
Our Fatherland!—Fit theme for song! When thou art named, what memories throng! Shall England cease our love to claim? Not while our language is the same.
Scion of kings! so live and reign, That, when thy nation's swelling strain Is breathed amid our forests green, We too may sing, "God save the Queen!"
Oh, This Love!
Oh, this love—this love! I ainse the passion slighted; But hearts that truly love, Must break or be united. Oh, this love!
When first he cam' to woo, I little cared aboot him; But seene I felt as though I could na' live without him. Oh, this love!
He brought to me the ring, My hand asked o' my mither— I could na' bear the thought That he should we anither. Oh, this love!
And now I'm a' his ain— In a' his joys I mingle; Nae for the wealth of warlds Wad I again be single! Oh, this love!
One balmy summer night, Mary, Just as the risen moon Had thrown aside her fleecy veil, We left the gay saloon; And in a green, sequestered spot, Beneath a drooping tree, Fond words were breathed, by you forgot, That still are dear to me, Mary, That still are dear to me.
Oh, we were happy, then, Mary— Time lingered on his way, To crowd a lifetime in a night, Whole ages in a day! If star and sun would set and rise Thus in our after years, The world would be a paradise, And not a vale of tears, Mary, And not a vale of tears.
I live but in the past, Mary— The glorious day of old! When love was hoarded in the heart, As misers hoard their gold: And often like a bridal train, To music soft and low, The by-gone moments cross my brain, In all their summer glow, Mary, In all their summer glow.
These visions form and fade, Mary, As age comes stealing on, To bring the light and leave the shade Of days for ever gone! The poet's brow may wear at last The bays that round it fall; But love has rose-buds of the past Far dearer than them all, Mary, Far dearer than them all!
The Beam of Devotion.
I never could find a good reason Why sorrow unbidden should stay, And all the bright joys of life's season Be driven unheeded away. Our cares would wake no more emotion, Were we to our lot but resigned, Than pebbles flung into the ocean, That leave scarce a ripple behind.
The world has a spirit of beauty, Which looks upon all for the best, And while it discharges its duty, To Providence leaves all the rest: That spirit's the beam of devotion, Which lights us through life to its close, And sets, like the sun in the ocean, More beautiful far than it rose.
The Welcome and Farewell.
To meet, and part, as we have met and parted, One moment cherished and the next forgot, To wear a smile when almost broken-hearted, I know full well is hapless woman's lot; Yet let me, to thy tenderness appealing, Avert this brief but melancholy doom— Content that close beside the thorn of feeling, Grows memory, like a rose, in guarded bloom.
Love's history, dearest, is a sad one ever, Yet often with a smile I've heard it told! Oh, there are records of the heart which never Are to the scrutinizing gaze unrolled! My eyes to thine may scarce again aspire— Still in thy memory, dearest let me dwell, And hush, with this hope, the magnetic wire, Wild with our mingled welcome and farewell!
'Tis Now the Promised Hour.
The fountains serenade the flowers, Upon their silver lute— And, nestled in their leafy bowers, The forest-birds are mute: The bright and glittering hosts above Unbar their golden gates, While Nature holds her court of love, And for her client waits. Then, lady, wake—in beauty rise! 'Tis now the promised hour, When torches kindle in the skies To light thee to thy bower. The day we dedicate to care— To love the witching night; For all that's beautiful and fair In hours like these unite. E'en thus the sweets to flowerets given— The moonlight on the tree— And all the bliss of earth and heaven— Are mingled, love, in thee. Then, lady, wake—in beauty rise! 'Tis now the promised hour, When torches kindle in the skies To light thee to thy bower!
The Songs of Home.
Oh, sing once more those dear, familiar lays, Whose gliding measure every bosom thrills, And takes my heart back to the happy days When first I sang them on my native hills! With the fresh feelings of the olden times, I hear them now upon a foreign shore— The simple music and the artless rhymes! Oh, sing those dear, familiar lays once more, Those cheerful lays of other days— Oh, sing those cheerful lays once more!
Oh, sing once more those joy-provoking strains, Which, half forgotten, in my memory dwell; They send the life-blood bounding thro' my veins, And linger round me like a fairy spell. The songs of home are to the human heart Far dearer than the notes that song-birds pour, And of our very nature form a part: Then sing those dear, familiar lays once more! Those cheerful lays of other days— Oh, sing those cheerful lays once more!
Our Order, like the ark of yore, Upon the raging sea was tossed; Secure amid the billow's roar, It moved, and nothing has been lost.
When elements discordant seek To wreck what God in mercy saves, The struggle is as vain and weak As that of the retiring waves.
The Power who bade the waters cease, The Pilot of the Pilgrim Band, He gave the gentle dove of peace The branch she bore them from the land.
In him alone we put our trust, With heart and hand and one accord, Ascribing, with the true and just, All "holiness unto the Lord."
"I suppose she was right in rejecting my suit, But why did she kick me down stairs?" Halleck's "Discarded."
The wing of my spirit is broken, My day-star of hope has declined; For a month not a word have I spoken That's either polite or refined. My mind's like the sky in bad weather, When mist-clouds around us are curled: And, viewing myself altogether, I'm the veriest wretch in the world!
I wander about like a vagrant— I spend half my time in the street; My conduct's improper and flagrant, For I quarrel with all that I meet. My dress, too, is wholly neglected, My hat I pull over my brow, And I look like a fellow suspected Of wishing to kick up a row.
In vain I've endeavored to borrow From friends "some material aid"— For my landlady views me with sorrow, When she thinks of the bill that's unpaid. Abroad my acquaintances flout me, The ladies cry, "Bless us, look there!" And the little boys cluster about me, And sensible citizens stare.
One says, "He's a victim to cupid;" Another, "His conduct's too bad;" A third, "He is awfully stupid;" A fourth, "He is perfectly mad!"— And then I am watched like a bandit, Mankind with me all are at strife: By heaven no longer I'll stand it, But quick put an end to my life!
I've thought of the means—yet I shudder At dagger or ratsbane or rope; At drawing with lancet my blood, or At razor without any soap! Suppose I should fall in a duel, And thus leave the stage with ECLAT? But to die with a bullet is cruel— Besides 'twould be breaking the law!
Yet one way remains: to the river I'll fly from the goadings of care!— But drown?—oh, the thought makes me shiver— A terrible death, I declare! Ah, no!—I'll once more see my Kitty, And parry her cruel disdain— Beseech her to take me in pity, And never dismiss me again.
Lord of the Castle.
"Lord of the castle! oh, where goest thou? Why is the triumph of pride on thy brow?" "Pilgrim, my bridal awaits me to-day, Over the mountains away and away."
"Flora in beauty and solitude roves, List'ning for thee in the shade of the groves." "Pilgrim, I hasten her truth to repay, Over the mountains away and away."
"Guided by honor, how brilliant the road Leading from cottage to castle abode!" "Pilgrim, its dictates I learned to obey, Over the mountains away and away."
The Fallen Brave. [See Notes]
From Cypress and from laurel boughs Are twined, in sorrow and in pride, The leaves that deck the mouldering brows Of those who for their country died: In sorrow, that the sable pall Enfolds the valiant and the brave; In pride that those who nobly fall Win garlands that adorn the grave.
The onset—the pursuit—the roar Of victory o'er the routed foe— Will startle from their rest no more The fallen brave of Mexico. To God alone such spirits yield! He took them in their strength and bloom, When gathering, on the tented field, The garlands woven for the tomb.
The shrouded flag—the drooping spear— The muffled drum—the solemn bell— The funeral train—the dirge—the bier— The mourners' sad and last farewell— Are fading tributes to the worth Of those whose deeds this homage claim; But Time, who mingles them with earth Keeps green the garlands of their fame.
Song of the Troubadour.
In Imitation of the Lays of the Olden Time.
"Come, list to the lay of the olden time," A troubadour sang on a moonlit stream: "The scene is laid in a foreign clime, "A century back—and love is the theme." Love was the theme of the troubadour's rhyme, Of lady and lord of the olden time
"At an iron-barred turret, a lady fair "Knelt at the close of the vesper-chime: "Her beads she numbered in silent prayer "For one far away, whom to love was her crime. "Love," sang the troubadour, "love was a crime, "When fathers were stern, in the olden time.
"The warder had spurned from the castle gate "The minstrel who wooed her in flowing rhyme— "He came back from battle in regal estate— "The bard was a prince of the olden time. "Love," sand the troubadour, "listened to rhyme, "And welcomed the bard of the olden time.
"The prince in disguise had the lady sought; "To chapel they hied in their rosy prime: "Thus worth won a jewel that wealth never bought, "A fair lady's heart of the olden time. "The moral," the troubadour sang, "of my rhyme, "Was well understood in the olden time."
Champions of Liberty. [See Notes]
The pride of all our chivalry, The name of Worth will stand, While throbs the pulse of liberty Within his native land: The wreath his brow was formed to wear, A nation's tears will freshen there.
The young companion of his fame, In war and peace allied, With garlands woven round his name, Reposes at his side: Duncan, whose deeds for evermore Will live amid his cannon's roar.
Gates, in his country's quarrel bold, When she to arms appealed, Sought like the Christian knights of old, His laurels on the field: Where victory rent the welkin-dome, He earned—a sepulchre at home.
The drum-beat of the bannered brave, The requiem and the knell, The volley o'er the soldier's grave, His comrades' last farewell, Are tributes rendered to the dead, And sermons to the living read.
But there's a glory brighter far Than all that earth has given; A beacon, like the index-star, That points the way to heaven: It is a life well spent—its close The cloudless sundown of repose.
That such was theirs for whom we mourn, These obsequies attest; And though in sorrow they are borne Unto their final rest, A guide will their example be To future champions of the free.
The Hunter's Carol.
A merry life does the hunter lead! He wakes with the dawn of day; He whistles his dog—he mounts his steed, And scuds to he woods away! The lightsome tramp of the deer he'll mark, As they troop in herds along; And his rifle startles the cheerful lark As he carols his morning song!
The hunter's life is the life for me!— That is the life for a man! Let others sing of a home on the sea, But match me the woods if you can! Then give me a gun—I've an eye to mark The deer as they bound along!— My steed, dog, and gun, and the cheerful lark To carol my morning song!
A monument to Washington? A tablet graven with his name?— Green be the mound it stands upon, And everlasting as his fame!
His glory fills the land—the plain, The moor, the mountain, and the mart! More firm than column, urn, or fane, His monument—the human heart.
The Christian—patriot—hero—sage! The chief from heaven in mercy sent; His deeds are written on the age— His country is his monument.
"The sword of Gideon and the Lord" Was mighty in his mighty hand— The God who guided he adored, And with His blessing freed the land.
The first in war—the first in peace— The first in hearts that freeman own; Unparalleled till time shall cease— He lives immortal and alone.
Yet let the rock-hewn tower arise, High to the pathway of the sun, And speak to the approving skies Our gratitude to Washington.
The Sister's Appeal.
* * * * * * * *
You remember—don't you, brother— In our early years, The counsels of our poor, dear mother, And her hopes and fears? She told us to love one another— Brother, dry your tears!
We are only two, dear brother, In his babel wide! In the churchyard sleeps poor mother, By our father's side!— Then let us cherish one another Till in death we bide.
* * * * * * * *
Song of the Reapers.
Joyous the carol that rings in the mountains, While the cleared vales are refreshed by the fountains— After the harvest the cheerful notes fall, And all the glad reapers re-echo the call! La ra la la, &c.
Oh, how the heart bounds at that simple refrain! Dear haunts of my childhood, I'm with you again! Green be your valleys, enriched by the rills, And long may that carol be sung on your hills! La ra la la, &c.
To know a man well, it is said, Walter Gay, On shipboard with him you should be: If this maxim's true, then well I know you, For we sailed together the sea, Walter Gay, For we sailed together the sea.
I now watch the star from the strand, Walter Gay, As oft from the surge I did then: Like that all alone you sparkled and shone, The clear northern star among men, Walter Gay, The clear northern star among men!
May your future course, like the past, Walter Gay, From wreck and misfortune be free: your sorrows and care fade into the air, Or vanish like foam on the sea, Walter Gay, Or vanish like foam on the sea!
The friendship that's formed on the wave, Walter Gay, Is deeper than plummet may sound: That can not decay till we lose our way, Or death runs the vessel aground, Walter Gay, Or death runs the vessel aground!
When life's voyage ends, may your bark, Walter Gay Spread sail like the wings of a dove— And, when lulls the wind, safe anchorage find Within the good harbor above, Walter Gay, Within the good harbor above!
Grounds for Divorce.
What can a man do when a woman's perverse, And determined to have her own way?
At the altar you took me for better or worse: Am I worse than you took me for—say, Silly elf?— Am I worse than you took me for, say?
For an angel I took you in beauty and worth— The PRIEST a mere woman has given!
A MAN would prefer a true woman on earth, To all the bright angels in heaven— Silly elf!— To all the bright angels in heaven!
You are ever ready my feelings to hurt At the veriest trifle, of course.
Forgetting a button to sew on your shirt You deem a good ground for divorce— Silly elf!— You deem a good ground for divorce!
Well, marriage a lottery is, and a blank Some men surely draw all their lives.
Such fellows as you, sir, themselves have to thank; Good husbands make always good wives— Silly elf!— GOOD HUSBANDS MAKE ALWAYS GOOD WIVES!
(Written for the lady by whom it was sung.)
Air—"Some love to roam."
Some love to stroll where the wassail-bowl And the wine-cups circle free; None of that band shall win my hand: No! a sober spouse for me. Like cheerful streams when morning beams, With him my life would flow; Not down the crags, the drunkard drags His wife to want and wo! Oh! no, no, no!—oh! no, no, no!
At midnight dark, the drunkard mark— Oh, what a sight, good lack! As home draws near, to him appear Grim fiends who cross his track! His children's name he dooms to shame— His wife to want and wo; She is betrayed, for wine is made Her rival and her foe. Oh! no, no, no!—oh! no, no, no!
Pull away merrily—over the waters! Bend to your oars for the wood-tangled shore; We're off and afloat with earth's loveliest daughters, Worth all the argosies wave ever bore. Pull away gallantly—pull away valiantly— Pull with a swoop, boys; and pull for the shore: Merrily, merrily, bend to the oar!
Pull away cheerily!—land is before us— Green groves are flinging their balm to the spray; The sky, like the spirit of love, bending o'er us, Lights her bright torches to show us the way. Pull away charily—pull away warily— Pull with a nerve, boys; together give way: Merrily, merrily, pull to the lay!
Pull away heartily—light winds are blowing, Crisping the ripples that dance at our side; The moon bathes in silver the path we are going, And night is arrayed in her robes like a bride. Pull away readily—pull away steadily— Pull with a will, boys, and sing as we glide Merrily, merrily, over the tide!
I clasp your hand in mine, Willie, And fancy I've the art To see, while gazing in your face, What's passing in your heart: 'Tis joy an honest man to hold, That gem of modest worth, More prized than all the sordid gold Of all the mines of earth, Willie, Of all the mines of earth.
I've marked your love or right, Willie, Your proud disdain of wrong; I know you'd rather aid the weak Than battle for the strong. The golden rule—religion's stay— With constancy pursue, Which renders others all that they On earth can render you, Willie, On earth can render you.
A conscience void of guile, Willie, A disposition kind, A nature, gentle and sincere, Accomplished and refined: A mind that was not formed to bow, An aspiration high, Are written on your manly brow, And in your cheerful eye, Willie, And in your cheerful eye.
I never look at you, Willie, But with an anxious prayer That you will ever be to me What now I know you are. I do not find a fault to chide, A foible to annoy, For you are all your father's pride, And all your mother's joy, Willie, And all your mother's joy.
You're all that I could hope, Willie, And more than I deserve; Your pressure of affection now I feel in every nerve. I love you—not for station—land— But for yourself alone: And this is why I clasp your hand, So fondly in my own, Willie, So fondly in my own.
The Rock of the Pilgrims. [See Note]
A rock in the wilderness welcomed our sires, From bondage far over the dark-rolling sea; On that holy altar they kindled the fires, Jehovah, which glow in our bosoms for Thee. Thy blessings descended in sunshine and shower, Or rose from the soil that was sown by Thy hand; The mountain and valley rejoiced in Thy power, And heaven encircled and smiled on the land.
The Pilgrims of old an example have given Of mild resignation, devotion, and love, Which beams like the star in the blue vault of heaven, A beacon-light swung in their mansion above. In church and cathedral we kneel in OUR prayer— Their temple and chapel were valley and hill— But God is the same in the isle or the air, And He is the Rock that we lean upon still.
Near the banks of that lone river, Where the water-lilies grow, Breathed the fairest flower that ever Bloomed and faded years ago.
Now we met and loved and parted, None on earth can ever know— Nor how pure and gentle-hearted Beamed the mourned one years ago!
Like the stream with lilies laden, Will life's future current flow, Till in heaven I meet the maiden Fondly cherished years ago.
Hearts that love like mine forget not; They're the same in weal or wo; And that star of memory set not In the grave of years ago.
The Soldier's Welcome Home. [See Notes]
(Written upon the return of General Scott from his brilliant Mexican campaign.)
Victorious the hero returns from the wars, His brow bound with laurels that never will fade, While streams the free standard of stripes and of stars, Whose field in the battle the foeman dismayed. When the Mexican hosts in their fury came on, Like a tower of strength in his might he arose, Where danger most threatened his banner was borne, Waving hope to his friends and despair to his foes!
The soldier of honor and liberty hail! His deeds in the temple of Fame are enrolled; His precepts, like flower-seeds sown by the gale, Take root in the hearts of the valiant and bold. The warrior's escutcheon his foes seek to blot, But vain is the effort of partisan bands— For freemen will render full justice to SCOTT, And welcome him home with their hearts in their hands.
The Origin of Yankee Doodle. [See Note]
Once in a time old Johnny Bull Flew in a raging fury, And swore that Jonathan should have No trials, sir, by jury; That no elections should be held Across the briny waters: "And now," said he, "I'll tax the tea Of all his sons and daughters." Then down he sate in burly state, And blustered like a grandee, And in derision made a tune Called "Yankee doodle dandy." "Yankee doodle"—these are the facts— "Yankee doodle dandy; My son of wax, your tea I'll tax— You—Yankee doodle dandy!"
John sent the tea from o'er the sea With heavy duties rated; But whether hyson or bohea, I never heard it stated. Then Jonathan to pout began— He laid a strong embargo— "I'll drink no tea, by Jove!"—so he Threw overboard the cargo. Next Johnny sent an armament, Big looks and words to bandy, Whose martial band, when near the land, Played—"Yankee doodle dandy." "Yankee doodle—keep it up! Yankee doodle dandy! I'll poison with a tax your cup— You—Yankee doodle dandy!"
A long war then they had, in which John was at last defeated; And "Yankee doodle" was the march To which his troops retreated. Young Jonathan, to see them fly, Could not restrain his laughter: "That tune," said he, "suits to a T, I'll sing it ever after!" Old Johnny's face, to his disgrace, Was flushed with beer and brandy, E'en while he swore to sing no more This—"Yankee doodle dandy." Yankee doodle—ho! ha! he! Yankee doodle dandy— We kept the tune, but not the tea, Yankee doodle dandy!
I've told you now the origin Of this most lively ditty, Which Johnny Bull pronounces "dull And silly!"—what a pity! With "Hail Columbia!" it is sung, In chorus full and hearty— On land and main we breathe the strain, John made for his tea-party. No matter how we rhyme the words, The music speaks them handy, And where's the fair can't sing the air Of "Yankee doodle dandy!" "Yankee doodle—firm and true— Yankee doodle dandy, Yankee doodle, doodle doo! Yankee doodle dandy!"
On the Burial of Mrs. Mary L. Ward, at Dale Cemetery, Sing-Sing, May 3, 1853.
The knell was tolled—the requiem sung, The solemn burial-service read; And tributes from the heart and tongue Were rendered to the dead.
The dead?—Religion answers, "No! She is not dead—She can not die! A mortal left this vale of wo!— An angel lives on high!"
The earth upon her coffin-lid Sounded a hollow, harsh adieu! The mound arose, and she was hid For ever from the view!
For ever?—Drearily the thought Passed, like an ice-bolt, through the brain; When Faith the recollection brought That we shall meet again.
The mourners wound their silent way Adown the mountain's gentle slope, Which, basking in the smile of May, Looked cheerfully as hope.
As hope?—What hope?—That boundless One God in His love and mercy gave; Which brightens, with salvation's sun, The darkness of the grave.
New-York in 1826. [See Notes]
(Address of the carrier of the New-York Mirror, on the first day of the year.)
Air—"Songs of Shepherds and Rustical Roundelays."
Two years have elapsed since the verse of S. W. [See Notes] Met your bright eyes like a fanciful gem; With that kind of stanza the muse will now trouble you, She often frolicks with one G. P. M. As New Year approaches, she whispers of coaches, And lockets and broaches [See Notes], without any end, Of sweet rosy pleasure, of joy without measure, And plenty of leisure to share with a friend.
'Tis useless to speak of the griefs of society— They overtake us in passing along; And public misfortunes, in all their variety, Need not be told in a holyday song. The troubles of Wall-street, I'm sure that you all meet, And they're not at all sweet—but look at their pranks: Usurious cravings, and discounts and shavings, With maniac ravings and Lombardy banks. [See Notes]
'Tis useless to speak of our dealers in cotton too, Profits and losses but burden the lay; The failure of merchants should now be forgotten too, Nor sadden the prospects of this festive day. Though Fortune has cheated the hope near completed, And cruelly treated the world mercantile, The poet's distresses, when Fortune oppresses, Are greater, he guesses—but still he can smile.
'Tis useless to speak of the gas-lights [See Notes] so beautiful, Shedding its beams through "the mist of the night;" Eagles and tigers and elephants, dutiful, Dazzle the vision with columns of light. The lamb and the lion—ask editor Tryon, His word you'll rely on—are seen near the Park, From which such lights flow out, as wind can not blow out, Yet often they go out, and all's in the dark.
'Tis useless to speak of the seats on the Battery [See Notes], They're too expensive to give to the town; Then our aldermen think it such flattery, If the public have leave to sit down! Our fortune to harden, they show Castle Garden— Kind muses, your pardon, but rhyme it I must— Where soldiers were drilling, you now must be willing To pay them a shilling—so down with the dust.
'Tis useless to speak of our writers poetical [See Notes], Of Halleck and Bryant and Woodworth, to write; There are others, whose trades are political— Snowden and Townsend and Walker and Dwight. There's Lang the detector, and Coleman the hector, And Noah the protector and judge of the Jews, And King the accuser, and Stone the abuser, And Grim the confuser of morals and news.
'Tis useless to speak of the many civilities Shown to Fayette [See Notes] in this country of late, Or even to mention the splendid abilities Clinton possesses for ruling the state. The union of water and Erie's bright daughter Since Neptune has caught her they'll sever no more; And Greece and her troubles (the rhyme always doubles) Have vanished like bubbles that burst on the shore.
'Tis useless to speak of Broadway and the Bowery, Both are improving and growing so fast! Who would have thought that old Stuyvesant's dowery Would hold in its precincts a play-house [See Notes] at last? Well, wonder ne'er ceases, but daily increases, And pulling to pieces, the town to renew, So often engages the thoughts of our sages, That when the fit rages, what will they not do?
'Tis useless to speak of the want of propriety In forming our city so crooked and long; Our ancestors, bless them, were fond of variety— 'Tis naughty to say that they ever were wrong! Tho' strangers may grumble, and thro' the streets and stumble, Take care they don't tumble through crevices small, For trap-doors we've plenty, on sidewalk and entry, And no one stands sentry to see they don't fall.
'Tis useless to speak of amusements so various, Of opera-singers [See Notes] that few understand; Of Kean's [See Notes] reputation, so sadly precarious When he arrived in this prosperous land. The public will hear him—and hark! how they cheer him! Though editors jeer him—we all must believe He pockets the dollars of sages and scholars: Of course then it follows—he laughs in his sleeve.
'Tis useless to speak—but just put on your spectacles, Read about Chatham, and Peale's [See Notes] splendid show: There's Scudder and Dunlap—they both have receptacles Which, I assure you, are now all the go. 'Tis here thought polite too, should giants delight you, And they should invite you, to look at their shapes; To visit their dwelling, where Indians are yelling, And handbills are telling of wonderful apes!
'Tis useless to speak of the din that so heavily Fell on our senses as midnight drew near; Trumpets and bugles and conch-shells, so cleverly Sounded the welkin with happy New Year! With jewsharps and timbrels, and musical thimbles, Tin-platters for cymbals, and frying-pans too; Dutch-ovens and brasses, and jingles and glasses, With reeds of all classes, together they blew! [See Notes]
Then since it is useless to speak about anything All have examined and laid on the shelf, Perhaps it is proper to say now and then a thing Touching the "Mirror"[See Notes]—the day—and myself. Our work's not devoted, as you may have noted, To articles quoted from books out of print; Instead of the latter, profusely we scatter Original matter that's fresh from the mint.
Patrons, I greet you with feelings of gratitude; Ladies, to please you is ever my care— Nor wish I, on earth, for a sweeter beatitude, If I but bask in the smiles of the fair. Such bliss to a poet is precious—you know it— And while you bestow it, the heart feels content: Your bounty has made us, and still you will aid us, But some have not paid us—we hope they'll repent!
For holyday pleasure, why these are the times for it; Pardon me, then, for so trifling a lay; This stanza shall end it, if I can find rhymes for it— May you, dear patrons, be happy to-day! Tho' life is so fleeting, and pleasure so cheating, That we are oft meeting with accidents here, Should Fate seek to dish you, oh then may the issue Be what I now wish you—A HAPPY NEW YEAR!
The Hero's Legacy.
Upon the couch of death, The champion of the free, Gave, with his parting breath, This solemn legacy:— "Sheathed be the battle-blade, "And hushed the cannons' thunder: "The glorious UNION GOD hath made, "Let no man put asunder! "War banish from the land, "Peace cultivate with all! "United you must stand, "Divided you will fall! "Cemented with our blood, "The UNION keep unriven!" While freemen heard this counsel good, His spirit soared to heaven.
What Can It Mean?
(Written for Miss Poole, and sung by her in the character of cowslip.)
I'm much too young to marry, For I am only seventeen; Why think I, then, of Harry? What can it mean—what can it mean?
Wherever Harry meets me, Beside the brook or on the green, How tenderly he greets me! What can it mean—what can it mean?
Whene'er my name he utters, A blush upon my cheek is seen!— His voice my bosom flutters!— What can it mean—what can it mean?
If he but mentions Cupid, Or, smiling, calls me "fairy queen," I sigh, and looks so stupid!— What can it mean—what can it mean?
Oh, mercy! what can ail me? I'm growing wan and very lean; My spirits often fail me! What can it mean—what can it mean?
I'm not in love!—No!—Smother Such a thought at seventeen! I'll go and ask my mother— "What can it mean—what can it mean?"
Where Hudson's Wave.
Where Hudson's wave o'er silvery sands Winds through the hills afar, Old Cronest like a monarch stands, Crowned with a single star! And there, amid the billowy swells Of rock-ribbed, cloud-capped earth, My fair and gentle Ida dwells, A nymph of mountain-birth.
The snow-flake that the cliff receives, The diamonds of the showers, Spring's tender blossoms, buds, and leaves, The sisterhood of flowers, Morn's early beam, eve's balmy breeze, Her purity define; Yet Ida's dearer far than these To this fond breast of mine.
My heart is on the hills. The shades Of night are on my brow; Ye pleasant haunts and quiet glades, My soul is with you now! I bless the star-crowned highlands where My Ida's footsteps roam: O for a falcon's wing to bear Me onward to my home!
Love left one day his leafy bower, And roamed in sportive vein, Where Vanity had built a tower, For Fashion's sparkling train. The mistress to see he requested, Of one who attended the door: "Not home," said the page, who suggested That he'd leave his card.—"Au Revoir."
Love next came to a lowly bower: A maid who knew no guile, Unlike the lady of the tower, Received him with a smile. Since then the cot beams with his brightness Though often at Vanity's door Love calls, merely out of politeness, And just leaves his card.—"Au Revoir."
To My Absent Daughter.
Georgie, come home!—Life's tendrils cling about thee, Where'er thou art, by wayward fancy led. We miss thee, love!—Home is not home without thee— The light and glory of the house have fled: The autumn shiver of the linden-tree Is like the pang that thrills my frame for thee!
Georgie, come home!—To parents, brother, sister Thy place is vacant in this lonely hall, Where shines the river through the "Jeannie Vista," While twilight shadows lengthen on the wall: Our spirits falter at the close of day, And weary night moves tardily away.
Georgie, come home!—The winds and waves are singing The mournful music of their parting song, To soul and sense the sad forboding bringing, Some ill detains thee in the town so long: Oh, that the morn may dissipate the fear, And bring good tidings of my daughter dear!
Georgie, come home!—The forest leaves are falling, And dreary visions in thy absence come; The fountain on the hill in vain is calling Thee, my beloved one, to thy woodland home. And I imagine every passing breeze Whispers thy name among the moaning trees!
Georgie, come home!—Thy gentle look can banish The gathering gloom round this once cheerful hearth; In thy sweet presence all our care will vanish, And sorrow soften into mellow mirth. Return, my darling, never more to roam: Heart of the Highlands!—Georgie, dear, come home!
Song of the Sewing-Machine
I'm the Iron Needle-Woman! Wrought of sterner stuff than clay; And, unlike the drudges human, Never weary night or day; Never shedding tears of sorrow, Never mourning friends untrue, Never caring for the morrow, Never begging work to do.
Poverty brings no disaster! Merrily I glide along, For no thankless, sordid master, Ever seeks to do me wrong: No extortioners oppress me, No insulting words I dread— I've no children to distress me With unceasing cries for bread.
I'm of hardy form and feature, For endurance framed aright; I'm not pale misfortune's creature, Doomed life's battle here to fight: Mine's a song of cheerful measure, And no under-currents flow To destroy the throb of pleasure Which the poor so seldom know.
In the hall I hold my station, With the wealthy ones of earth, Who commend me to the nation For economy and worth, While unpaid the female labor, In the attic-chamber lone, Where the smile of friend or neighbor Never for a moment shone.
My creation is a blessing To the indigent secured, Banishing the cares distressing Which so many have endured: Mine are sinews superhuman, Ribs of oak and nerves of steel— I'm the Iron Needle-Woman Born to toil and not to feel.
My Lady Waits for Me.
Suggested by a popular German melody.
My lady waits!—'Tis now the hour When morn unbars her gates!— My vessel glides beneath the tower Where now my lady waits. Her signal flutters from the wall, Above the friendly sea! I life but to obey her call! My lady waits for me. My lady waits—for me she waits, While morning opes her golden gates.
My lady waits!—No fairer flower E'er deck'd the floral grove, Than she, the pride of hall and bower, The lady of my love! The eastern hills are flecked with light, The land-breeze curls the sea! By love and truth sustained, for flight, My lady waits for me. My lady waits—for me she waits, While morning opes her golden gates.
The wind-harp has music it moans to the tree, And so has the shell that complains to the sea, The lark that sings merrily over the lea, The reed of the rude shepherd boy! We revel in music when day has begun, When rock-fountains gush into glee as they run, And stars of the morn sing their hymns to the sun, Who brightens the hill-tops with joy!
The spirit of melody floats in the air, Her instruments tuning to harmony there, Our senses beguiling from sorrow and care, In blessings sent down from above! But Nature has music far more to my choice— And all in her exquisite changes rejoice! No tones thrill my heart like the dear human voice When breathed by the being I love!
In the upper circles Moves a famous man Who has had no equal Since the world began. He was once a broker Down by the exchange; He is now a nabob— Don't you think it strange?
In his low back office, Near the Bowling Green, With his brother brokers He was often seen;— Shaving and discounting, Dabbling in the stocks, He achieved a fortune Of a million ROCKS!'
Next he formed a marriage With a lady fair, And his splendid carriage Bowled about THE square, Where his spacious mansion Like a palace stood, Envied and admired By the multitude.
Then he took the tour Of the continent, Bearer of dispatches From the President: A legation button By permission wore, And became that worthy, An official bore.
Charmed with foreign countries, Lots of coin to spend, He a house in London Took a the West End, Where he dwelt a season, And in grandeur shone, But to all the beau monde Utterly unknown.
England then was "foggy, And society Too aristocratic" For his—pedigree: So he crossed the channel To escape the BLUES, And became the idol Of the parvenues.
"Dear, delightful Paris!" He would often say: "Every earthly pleasure One can have for—pay. Wealth gives high position; But when money's tight, Man is at a discount, And it serves him right."
After years of study How to cut a dash, He came home embellished With a huge—moustache! Now he is a lion, All the rage up town, And gives gorgeous parties Supervised by—Brown!
The almighty dollar Is, no doubt, divine, And he worships daily At that noble shrine; Fashion is his idol, Money is his god, And they both together Rule him like a rod.
Books, and busts, and pictures, Are with him a card— While abroad he bought them Cheaply—by the yard! But his sumptuous dinners, To a turn quite right, With his boon companions, Are his chief delight.
Thee his wit and wassail, Like twin-currents flow In his newest stories, Published—long ago. His enchanted hearers Giggle till they weep, As it is their duty Till they—fall asleep.
* * * *
On his carriage panel Is a blazoned crest, With a Latin motto Given him—in jest. His black coach and footman, Dressed in livery, Every day at Stewart's Many crowd to see.
* * * *
Well—in upper-ten-dom Let him rest in peace, And may his investments Cent, per cent, increase: Though on earth for no one Cares the millionaire, So does NOT exactly His devoted—heir!
* * * *
There's a useful moral Woven with my rhyme, Which may be considered At—some other time: Crockery is not porcelain— It is merely delf— And the kind most common Is the man himself.
In Memory of Charles H. Sandford.
He died, as he had lived, beloved, Without an enemy on earth; In word and deed he breathed and moved The soul of honor and of worth: His hand was open as the day, His bearing high, his nature brave; And, when from life he passed away, Our hearts went with him to the grave.
What desolation filled our home When death from us our treasure bore!— Oh! for the better world to come Where we shall meet to part no more! The hope of THAT sustains us now, In THAT we trust on bended knee, While thus around his faded brow We twine the wreath of memory.
Before the Battle.
The clarion call of liberty Rings on the startled gales! The rising hills reverberate The rising of the vales! Through all the land the thrilling shout Swift as an arrow goes! Columbia's champions arm and out To battle with her foes!
After the Battle
The bugle-song of victory Is vocal in the air! The strains, by warrior-voices breathed, Are echoed by the fair! The eagle, with the wreath, blood-bought, Soars proudly to the sun, Proclaiming the "good fight is fought, And the great victory won!"
On old Long Island's sea-girt shore We caught a cod the other day; He never had been there before, And wished that he had stayed away. We laid him on the beach to dry, Then served him frizzled on a dish, A warning to the smaller fry, As well as all the larger fish. O—o—o—o—o! On old Long Island's sea-girt shore We caught a cod the other day; He never had been there before, And wished that he had stayed away.
Oh, 'twas a scaly thing to haul This tom-cod from his native spray, And thus to frighten, one and all, The finny tribe from Rockaway! They shun the fisher's hook and line, And never venture near his net, So, when at Rockaway you dine, Now not a thing but clams you get! O—o—o—o—o! On old Long Island's sea-girt shore We caught a cod the other day; He never had been there before, And wished that he had stayed away!
Should critics at my ballad carp, To them this simple truth I'll say, The grammar's quite as good as Sharp Wrote on the beach of Rockaway: The tune's the same that Russell cribbed With the addition of his O, Which makes it, or the singer fibbed, Original and all the go— O—o—o—o—o! On old Long Island's sea-girt shore We caught a cod the other day; He never had been there before, And wished that he had stayed away!
The morning is breaking— The stag is away! The hounds and the hunters The signal obey! The horn bids the echoes Awake as we go, And nature is jocund With hark!—tally-ho! Hark away! Tally-ho!
Hark forward!—Tantivy!— The woodland resounds With shouts of the sportsmen To cheer on the hounds! The horse and his rider, The deer and his foe, Dash by to the music Of hark!—tally-ho! (He's at bay!) Tally-ho!
Deliver Us From Evil.
Deliver us from evil, Heavenly Father! It still besets us wheresoe'er we go! Bid the bright rays of revelation gather To light the darkness in our way of wo! Remove the sin that stains our souls—for ever! Out doubts dispel—our confidence restore! Write thy forgiveness on our hearts, and never Let us in vain petition for it more.
Release us from the sorrows that attend us! Our nerves are torn—at every vein we bleed! Almighty Parent! with thy strength befriend us! Else we are helpless in our time of need! Sustain us, Lord, with thy pure Holy Spirit— New vigor give to Nature's faltering frame; And, at life's close, permit us to inherit The hope that's promised in the Saviour's name.
This word beyond all others, Makes us love our country most, Makes us feel that we are brothers, And a heart-united host!— With hosanna let our banner From the house-tops be unfurled, While the nation holds her station With the mightiest of the world! Take your harps from silent willows, Shout the chorus of the free; "States are all distinct as billows, Union one—as is the sea!"
From the land of groves that bore us He's a traitor who would swerve! By the flag now waving o'er us We the compact will preserve! Those who gained it and sustained it, Were unto each other true, And the fable well is able To instruct us what to do! Take your harps from silent willows, Shout the chorus of the free; "States are all distinct as billows, Union one—as is the sea!"
We Part For Ever
Fare thee well—we part for ever! All regrets are now in vain! Fate decrees that we must sever, Ne'er to meet on earth again. Other skies may bend above thee, Other hearts may seek thy shrine, But no other e'er will love thee With the constancy of mine. Yet farewell—we part for ever! All regrets are now in vain! Fate decrees that we must sever, Ne'er to meet on earth again. Fare thee well!
Like the shadow on the dial Lingers still our parting kiss! Life has no severer trial, Death no pang to equal this. All the world is now before thee, Every clime to roam at will, But within the land that bore thee, One fond heart will love thee still. Yet farewell—we part for ever! All regrets are now in vain! Fate decrees that we must sever, Ne'er to meet on earth again. Fare thee well!
Come to Me in Cherry-time.
Come to me in cherry-time, And, as twilight closes, We will have a merry time, Here among the roses! When the breezes crisp the tide, And the lindens quiver, In our bark we'll safely glide Down the rocky river!
When the stars, with quiet ray, All the hill-tops brighten, Cherry-ripe we'll sing and play Where the cherries ripen! Then come to me in cherry-time, And, as twilight closes, We will have a merry time Here among the roses.
On the Death of Mrs. Jessie Willis.
After life's eventful mission, In her truthfulness and worth, Like a calm and gentle vision She has passed away from earth.
Lovely she in frame and feature! Blended purity and grace!— The Creator in the creature Glowed in her expressive face!
Angel of a nature human! Essence of a celestial love! Heart and soul of trusting woman, Gone to her reward above!
Mourners, dry your tears of sorrow— Read the golden promise o'er; There will dawn a cheerful morrow When we meet to part no more.
Thank God for Pleasant Weather.
Thank God for pleasant weather! Chant it, merry rills! And clap your hands together, Ye exulting hills! Thank Him, teeming valley! Thank Him, fruitful plain! For the golden sunshine, And the silver rain.
Thank God, of good the giver! Shout it, sportive breeze! Respond, oh, tuneful river! To the nodding tees. Thank Him, bud and birdling! As ye grow and sing! Mingle in thanksgiving Every living thing!
Thank God, with cheerful spirit, In a glow of love, For what we here inherit, And our hopes above!— Universal Nature Revels in her birth, When God, in pleasant weather, Smiles upon the earth!
The Master's Song.
Written for the freemasons of St. John's Lodge No. 1, New York.
Members of an order Ancient as the earth; All within our border Realize its worth. Genial is the greeting That awaits us there, On the level meeting, Parting on the square. Like the workmen olden, Who our craft designed, We the precept golden Ever bear in mind.
Masons never falter, We each other know, As around the altar Hand in hand we go; Loud hosannas singing To our Source above, And heart-offerings bringing To the God of Love. Like the workmen olden, Who our craft designed, We the precept golden Ever bear in mind.
There's a mystic beauty In our working plan, Teaching man his duty To his fellow man: As a band of brothers, Ever just and true, Do we unto others As we'd have them do. Like the workmen olden, Who our craft designed, We the precept golden Ever bear in mind.
The Missing Ship.
She left the port in gallant style, With sails and streamers full and free! I watched her course for many a mile Far out upon the distant sea! At dusk she lessened to a speck, And then I could not trace her more! Sad hearts were beating on her deck, Sad hearts were beating on the shore.
Two of the outward bound I knew, One beautiful, the other brave— The master worthy, and the crew Born to contend with wind and wave: For travel some, and some for gain, And some for health had gone abroad; Our prayers were with them on the main, God-speed the ship and all on board!
That vessel never reached the land! No tidings of her ever came! Those who beheld her leave the strand, For years in anguish heard her name! And even now in vain they try To breathe it with a tranquil lip, Or hide the moisture of the eye While speaking of that missing ship.
Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley, At whose call the muses rally; Of all the nine none so divine As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley. She minds me of her native scenes, Where she was born among the cherries; Of peaches, plums, and nectarines, Pears, apricots, and ripe strawberries.
Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley, In whose name the muses rally; Of all the nine none so divine As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley. A sylvan nymph of queenly grace, A goddess she in form and feature; The sweet expression of the place, A dimple in the smile of nature.
Thanks for your stanzas, Lucy, My sister dear in song! How many pleasant fancies With these sweet numbers throng, Which, like spring's tuneful brooklets, Trip merrily along.
Sometimes, my sportive Lucy, Your words will whirl around, Like foam-beads on the water, Or rose-leaves on the ground, Or waltzers in the ball-room, To music's airy sound.
There is, my gentle Lucy, In all you say or do, A bright poetic impulse, Original and true, Which Art can not acquire, And Nature gave to you.
The olden fable, Lucy, My muse to you would bring: The bird that can but will not, Should be compelled to sing! The story and its moral To modern memories cling.
Awake the harp, dear Lucy! Like the electric wire It will convey to millions The heart-absorbing fire! And those who lean to listen Will linger to admire.
All that's beautiful in woman, All we in her nature love, All that's good in all that's human, Passed this gate to courts above.
In Memory of John W. Francis, Jr.
He was the pulse-beat of true hearts, The love-light of fond eyes: When such a man from earth departs, 'Tis the survivor dies.
When winter's cold and summer's heat Shall come and go again, A hundred years will be complete Since Marion crossed the main, And brought unto this wild retreat His dark-eyed wife of Spain.
He was the founder of a free And independent band, Who lit the fires of liberty The revolution fanned:— His patent of nobility Read in the ransomed land!
Around his deeds a lustre throngs, A heritage designed To teach the world to spurn the wrongs Once threatened all mankind:— To his posterity belongs The peerage of the mind.
A Wall-Street Lyric.
John was thought both rich and great— Dick so-so, but comfortable: John lived at a splendid rate— Coach and horses in his stable. John could ride when Dick should walk— (This excited people's talk!)— For John's wealth, Dick's rugged health Few would exchange if they were able!
Dick was friendly years ago— With ingratitude John paid him: Dick found this was always so When John had a chance to aid him. John still cut a brilliant dash, While he could command the cash, But for Dick, whom John would kick, At last a change of luck has made him!
John, 'tis said, is "bound" to lose Lots by rail, and 'bus, and cable! And the banks his notes refuse, Now they think his state unstable. This may be a story strange Of the bulls and bears on 'change, Where the truth, in age and youth, Is often a poetic fable!
Old Cotton is king, boys—aha! With his locks so fleecy and white! He shines among kings like a star! And his is the sceptre of right, Boys, of right, And his is the sceptre of right!
Old Cotton, the king, has no care, No queen, and no heir to his throne, No courtiers, his triumphs to share, He rules his dominions alone, Boys, alone! He rules his dominions alone!
Old Cotton, the merry old boy!— Like smoke from the pipe in his mouth His years glide away in their joy, At home, in the warm sunny south, Boys, the south, At home, in the warm sunny south!
Old Cotton will pleasantly reign When other kings painfully fall, And ever and ever remain The mightiest monarch of all, Boys, of all, The mightiest monarch of all!
Then here's to old Cotton, the king! His true loyal subjects are we: We'll laugh and we'll quaff and we'll sing, A jolly old fellow is he, Boys, is he, A jolly old fellow is he!
Adapted to a Spanish Melody.
My lady hath as soft a hand As any queen in fairy-land; And, hidden in her tiny boot, As dainty and as light a foot. Her foot! Her little hand and foot!
No star that kindles in the sky Burns brighter than my lady's eye; And ne'er before did beauty grace So fair a form, so sweet a face! Her face! Her gentle form and face!
My lady hath a golden heart, Free from the dross of worldly art; Which, in the sight of heaven above, Is mine with all its hoarded love! Her love! Her boundless wealth of love!
Love in Exile.
Adapted to a Hungarian melody.
My heart I gave you with my hand, In brighter days than these, In that down-trodden father-land Beyond the distant seas, Where you were all the world to me, Devoted, fond, and true, And I, in our prosperity, Was all the world to you! Robbed by a tyrant's iron sway, We're banished from that land away!
Sad wanderers from our native home! A ruler in a foe! An exiled caravan we roam; But hand in hand WE go! And thus whatever fate betide We bless our lot in life, Since no misfortunes may divide The husband and the wife! Here we defy the tyrant's will, We're happy in each other still!
To The Evening Star.
The woods waved welcome in the breeze, When, many years ago, Lured by the songs of birds and bees, I sought the dell below; And there, in that secluded spot, Where silver streamlets roved, Twined the green ivy round the cot Of her I fondly loved.
In dreams still near that porch I stand To listen to her vow! Still feel the pressure of her hand Upon my burning brow! And here, as in the days gone by, With joy I meet her yet, And mark the love-light of her eyes, Fringed with its lash of jet.
O fleeting vision of the past! From memory glide away! Ye were too beautiful to last, Too good to longer stay! But why, attesting evening star, This sermon sad recall: "THAN LOVE AND LOSE 'TIS BETTER FAR TO NEVER LOVE AT ALL!"
My Mary's voice!—It is the hour She promised to be here: Taught by love's mysterious power, I know that she is near. I hear the melody she sings Beneath our 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!
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!
Ho! ye inland seas and islands!— (Echo follows where we go!) Ho! ye headlands, hills, and highlands! Ho! ye Undercliffeans, ho!
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.
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.
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!) to rate "With study good—in time—but—never great:" Not like you travelled native, just to say "Folks in this country can act a play— The can't 'pon honor!" How the creature starts! His wit and whiskers came from foreign parts! Nay, madam, spare your blushes—you I mean— There—close beside him—oh, you're full nineteen— You need not shake your flowing locks at me— The man, your sweetheart—then I'm dumb you see; I'll let him off—you'll punish him in time, Or I've no skill in prophecy or rhyme! A nobler motive fills your bosoms now, To wreathe the laurel round the silvered brow Of one who merits it—if any can— The artist, author, and the honest man. With equal charms his pen and pencil drew Bright scenes, to nature and to virtue true. Full oft upon these boards hath youth appeared, And oft your smiles his faltering footsteps cheered; But not alone on budding genius smile, Leaving the ripened sheaf unowned the while; To boyish hope not every bounty give And only youth and beauty bid to live. Will you forget the services long past— Turn the old war-horse out to die at last?— When, his proud strength and noble fleetness o'er, His faithful bosom dares the charge no more! Ah, no!—The sun that loves his beams to shed Round every opening floweret's tender head, With smiles as kind his genial radiance throws To cheer the sadness of the fading rose: Thus he, whose merit claims this dazzling crowd, Points to the past, and has his claims allowed; Looks brightly forth, his faithful journey done, And rests in triumph—like the setting sun.
For the benefit of James Sheridan Knowles.
(Spoken by Mrs. Chapman.)
Nay, Mr. Simpson!—'Tis not kind—polite— To shut me out, sir?—I'm in such a fright!— I can not speak the lines, I'm sure!—Oh, fie! To say I must!—but if I must—I'll try!
From him I turn to these more generous souls The drama's patrons and the friends of KNOWLES. Why, what a brilliant galaxy is here! What stars adorn this mimic hemisphere! Names that shine brightest on our country's page! The props of science—literature—the stage! Above—below—around me—woman smiles, The fairest floweret of these western wilds— All come to pay the tribute of their praise To the first dramatist of modern days: And welcome, to the green home of the free, With heart and hand, the bard of liberty!
His is a wizard-wand. Its potent spell Broke the deep slumber of the patriot Tell, And placed him on his native hills again, The pride and glory of his fellow-men! The poet speaks—for Rome Virginia bleeds! Bold Caius Gracclius in the forum pleads! Alfred—the Great, because the good and wise, Bids prostrate England burst her bonds and rise! Sweet Bess, the Beggar's Daughter, beauty's queen, Walks forth the joy and wonder of the scene! The Hunchback enters—kindly—fond—severe— And last, behold the glorious Wife appear!
These are the bright creations of a mind Glowing with genius, chastened and refined. In all he's written, be this praise his lot: "Not one word, dying, would he wish to blot!"
Upon my life 'tis no such easy thing To land the bard, unless an eagle's wing My muse would take; and, fixing on the sun Her burning eye, soar as his own has done!
Did you speak, sir?—What, madam, did he say? Wrangling!—for shame!—before your wedding-day! Nay, gentle lady, by thine eyes of blue, And vermeil blushes, I did not mean you! Bless me, what friends at every glance I see! Artists and authors—men of high degree; Grave politicians, who have weighed each chance, The next election, and the war with France; Doctors, just come from curing half a score— And belles, from killing twice as many more; Judges, recorders, aldermen, and mayors, Seated, like true republicans, down stairs! All wear a glow of sunshine in their faces Might well become Apollo and the graces, Except one yonder, with a look infernal, Like a blurred page from Fanny Kemble's Journal!
But to my task. The muse, when I began, Spoke of the writer—welcome ye the man. Genius, at best, acts but an humble part, Unless obedient to an honest heart. And such a one is his, for whom, to-night, These walls are crowded with this cheering sight Ye love the poet—oft have conned him o'er, Knew ye the man, ye'd love him ten times more. Ye critics, spare him from your tongue and quill, Ye gods, applaud him; and ye fops—be still!
For the Benefit of Henry Placide.
(Spoken by Mrs. Hilson.)
The music's done. Be quiet, Mr. Durie! Your bell and whistle put me in a fury! Don't ring up yet, sir—I've a word to say Before the curtain rises for the play!
Your pardon, gentlefolks, nor think me bold, Because I thus our worthy promoter scold: 'Twas all feigned anger. This enlightened age Requires a RUSE to bring one on the stage!
Well, here I am, quite dazzled with the sight Presented on this brilliant festal night! Where'er I turn, whole rows of patrons sit— The house is full—box, gallery, and pit! Who says the New-York public are unkind? I know them well, and plainly speak my mind— "It is our right," the ancient poet sung— He knew the value of a woman's tongue! With this I will defend ye—and rehearse FIVE glorious ACTS of yours—in modern verse; Each one concluding with a generous deed For Dunlap, Cooper, Woodworth, Knowles, Placide! 'Twas nobly done, ye patriots and scholars! Besides—they netted twenty thousand dollars! "A good round sum," in these degenerate times— "This bank-note world," so called in Halleck's rhymes; And proof conclusive, you will frankly own, In liberal actions New-York stands alone.
Though roams he oft 'mong green poetic bowers, The actor's path is seldom strewn with flowers. His is a silent, secret, patient toil— While others sleep, he burns the midnight oil— Pores o'er his books—thence inspiration draws, And waste's his life to merit your applause! O ye, who come the laggard hours to while, And with the laugh-provoking muse to smile, Remember this: the mirth that cheers you so, Shows but the surface—not the depths below! Then judge not lightly of the actor's art, Who smiles to please you, with a breaking heart! Neglect him not in his hill-climbing course, Nor treat him with less kindness than your horse: Up hill, indulge him—down the steep descent, Spare—and don't urge him when his strength is spent; Impel him briskly o'er the level earth, But in the stable don't forget his worth! So with the actor—while you work him hard, Be mindful of his claims to your regard.