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Those firs were old, our grandsires told,
In their good fathers' days, And my soul it grieves that their needle leaves
Must crackle in the blaze.
Beneath their shade how oft we played !
There was our place of wooing
And we shall see their ruin.
In battle plain shall I be slain,
And never would I shrink,
To thee, I dare not think.
And our sweet boy, our baby joy,
He'll for his mother cry,
And then my bird will die.
Green are the
and thick as waves, Within our holy groundAnd here, and there, an hillock fair,
An infant's grave is found.
Our fathers died, their whole fireside
Is laid in peace together,
Must brave the wind and weather.
Nay, love, let's fly, to the hill so high,
Where eagles build their nest,
As blithely as the best.
We'll leave the bower and tender flower
That we have nursed with care;
Beside our craggy lair.
We shall not die, for all birds that fly
Shall thither bring us food, And come the worst, w'ell be help'd the first,
Before the eagle's brood.
The mist beneath, that curls its wreath
Around the hill-top hoar,
And ne'er be heard of more.
SENSE, IF YOU CAN FIND IT.
Like one pale, flitting, lonely gleam
Of sunshine on a winter's day,
Those sweet, sweet snatches of delight
That visit our bedarken'd clay
Although they pass away.
They come and go, and come again ;
They're ours, whatever time they stay: Think not, my heart, they come in vain, If one brief while they soothe thy pain
Before they pass away.
But whither go they? No one knows
Their home,—but yet they seem to say, That far beyond this gulf of woes There is a region of repose
For them that pass away.
And the imperial votaress passed on
I BLAME not her, because
soul Is not like her’s,-a treasure Of self-sufficing good,—a whole
Complete in every measure.
I charge her not with cruel pride,
With self-admired disdain Too happy she, or to deride,
Or to perceive my pain.
I blame her not-she cannot know
What she did never prove :
Unblended yet with love.
No fault hath she, that I desire
What she cannot conceive; For she is made of bliss entire,
And I was born to grieve.
And though she hath a thousand wiles,
And, in a moment's space,
Come showering from her face,
Those winsome smiles, those sunny looks,
Her heart securely deems,
In the cold moonlight beams.
Her sweet affections, free as wind,
Nor fear, nor craving feel; No secret hollow hath her mind
For passion to reveal.
Her being's law is gentle bliss,
Her purpose, and her duty; And quiet joy her loveliness,
And gay delight her beauty.
Then let her walk in mirthful pride,
Dispensing joy and sadness, By her light spirit fortified
In panoply of gladness.
The joy she gives shall still be her's,
The sorrow shall be mine;
That pants for the divine.
But better 'tis to love, I ween,
And die of slow despair,
A maid so lovely fair.