Those firs were old, our grandsires told, And my soul it grieves that their needle leaves Beneath their shade how oft we played! In battle plain shall I be slain, And our sweet boy, our baby joy, He'll for his mother cry, Till the hot smoke, his voice shall choke, And then my bird will die. Green are the graves, and thick as waves, Within our holy ground— And here, and there, an hillock fair, Our fathers died, their whole fireside But vile as stones, our bleaching bones Must brave the wind and weather. Nay, love, let's fly, to the hill so high, We'll leave the bower and tender flower But the wild blue bell shall bloom as well We shall not die, for all birds that fly And come the worst, w'ell be help'd the first, The mist beneath, that curls its wreath Around the hill-top hoar, There will we hide, my bonny bride, H SENSE, IF YOU CAN FIND IT. LIKE one pale, flitting, lonely gleam Those sweet, sweet snatches of delight 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. TO SOMEBODY. And the imperial votaress passed on In maiden meditation fancy free.—SHAKSPEARE. I BLAME not her, because my soul I charge her not with cruel pride, Too happy she, or to deride, I blame her not-she cannot know 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, Come showering from her face,— Those winsome smiles, those sunny looks, Cold as the flashing of the brooks Her sweet affections, free as wind, Her being's law is gentle bliss, 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, Such debt the earthly heart incurs But better 'tis to love, I ween, Than die, and never to have seen A maid so lovely fair. |