Songs and Other Verse | Page 8

I should part; To each a true, maturer love came in good time, and yet?It brought not with its nobler grace the power to forget.?And would you fain begrudge me now the sentimental joy?That comes of recollections of my sparkings when a boy??I warrant me that, were your heart put to the rack, 't would show That it had predilections when I was Mary's beau.
And, Mary, should these lines of mine seek out your biding place, God grant they bring the old sweet smile back to your pretty face-- God grant they bring you thoughts of me, not as I am to-day, With faltering step and brimming eyes and aspect grimly gray; But thoughts that picture me as fair and full of life and glee As _we_ were in the olden times--as _you_ shall always be.?Think of me ever, Mary, as the boy you used to know?When time was fleet, and life was sweet, and I was Mary's beau.
Dear hills of old New England, look down with tender eyes?Upon one little lonely grave that in your bosom lies;?For in that cradle sleeps a child who was so fair to see?God yearned to have unto Himself the joy she brought to me; And bid your winds sing soft and low the song of other days, When, hand in hand and heart to heart, we went our pleasant ways-- Ah me! but could I sing again that song of long ago,?Instead of this poor idle song of being Mary's beau.
JESSIE
When I remark her golden hair?Swoon on her glorious shoulders,?I marvel not that sight so rare?Doth ravish all beholders;?For summon hence all pretty girls?Renowned for beauteous tresses,?And you shall find among their curls?There's none so fair as Jessie's.
And Jessie's eyes are, oh, so blue?And full of sweet revealings--?They seem to look you through and through?And read your inmost feelings;?Nor black emits such ardent fires,?Nor brown such truth expresses--?Admit it, all ye gallant squires--?There are no eyes like Jessie's.
Her voice (like liquid beams that roll
From moonland to the river)?Steals subtly to the raptured soul,
Therein to lie and quiver;?Or falls upon the grateful ear
With chaste and warm caresses--?Ah, all concede the truth (who hear):
There's no such voice as Jessie's.
Of other charms she hath such store
All rivalry excelling,?Though I used adjectives galore,
They'd fail me in the telling;?But now discretion stays my hand--
Adieu, eyes, voice, and tresses.?Of all the husbands in the land
There's none so fierce as Jessie's.
TO EMMA ABBOTT
There--let thy hands be folded
Awhile in sleep's repose;?The patient hands that wearied not,?But earnestly and nobly wrought
In charity and faith;?And let thy dear eyes close--?The eyes that looked alway to God,?Nor quailed beneath the chastening rod
Of sorrow;?Fold thou thy hands and eyes
For just a little while,?And with a smile?Dream of the morrow.
And, O white voiceless flower,
The dream which thou shalt dream?Should be a glimpse of heavenly things,?For yonder like a seraph sings
The sweetness of a life?With faith alway its theme;?While speedeth from those realms above?The messenger of that dear love
That healeth sorrow.?So sleep a little while,?For thou shalt wake and sing?Before thy King?When cometh the morrow.
THE GREAT JOURNALIST IN SPAIN
Good editor Dana--God bless him, we say--?Will soon be afloat on the main,?Will be steaming away?Through the mist and the spray?To the sensuous climate of Spain.
Strange sights shall he see in that beautiful land?Which is famed for its soap and its Moor,?For, as we understand,?The scenery is grand?Though the system of railways is poor.
For moonlight of silver and sunlight of gold?Glint the orchards of lemons and mangoes,?And the ladies, we're told,?Are a joy to behold?As they twine in their lissome fandangoes.
What though our friend Dana shall twang a guitar?And murmur a passionate strain;?Oh, fairer by far?Than those ravishments are?The castles abounding in Spain.
These castles are built as the builder may list--?They are sometimes of marble or stone,?But they mostly consist?Of east wind and mist?With an ivy of froth overgrown.
A beautiful castle our Dana shall raise?On a futile foundation of hope,?And its glories shall blaze?In the somnolent haze?Of the mythical lake del y Soap.
The fragrance of sunflowers shall swoon on the air?And the visions of Dreamland obtain,?And the song of "World's Fair"?Shall be heard everywhere?Through that beautiful castle in Spain.
LOVE SONG--HEINE
Many a beauteous flower doth spring?From the tears that flood my eyes,?And the nightingale doth sing?In the burthen of my sighs.
If, O child, thou lovest me,?Take these flowerets fair and frail,?And my soul shall waft to thee?Love songs of the nightingale.
THE STODDARDS
When I am in New York, I like to drop around at night,?To visit with my honest, genial friends, the Stoddards hight; Their home in Fifteenth street is all so snug, and furnished so, That, when I once get planted there, I don't know when to go; A cosy cheerful refuge for the weary homesick guest,?Combining Yankee comforts with the freedom of the west.
The first thing you discover, as