The Kings and Queens of England with Other Poems | Page 9

to this you'll reply,?I'll again do my best, yes, surely I'll try;?The fair one who brings it ought sure to inspire?Some poetical lay from Genius' sweet lyre.?But Genius repels me, she "turns a deaf ear,"?And frowns on me scornful, the year after year;?Perhaps if I sue, in the "sere yellow leaf,"?She'll open her heart, and yield me relief.?But wayward my pen, I must now bid adieu,?My friendship, dear madam, I offer to you,?And beg with your friends, you'll please place my name,?The privilege grant me of doing the same.
S. NICHOLSON.?Boston, April 16, 1862.
REJOINDER TO THE FOREGOING REPLY.
Many, many thanks my friend,?For those sweet verses thou didst send,
So good they were and witty;?And now I will confess to thee,?Mixed up with bad, much good I see
Within the crowded city.
Boston, "with all thy faults I love?Thee still," though much I disapprove--
See much in thee to blame;?Yet to be candid, I'll allow?Thy equal no one can me show
From Mexico to Maine.
It is my boast, perhaps my pride,?To be to English blood allied,
Warm in my veins it's flowing;?And when I see the homage given?To foreign men and foreign women,[1]
That blood with shame is glowing.
I hope when Kossuth fever's cool?And we have put our wits to school,
And sober senses found;?When the Hungarian's out of sight?And shattered brains collected quite,
We may be safe and sound.
But what simpletons, should we choose,?With nought to gain and much to loose,
'Gainst Austria to war;?What greater folly, when we know?By doing this, we'll get a blow
From the ambitious Czar.
But you may not with me agree,?And I am getting warm I see,
So here I bid adieu?To Kossuth and to Hungary,?To Russia and to Germany,
And the great Emperor too.
And now my friend a word I'd say?Before I throw my pen away,
On subject most important;?In doing this I need not fear?I shall offend the nicest ear,
Or strike a note discordant.
Oh! had I true poetic fire,?With boldness would I strike the lyre
So loud that all might hear;?But ah! my harp is tuned so low,?Its feeble strains I full well know
Can reach no distant ear.
Yet I rejoice that harps on high,?And voices of sweet harmony,
Are raised to bless the name?Of Him who sits upon the throne,?Rejoicing over souls new born,
Who soon will join with them,?Eternally His name to adore?Who died, yet lives forevermore.
Weston, May 8, 1852.
[1] By this I do not mean to include all foreigners, for some of
them I consider among the very best of our population, but dancers, &c., &c.
TO MY FRIEND MR. J. ELLIS.
To thee, the guardian of my youthful days,?Fain would I pay some tribute of respect;?And though it falls far short of thy desert,?The will to do thee justice thou'lt accept.
As I recall the days of former years,?Thy many acts of kindness bring to mind,?Tears fill my eyes, in thee I've ever found?A friend most faithful, uniformly kind.
Thou art the earliest friend of mine that's left--?The rest have long departed, every one;?They've long years since the debt of nature paid,?But thou remainest still, and thou alone.
The snow of four score winters thou has seen,?And life's long pilgrimage may soon be o'er;?Respected, loved, and happy hast thou been,?With ample means to relieve the suffering poor,?Thou ever hadst the will, as well as power.
Temperate in habit, and of temper even,?Calm and unruffled as the peaceful lake,?To thee the satisfaction has been given?Much to enjoy, and others happy make.
And when thy days on earth shall all be past,?And thou before the Saviour's bar appear,?Mayst thou be found clothed in his righteousness?And from his lips the joyful sentence hear--
"Well done, thou good and faithful servant; thou?Hast over few things faithful been, and now?I'll make thee ruler over many things,?And place a crown of glory on thy brow."
Such will be thy reward, my friend, and mine,?If trusting in Christ's merits, not our own,?We at the last great day in him be found;?He_ is the ark of safety--_He alone.
Weston, April 24, 1852.
A PASTORAL.
Oh! tell me ye shepherds, tell me I pray,?Have you seen the fair Jessie pass by this way??You ne'er could forget her, if once you had seen,?She's fair as the morning, she moves like a Queen.
My sheep are neglected, my crook's thrown aside,?In pursuit of dear Jessie, sweet Jessie, my bride;?I hear nothing of her, no tidings can glean,?To see_ is to _know her, she moves like a Queen.
Say, have you seen her? oh, pity my grief!?Speak quick, and impart me the needful relief;?You cannot forget her, if once you have seen,?She's lovely as Venus, she moves like a Queen.
Have you not seen her?--then listen I pray,?Oh! listen to what a poor shepherd can say?In the praise of one ne'er so lovely was seen;?She's youthful as Hebe, she moves like a Queen.
She's fair as the Spring in the mild month of May,?She's brilliant as June decked in flowerets so gay;?You ne'er could forget her if