Verses from the Oldest Poolio | Page 6

heavenly music seems so sweet.
I look upon the fair blue skies,?And naught but empty air I see;?But when I turn me to thin eyes,?It seemeth unto me?Ten thousand angels spread their wings?Within those little azure rings.
The lily bath the softest leaf?That ever western breeze bath fanned,?But thou shalt have the tender flower,?So I may take thy hand;?That little hand to me doth yield?More joy than all the broidered field.
O lady! there be many things?That seem right fair, below, above;?But sure not one among them all?Is half so sweet as love;--?Let us not pay our vows alone,?But join two altars both in one.
LINES BY A CLERK
OH! I did love her dearly,?And gave her toys and rings,?And I thought she meant sincerely,?When she took my pretty things.?But her heart has grown as icy?As a fountain in the fall,?And her love, that was so spicy,?It did not last at all.
I gave her once a locket,?It was filled with my own hair,?And she put it in her pocket?With very special care.?But a jeweller has got it,--?He offered it to me,--?And another that is not it?Around her neck I see.
For my cooings and my billings?I do not now complain,?But my dollars and my shillings?Will never come again;?They were earned with toil and sorrow,?But I never told her that,?And now I have to borrow,?And want another hat.
Think, think, thou cruel Emma,?When thou shalt hear my woe,?And know my sad dilemma,?That thou hast made it so.?See, see my beaver rusty,?Look, look upon this hole,?This coat is dim and dusty;?Oh let it rend thy soul!
Before the gates of fashion?I daily bent my knee,?But I sought the shrine of passion,?And found my idol,--thee.?Though never love intenser?Had bowed a soul before it,?Thine eye was on the censer,?And not the hand that bore it.
THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE
DEAREST, a look is but a ray?Reflected in a certain way;?A word, whatever tone it wear,?Is but a trembling wave of air;?A touch, obedience to a clause?In nature's pure material laws.
The very flowers that bend and meet,?In sweetening others, grow more sweet;?The clouds by day, the stars by night,?Inweave their floating locks of light;?The rainbow, Heaven's own forehead's braid,?Is but the embrace of sun and shade.
Oh! in the hour when I shall feel?Those shadows round my senses steal,?When gentle eyes are weeping o'er?The clay that feels their tears no more,?Then let thy spirit with me be,?Or some sweet angel, likest thee!
How few that love us have we found!?How wide the world that girds them round?Like mountain streams we meet and part,?Each living in the other's heart,?Our course unknown, our hope to be?Yet mingled in the distant sea.
But Ocean coils and heaves in vain,?Bound in the subtle moonbeam's chain;?And love and hope do but obey?Some cold, capricious planet's ray,?Which lights and leads the tide it charms?To Death's dark caves and icy arms.
Alas! one narrow line is drawn,?That links our sunset with our dawn;?In mist and shade life's morning rose,?And clouds are round it at its close;?But ah! no twilight beam ascends?To whisper where that evening ends.
THE POET'S LOT
WHAT is a poet's love?--?To write a girl a sonnet,?To get a ring, or some such thing,?And fustianize upon it.
What is a poet's fame?--?Sad hints about his reason,?And sadder praise from garreteers,?To be returned in season.
Where go the poet's lines?--?Answer, ye evening tapers!?Ye auburn locks, ye golden curls,?Speak from your folded papers!
Child of the ploughshare, smile;?Boy of the counter, grieve not,?Though muses round thy trundle-bed?Their broidered tissue weave not.
The poet's future holds?No civic wreath above him;?Nor slated roof, nor varnished chaise,?Nor wife nor child to love him.
Maid of the village inn,?Who workest woe on satin,?(The grass in black, the graves in green,?The epitaph in Latin,)
Trust not to them who say,?In stanzas, they adore thee;?Oh rather sleep in churchyard clay,?With urn and cherub o'er thee!
TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER
WAN-VISAGED thing! thy virgin leaf?To me looks more than deadly pale,?Unknowing what may stain thee yet,--?A poem or a tale.
Who can thy unborn meaning scan??Can Seer or Sibyl read thee now??No,--seek to trace the fate of man?Writ on his infant brow.
Love may light on thy snowy cheek,?And shake his Eden-breathing plumes;?Then shalt thou tell how Lelia smiles,?Or Angelina blooms.
Satire may lift his bearded lance,?Forestalling Time's slow-moving scythe,?And, scattered on thy little field,?Disjointed bards may writhe.
Perchance a vision of the night,?Some grizzled spectre, gaunt and thin,?Or sheeted corpse, may stalk along,?Or skeleton may grin
If it should be in pensive hour?Some sorrow-moving theme I try,?Ah, maiden, how thy tears will fall,?For all I doom to die!
But if in merry mood I touch?Thy leaves, then shall the sight of thee?Sow smiles as thick on rosy lips?As ripples on the sea.
The Weekly press shall gladly stoop?To bind thee up among its sheaves;?The Daily steal thy shining ore,?To gild its leaden leaves.
Thou hast no tongue, yet thou canst speak,?Till distant shores shall hear the sound;?Thou