And still, in maiden purity, That maiden blush replied. Life, love, and hope were in their spring, The wild bird spread its silken wing, Young nectar from the myrtle bower The warrior found a sweeter flower Still does the wild bird cleave the sky, The honey-bee is glad: Why dim with tears that maiden's eye, And why that warrior sad? "Maiden! dost fear to meet the storm "I woo thee not with glittering braid The golden gift that wins the maid Still does the wild bird cleave the sky, Why dim with tears that maiden eye, And why that warrior sad? "To horse! to horse! my melody Shall be the battle cry, And the war trump of victory As sweet as woman's sigh! "For fetter'd birds go free again, Still does the wild bird cleave the sky, But tears bedimm'd that maiden's eye "They say there's bliss in the princely train, Then wake for me the bridal strain" Loud laughter fills the banquet hall, She led the dance in merry glee, But hark! the harper's minstrelsy- She glanced upon the myrtle tree And a shade was on the festal hour, The jewel lights grew dim; She only saw that myrtle bower, She only thought of him. "Oh! take me where the breezes swell, Far from the haunts of pride, For they say there 's joy where wild flowers dwell,”— The maiden said and sigh'd. The forest blossoms bound her brow, "That dream-that dream-it comes again, Link'd with its broken yow; As beautiful, as frail, as then, "Gather the young, the fair, the free, "It comes when summer skies are bright, An early rest in the sullen pall, One dream with the death pang wove- PSALM CXXXVII. COME Sweep the harp! one thrilling rush And then the strains for ever hush, That oft have breathed its wires along : The shrine is gone that claim'd the prayer, And exiles o'er the distant earth, How can we wake the carol there? One sigh, my harp! and then to sleep, GEORGE P. MORRIS Is a native of New York. In 1823, in conjunction with Mr Woodworth, he established a paper in New York, called The New York Mirror and Ladies' Literary Gazette; of this he is now the editor. He is the author of a dramatic piece, entitle Brier Cliff. WOMAN. AH! woman-in this world of ours, What gift can be compared to thee? Though man's proud brow were bound with flowers, If destined to exist alone, And ne'er call woman's heart his own. My mother!-at that holy name, My life-blood gives a sudden rush, Yes, woman's love is free from guile, THE MINIATURE. WILLIAM was holding in his hand "T was drawn by some enchanter's wandIt look'd-it smiled-like life! He almost thought it spoke-he gazed And was delighted and amazed To view the artist's skill. "This picture is thyself, sweet Jane,— "T is drawn to nature true; I've kiss'd it o'er and o'er again, "And has it kiss'd you back, my dear?" "Why-no, my love," said he ; "Then, William, it is very clear It's not at all like me." WHAT CAN IT MEAN? I'm much too young to marry, Why think I then of Harry ? What can it mean-what can it mean? Whenever Harry meets me, Beside the brook, or on the green, How tenderly he greets me! What can it mean-what can it mean? Whene'er my name he utters, A blush upon my cheek is seen, And then my heart so flutters― What can it mean-what can it mean? And when he mentions Cupid, Or, smiling, calls me "fairy queen," I sigh and look so stupid! What can it mean-what can it mean? |