FILL high, fill high, with good old wine,
The bowl our fathers drain'd;
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim
By the mist of age is stain'd.
In nectar now bedew the lips,
And wake the voice of song,
For clouds will gather, and eclipse
The light of bliss ere long.
Fill high, fill high, with good old wine,
The cup our fathers drain'd;
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim
By the mist of age is stain'd.
The foam-bells on the ruby tide
Are types of passing things,
Reminding us that joy soon dies-
That graybeard Time hath wings;
And a few more days will dawn and end,
A few more moons wax old,
Ere friend will darkly follow friend
To homes in churchyard mould.
Fill high, fill high, &c. &c.
Around this ancient festal board
Glad spirits met of yore,
But their merry strains are hush'd in death-
Their laugh will ring no more:
Under the yew-trees, moss'd and green,
May their quiet graves be found,
But in soul they hover nigh, unseen,
While tale and jest go round.
Then fill, fill high, &c. &c.
THE WILD WOOD ROSE.
THE wild wood rose was blushing
Beside our sunny way;
The mountain rill was gushing
In light melodious play,
When last thy vows I listen'd,
When last thy kiss I met,
And thou, thy dark eyes glisten'd
With fondness and regret.
The wild wood rose, o'ershaded
By clouds, has lost its bloom;
And love's soft flower has faded
'Neath falsehood, grief, and gloom.
The waves, in winter failing,
No more to music part,
And I but weep, bewailing
The winter of the heart.
The wild wood rose, resuming
Its bloom and beauty gay,
The fitful gale perfuming,
Again shall grace the way;
Again the mountain river
Its melody shall pour;
But thou returnest never!
And love will bloom no more.
OVER the mountain wave, see where they come;
Storm-cloud and wintry wind welcome them home;
Yet, where the sounding gale howls to the sea,
There their song peals along, deep-toned and free:
"Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come,
Where the free dare to be-this is our home!"
England hath sunny dales, dearly they bloom
Scotia hath heather hills, sweet their perfume:
Yet through the wilderness cheerful we stray,
Native land, native land-home far away!
"Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come,
Where the free dare to be-this is our home!"
Dim grew the forest path; onward they trod;
Firm beat their noble hearts, trusting to GOD!
Gray men and blooming maids, high rose their song;
Hear it sweep, clear and deep, ever along.
"Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come,
Where the free dare to be-this is our home!"
Not theirs the gory-wreath, torn by the blast;
Heavenward their holy steps, heavenward they pass'd!
Green be their mossy graves! ours be their fame,
While their song peals along, ever the same.
"Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come,
Where the free dare to be-this is our home "
WITHERING-WITHERING.
CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.
WITHERING-withering-all are withering-
All of Hope's flowers that youth hath nursed—
Flowers of love too early blossoming;
Buds of Ambition too frail to burst.
Faintily-faintily-O! how faintily
I feel life's pulses ebb and flow;
Yet, Sorrow, I know thou dealest daintily
With one who should not wish to live moe.
Nay! why, young heart, thus timidly shrinking?
Why doth thy upward wing thus tire?
Why are thy pinions so droopingly sinking,
When they should only waft thee higher?
Upward-upward let them be waving,
Lifting thy soul toward her place of birth.
There are guerdons there more worth thy having—
Far more than any these lures of the earth.
LONG AGO.
J. H. WAINWRIGHT.
Dost thou remember, lady fair,
The willow by the river side?
One eve we sat together there,
Thou promised to become my bride.
But stay, fair lady, speak it not-
Thine answer I already know:
Those happy hours are all forgot,
For it was very long ago.
Dost call to mind the grassy lane,
All hidden in the little grove-
Can memory bring it back again?
'Twas there I told thee of my love!
Thy willing hand was clasped in mine,
Thy lips, say, did they answer No?
'Tis past and why should I repine ?—
For it was very long ago.
Dost call to mind the trembling kiss
I pressed upon thy burning cheek?
Hast thou forgot the words of bliss
Thy sweet and gentle voice did speak?
Nay, lady, do not weep! Thy tears
Have now no right for me to flow:
I thought to share thy hopes and fears—
But it was very long ago.
The willow by the stream is dead,
The grassy lane, the grove, both gone-
And thou art to another wed!
I wander through the world alone.
Yet oft unbidden bursts a sigh,
And down my cheeks in sorrow flow
The tears I weep for days gone by,
And memories of long ago.
THE CHICKADEE'S SONG.*
FRANCES H. GREEN.
On its downy wing, the snow,
Hovering, flyeth to and fro-
And the merry schoolboy's shout,
Rich with joy, is ringing out:
So we gather in our glee,
To the snow-drifts-Chickadee !
Poets sing, in measures bold,
Of the glorious gods of old,
And the nectar that they quaffed,
When their jewelled goblets laughed ;
But the snow-cups best love we,
Gemmed with sunbeams-Chickadee !
They who choose, abroad may go,
Where the southern waters flow,
And the flowers are never sere
In the garland of the year;
But we love the breezes free
Of our north-land-Chickadee !
To the cottage-yard we fly,
With its old trees waving high,
And the little ones peep out,
Just to know what we're about;
For they dearly love to see
Birds in winter-Chickadee !
* A portion of a poem adapted to an Ethiopian melody. A favourite in some of the
Eastern States. Chickadee is a word of Indian origin.
SENECA LAKE.
JAMES G. PERCIVAL. Born 1795.
ON thy fair bosom, silver lake,
The wild swan spreads his snowy sail,
And round his breast the ripples break,
As down he bears before the gale.
On thy fair bosom, waveless stream,
The dipping paddle echoes far,
And flashes in the moonlight gleam,
And bright reflects the polar star.
The waves along thy pebbly shore,
As blows the north-wind, heave their foam,
And curl around the dashing oar,
As late the boatman hies him home.
How sweet, at set of sun, to view
Thy golden mirror spreading wide,
And see the mist of mantling blue
Float round the distant mountain's side.
At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.
On thy fair bosom, silver lake,
O! I could ever sweep the oar,
When early birds at morning wake,
And evening tells us toil is o'er.
|