THE STAR AND THE LILY. I would not have thee know, The stream that seems to thee so stin, Has such a tide below! Enough! that in delicious dreams Enough, that when the morning beams, Yet, could I hope, when Time shall fall To meet thee-and to love, I would not shrink from aught below, THE STAR AND THE LILY. THE sun stepped down from his golden throne, And the Lily had folded her satin leaves, For a sleepy thing was she; What was the Lily dreaming about? O what is that to you? And why did she open her drooping lids The Rose is cooling his burning cheek, 139 140 THE STAR AND THE LILY. That would lie by the Rose's side; He would love thee better than all the rest, Now think thee, think thee thou silly one, Or flourish a blooming bride ? O the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold, But the star is fair and he lives in the air, But what if the stormy cloud should come, Would he turn his eye from the distant sky, To smile on a thing like thee? O no fair Lily, he will not send One ray from his far off throne, The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow, And thou wilt be left alone. There is not a leaf on the mountain top, Nor a drop of evening dew, Nor a golden sand on the sparkling shore, Nor a pearl in the waters blue, That he has not cheered with his fickle smile, And warmed with his faithless beam, TO MY CIGAR. And will he be true to a pallid flower Alas for the Lily! she would not heed, And bared her breast to the trembling ray, The cloud came over the darkened sky, And over the waters wide: She looked in vain through the beating rain, 141 0. W. u. TO MY CIGAR. BY CHARLES SPRAGUE. YES, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doctors' spite; I love thy fragrant, misty spell, What though they tell, with phizzes long, I would reply, with reason strong, And oft, mild friend, to me thou art Thou speak'st a lesson to my heart, 142 TO MY CIGAR. Thou 'rt like the man of worth, who gives The odor of whose virtues lives, When in the lonely evening hour, O'er history's varied page I pore, Oft as thy snowy column grows, I trace how mighty realms have rose, Awhile like thee earth's masters burn, And then like thee to ashes turn, Life's but a leaf adroitly rolled, That late or early, we behold, From beggar's frieze to monarch's robe, Sweet nature's works, the swelling globe, TO THE SOUTH WIND. And what is he who smokes thee now?— A little moving heap, That soon like thee to fate must bow, With thee in dust must sleep. But though thy ashes downward go, 143 TO THE SOUTH WIND. BY J. W. MILLER. BALMY breeze from the blossomy South, Yet oh! how beautiful thou must be! Stay-wilt thou stay, sweet breeze!-ah! now |