To S They say, my gentle cousin, That thy girlhood's much-loved name Is to be thrown away, and now No more to be the same. They tell me that a stranger Hath beguiled away thy hand: Thy heart I know he cannot have,— "Tis in another land. They'll bind thy hair with strings of pearl, Thy breast with robes of white; And happy 'tis my weeping eye Shall not behold the sight. Shalt love and cherish him alone, They say that thou art altered, That unlike those days gone by, Thou hast exchanged thy maiden gladness For a tear and for a sigh; But those that force thee thus With thy early love to part, May they never feel the agony That rends a broken heart. We cannot, as in days gone by, Thou canst not grant a kiss when I What then was but a playful thing When next we meet, (perchance we might,) Have circled on thy brow,— And bliss can ne'er be mine. To the Bible. Neglected Volume! when thy sacred page Farther in life, how cold thy lessons seemcd- Even heinous crimes appeared but venial slips. But now arrested in my wild career, Long ere life's Summer hath approached the 'sear,' Thou monitor of every change of life,— How thy sage maxims touch the awful chord In vain the sophist to subvert them tries, When eager youth drinks deep of pleasure's stream, I Or when the heart with fond ambition warms, O'erwhelmed in worldly sorrow and distress, But if he turn to thy unheeded leaf, Blest Book! sole solace on the couch of death! How calm the dying Christian yields his breath, Upheld by thy pure promises of joy Beyond the bourne where bliss can know alloy. How sweet the thought that we thro' thee can know Song, To Love. Flee away, pretty boy, flee away! To the scenes of thy joy; Oh Love, pretty boy, flee away! There are callous and cold in the world, There are thoughtless and wild to be found, At these let thine arrows be hurled And let those feel the pain of thy wound. Let their grief be thy joy; Oh Love, pretty boy, flee away! Yet why should I drive thee away? For tho' painful to me is thy stay, Oh, 'twere dreadful to bid thee depart. Give this bosom its joy; And Love, pretty innocent, stay! |