Still one of Adam's heirs, Though doomed by chance of birth As honest labor can, A bone and a crust, with a grace to God, And little thanks to man! A spade! a rake! a hoe! A pickaxe, or a bill! A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow, A flail, or what ye will. Whatever the tool to ply, Here is a willing drudge, With muscle and limb, and woe to him Who does their pay begrudge! Who every weekly score Docks labor's little mite, Bestows on the poor at the temple door, But robbed them over night. As health and morals fail, Shall visit me in the New Bastile FAIR INES. O SAW ye not fair Ines ? To dazzle when the sun is down, And rob the world of rest: She took our daylight with her, O turn again, fair Ines, Before the fall of night, For fear the moon should shine alone, And blesséd will the lover be That walks beneath their light, And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write! Would I had been, fair Ines, That gallant cavalier, Who rode so gayly by thy side, And whispered thee so near! Were there no bonny dames at home, Or no true lovers here, That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear ? I saw thee, lovely Ines, With bands of noble gentlemen, And banners waved before: And gentle youth and maidens gay, And snowy plumes they wore; It would have been a beauteous dream, - If it had been no more! Alas, alas! fair Ines, She went away with song, With music waiting on her steps, But some were sad, and felt no mirth, In sounds that sang farewell, farewell, Farewell, farewell, fair Ines! And sorrow on the shore! The smile that blest one lover's heart Has broken many more! THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER. SUMMER is gone on swallows' wings, For once had turned a prophetess. Yes, Summer's gone like pageant bright; Its glorious days of golden light Are gone the mimic suns that quiver, Whose hand relentless never spares Alas! that negro breasts should hide Delightful Summer! then adieu Can say adieu, and see thee fly? Looks up at heaven, and learns to glow : Not he that fled from Babel-strife Farewell! on wings of sombre stain, That blacken in the last blue skies, Thou fly'st; but thou wilt come again On the gay wings of butterflies. Spring at thy approach will sprout Her new Corinthian beauties out, Leaf-woven homes, where twitter-words Will grow to songs, and eggs to birds; Ambitious buds shall swell to flowers, And April smiles to sunny hours. Bright days shall be, and gentle nights Full of soft breath and echo-lights, As if the god of sun-time kept His eyes half-open while he slept. Roses shall be where roses were, Not shadows, but reality; As if they never perished there, But slept in immortality: Nature shall thrill with new delight, And Time's relumined river run Warm as young blood, and dazzling bright As if its source were in the sun! But say, hath Winter then no charms? Is there no joy, no gladness, warms |