LONG years have pass'd, old friend, since we
First met in life's young day;
And friends long loved by thee and me,
Since then have dropp'd away;
But enough remain to cheer us on,
And sweeten, when thus we 're met,
The glass we fill to the many gone,
And the few who're left us yet.
Our locks, old friend, now thinly grow,
And some hang white and chill;
While some, like flow'rs 'mid Autumn's snow,
Retain youth's color still.
And so, in our hearts, though one by one,
Youth's sunny hopes have set,
Thank heav'n, not all their light is gone,
We've some to cheer us yet.
Then here's to thee, old friend, and long
May thou and I thus meet,
To brighten still with wine and song
This short life, ere it fleet.
And still as death comes stealing on,
Let's never, old friend, forget,
Ev'n while we sigh o'er blessings gone,
How many are left us yet.
TELL her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying
Beneath the green arbor, is still lying there; And breezes, like lovers, around it are sighing, But not a soft whisper replies to their pray'r.
Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going,
Beside the green arbor she playfully set,
As lovely as ever is blushing and blowing,
And not a bright leaflet has fall'n from it yet.
So while away from that arbor forsaken,
The maiden is wandering, still let her be As true as the lute, that no sighing can waken, And blooming for ever, unchanged as the tree
OH CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME
Он, call it by some better name,
For Friendship sounds too cold,
While Love is now a woridiy fiame,
Whose shrine must be of gold⚫
And Passion, like the sun at noon,
That burns o'er all he sees,
Awhile as warm, will set as soon
Then, call it none of these.
Imagine something purer far,
More free from stain of clay
Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are,
Yet human still as they;
And if thy lip, for love like this,
No mortal word can frame,
Go, ask of angels what it is,
And call it by that name 1
THE more I've view'd this world, the more I've found
That, fill'd as 't is with scenes and creatures rare,
Fancy commands, within her own bright round,
A world of scenes and creatures far more fair
Nor is it that her power can call up there
A single charm, that's not from nature won,
No more than rainbows, in their pride, can wear
A single tint unborrow'd from the sun;
But 't is the mental medium it shines through,
That lends to Beauty all its charms and hue;
As the same light, that o'er the level lake
One dull monotony of lustre flings,
Will, entering in the rounded rain-drop, make
Colors as gay as those on angels' wings!
WHEN I have seen thy snow-white wing
From the blue wave at evening spring,
And show those scales of silvery white,
So gayly to the eye of light,
As if thy frame were form'd to rise,
And live amid the glorious skies;
Oh! it has made me proudly feel,
How like thy wing's impatient zeal
Is the pure soul, that rests not, pent
Within this world's gross element,
But takes the wing that God has given,
And rises into light and heaven!
But, when I see that wing, so bright,
Grow languid with a moment's flight,
Attempt the paths of air in vain,
And sink into the waves again;
Alas! the flattering pride is o'er;
Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar,
But erring man must blush to think,
Like thee, again the soul may sink.
Oh Virtue! when thy clime I seck,
Let not my spirit's flight be weak:
Let me not, like this feeble thing,
With brine still dropping from its wing
Just sparkle in the solar glow
Aud plunge again to depths below;
But, when I leave the grosser throng
With whom my soul hath dwelt so long,
Let me, in that aspiring day,
Cast every lingering stain away,
And, panting for thy purer air,
Fly up at once and fix me there.
THEY both were hush'd, the voice, the chords --
I heard but once that witching lay;
And few the notes, and few the words,
My spell-bound memory brought away;
Traces remember'd here and there,
Like echoes of some broken strain;
Links of a sweetness lost in air,
That nothing now could join again.
Ev'n these, too, ere the morning, fled;
And, though the charm still linger'd on, That o'er each sense her song had shed, The song itself was faded, gone;
Gone, like the thoughts that once were ours, On summer days, ere youth had set; Thoughts bright, we know, as summer flowers, Thought what they were, we now forget.
|