BALLAD. SPRING it is cheery, Winter is dreary, Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly; When he's forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die ? Love will not clip him, Maids will not lip him, Maud and Marian pass him by; Youth it is sunny, Age has no honey, What can an old man do but die ? June it was jolly, O for its folly! A dancing leg and a laughing eye; Wisdom is chilly, What can an old man do but die ? Friends they are scanty, Beggars are plenty, If he has followers, I know why; Gold's in his clutches, (Buying him crutches!) What can an old man do but die? HYMN TO THE SUN. GIVER of glowing light! Though but a god of other days, Of wiser ages Still live and gladden in thy genial rays. King of the tuneful lyre, Whereon of old Thy beams all turned to worshipping and song! Lord of the dreadful bow, From hungry grave The life that hangs upon a summer breath. Father of rosy day, No more thy clouds of incense rise ; But waking flowers At morning hours Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies. God of the Delphic fane, No more thou listenest to hymns sublime; But they will leave On winds at eve A solemn echo to the end of time. AUTUMN. THE autumn skies are flushed with gold, And fair and bright the rivers run; These are but streams of winter cold, And painted mists that quench the sun. In secret boughs no sweet birds sing, "Tis not trees' shade, but cloudy glooms TO A COLD BEAUTY. LADY, wouldst thou heiress be To Winter's cold and cruel part? When he sets the rivers free, Thou dost still lock up thy heart; Thou that shouldst outlast the snow But in the whiteness of thy brow? Scorn and cold neglect are made For winter gloom and winter wind, When the little buds unclose, Red, and white, and pied, and blue, And that virgin flower, the rose, Opes her heart to hold the dew, Wilt thou lock thy bosom up With no jewel in its cup? Let not cold December sit Thus in Love's peculiar throne; Brooklets are not prisoned now, But crystal frosts are all agone, And that which hangs upon the spray, It is no snow, but flower of May! RUTH. SHE stood breast-high amid the corn, On her cheek an autumn flush, Round her eyes her tresses fell; And her hat, with shady brim, Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; Lay thy sheaf adown, and come, Share my harvest and my home. BALLAD. SHE's up and gone, the graceless girl! Ay, call her on the barren moor, Full many a thankless child has been, But never one like mine; Her meat was served on plates of gold, Her drink was rosy wine; But now she'll share the robin's food, Before her feet will turn again |