Art thou deserted then, Come to my breast again, Here in the rosy beds Hover anew: The fragrance inhale Of each lovely flower That waves in the gale. When the bright morning-star, Rising on high, Day's early harbinger, Shines in the sky, Then shall thy numbers, When the still evening comes, Tranquil and clear; When the dull beetle roams, Drumming the air; Then, on the willow-trees Shading the door, Sing me thy melodies Over once more. Thus shall the moments fly Tuned to thy minstrelsy, Cheered by thy song; Till as the light declines Far in the west, Thou mid the trellised vines, Hush thee to rest. OLD GRIMES. BY CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. OLD Grimes is dead, that good old man, His heart was open as the day His feelings all were true- Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, His heart with pity burned- And ever prompt at pity's call, He knew no base design His eyes were dark and rather small; His nose was aquiline. He lived at peace with all mankind— But good old Grimes is now at rest, He had no malice in his mind- His neighbours he did not abuse, He wore large buckles on his shoes, Nor make a noise town-meeting days, His worldly goods he never threw In trust to fortune's chances- Thus undisturbed by anxious cares, OLD MRS. GRIMES. BY A. G. GREENE. OLD Mrs. Grimes is living still, She wears a neat old-fashioned frock, She's blest at home-nor seeks abroad The scandals of the town; There's not enough put in her sleeves To make another gown. Although she's poor, the needy poor's She every Sunday goes to church, She often says "she hopes above, She always was industrious, And rises now betimes; She's called by all the neighbours round, "The Good Old Mrs. Grimes." "FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER." BY MRS. FOLLEN. "FLOW on, thou shining river," Flow gaily to the sea; Flow on in beauty ever, Where has thy gentle current strayed? |