Excerpt
TO HOPE. Oh! take, young Seraph, take thy harp, And play to me so cheerily; For grief is dark, and care is sharp, And life wears on so wearily. Oh! take thy harp! Oh! sing as thou wert wont to do, When, all youth's sunny season long, I sat and listened to thy song, And yet 'twas ever, ever new, With magic in its heaven-tuned string— The future bliss thy constant theme. Oh! then each little woe took wing Away, like phantoms of a dream; As if each sound That flutter'd round, Had floated over Lethe's stream! By all those bright and happy hours We spent in life's sweet eastern bow'rs, Where thou wouldst sit and smile, and show, Ere buds were come, where flowers would blow, And oft anticipate the rise Of life's warm sun that scaled the skies; By many a story of love and glory, And friendships promised oft to me; By all the faith I lent to thee,— Oh! take, young Seraph, take thy harp, And play to me so cheerily; For grief is dark, and care is sharp, And life wears on so wearily. Oh! take thy harp! Perchance the strings will sound less clear, That long have lain neglected by In sorrow's misty atmosphere; It ne'er may speak as it hath spoken Such joyous notes so brisk and high; But are its golden chords all broken? Are there not some, though weak and low, To play a lullaby to woe? But thou canst sing of love no more, For Celia show'd that dream was vain; And many a fancied bliss is o'er, That comes not e'en in dreams again. Alas! alas! How pleasures pass, And leave thee now no subject, save The peace and bliss beyond the grave! Then be thy flight among the skies: Take, then, oh! take the skylark's wing, And leave dull earth, and heavenward rise O'er all its tearful clouds, and sing On skylark's wing! Another life-spring there adorns Another youth—without the dread Of cruel care, whose crown of thorns Is here for manhood's aching head. Oh! there are realms of welcome day, A world where tears are wiped away! Then be thy flight among the skies: Take, then, oh! take the skylark's wing, And leave dull earth, and heavenward rise O'er all its tearful clouds, and sing On skylark's wing! THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER. Summer is gone on swallows' wings, And Earth has buried all her flowers: No more the lark,—the linnet—sings, But Silence sits in faded bowers. There is a shadow on the plain Of Winter ere he comes again,— There is in woods a solemn sound Of hollow warnings whisper'd round, As Echo in her deep recess For once had turn'd a prophetess. Shuddering Autumn stops to list, And breathes his fear in sudden sighs, With clouded face, and hazel eyes That quench themselves, and hide in mist. Yes, Summer's gone like pageant bright; Its glorious days of golden light Are gone—the mimic suns that quiver, Then melt in Time's dark-flowing river. Gone the sweetly-scented breeze That spoke in music to the trees; Gone—for damp and chilly breath, As if fresh blown o'er marble seas, Or newly from the lungs of Death. Gone its virgin roses' blushes, Warm as when Aurora rushes Freshly from the God's embrace, With all her shame upon her face....