Lays Of Ancient Virginia, And Other Poems Part 27

PARTING SONG.

We meet with smiles, we part in tears; This is our earthly lot, We cannot find a place on earth, Where friends have parted not.

And oh! it is the saddest thought, That we no more may meet, That we may see their face no more, Whose friendship was so sweet.

We meet with smiles, we part in tears, But Mem'ry long will bring, Their image in our waking thoughts, A blest and sacred thing: And we shall pause amid the crowds, Where we are strangers now; And deeply think of what has been, Till grief will shade our brow.

Till grief will shade our aching brow, And tears will freely flow, Till we shall weep, as we have wept, O'er friends now sleeping low; For, who may tell, if e'er again, Those friends shall meet our gaze; Who've wander'd forth from all our love, Where Death's dark angel strays?

THE SONG OF MAY.

To mountains h.o.a.r and russet plain, A joyous sprite, I come again; With many a sweet and joyous strain, And break grim winter's icy chain.

From yon blue chambers far above, On brilliant wings, I lightly move; I come, and lead the cooing dove, And all the choir that fill the grove.

To leafy wild, and city's hum, The queen of joy, I come, I come; The little rills no more are dumb; But hail me, as I come, I come.

With breath that glads both land and main, I come again, I come again!

On hillside, bank, and level plain, The flowers appear, in beauteous train.

To blooming land and azure main, Each year I duly come again; A stranger from yon heavenly plain Of light and bliss; as poets feign.

TO MY LYRE.

O harp, with whom my childhood played, Within that verdant dell, O'erbower'd by boughs of grateful shade, I go--Farewell! farewell!

If I have durst to raise thy tone To sing a theme too high, Thou, thou must bear the sin alone, O harp, not I, not I.

For, thou had'st witch'd me with a love Where reason had no part; I felt that thou would'st e'en approve, And fondly heard my heart.

The song hath ended. Silence falls Round the enchanted dell; Awhile I heed no more thy calls, Sweet harp! farewell! farewell!

YOU ASK WHY I AM LONELY NOW.

You ask why I am lonely now, In all this brilliant scene, And why I look on beauty's charms, With cold, unalter'd mien.

You say that, many a loving heart, Would joy to be my own, That none of all the human race, Should ever live alone.

I'll tell you why I'm lonely now, If grief will let me speak, And why I glance on woman's charms With cold, unalter'd cheek.

'Twas in my boyhood's happy days, I loved a blue-eyed maid; The light of heaven o'er that young cheek, In changeful feeling stray'd!

I loved her with a love as true, As ever dwelt on earth; Oh sure my worship was too deep, Even at that shrine of worth.

She loved me not, that knowledge fell, Upon me like a blight; Ah me! I am too fondly weak?

Is this a teardrop bright?

You asked why I am lonely now, And I the tale have told: And I shall yet be lonely, till The grave my heart shall hold.

OLD HOMESTEAD.

Old homestead! old homestead! what feelings arise!

As now the old homestead greets kindly our eyes; Old homestead, where oft we were merry or sad; Each day as it fled, still some witchery had.

The homestead! how dear is its old, friendly look, Its dun rolling hills, and its slow running brook; Its time-worn, old gables, and cornice so plain, Its roof that grew mossy from shadow and rain.

Old homestead! some dwelt with us, loved with us here; Some smiled at our smile, and they wept at our tear: Of those some have gone to a far distant land; And some--where yon cedars like pale mourners stand.

Oh! memories most thrilling, most holy, most dear, Still cl.u.s.ter around thee, old homestead, fore'er; Thou hast a deep magic that never can die, 'Till 'neath the green valley, we endlessly lie.

LOVE SONG.

I love thee, oh! I love thee, As the sweet bee loves the flower, As the swallow loves the summer, As the humming bird the bower; As the petrel loves the ocean, As the nightingale the night; I love, I love thee, dearest!

Thou being good and bright.

I love thee, oh! I love thee, There's nothing on this earth, Can feel a deeper fondness, A flame of purer worth; The eagle loves its offspring, Most faithful is the dove; But thou! thy smallest ringlet, Has more from me than love.

SUSIE.

A gentle maid, a dove-like soul, An eye that knows no ill; I met her from her rural walk, Upon yon gra.s.sy hill.

Her ap.r.o.n filled with early flowers, And some were lightly bound Into a wreath that sweetly lay Her snowy temples round.