Poems by George Pope Morris Part 17

An ivy-mantled cottage smiled, Deep-wooded near a streamlet's side, Where dwelt the village-pastor's child, In all her maiden bloom and pride.

Proud suitors paid their court and duty To this romantic sylvan beauty: Yet none of all the swains who sought her, Was worthy of the pastor's daughter.

The town-gallants crossed hill and plain, To seek the groves of her retreat; And many followed in her train, To lay their riches at her feet.

But still, for all their arts so wary, From home they could not lure the fairy.

A maid without a heart they thought her, And so they left the pastor's daughter.

One balmy eve in dewy spring A bard became her father's guest: He struck his harp, and every string To love vibrated in her breast.

With that true faith which can not falter, Her hand was given at the alter, And faithful was the heart he brought her To wedlock and the pastor's daughter.

How seldom learn the worldly gay With all their sophistry and art, The sweet and gentle primrose-way To woman's fond, devoted heart!

They seek, but never find, the treasure Revealed in eyes of jet and azure.

To them, like truth in wells of water, A fable is the pastor's daughter.

Margaretta.

When I was in my teens, I loved dear Margaretta: I know not what it means, I can not now forget her!

That vision of the past My head is ever crazing; Yet, when I saw her last, I could not speak for gazing!

Oh, lingering bud of May!

Dear as when first I met her; Worn in my heart always, Life-cherished Margaretta!

We parted near the stile, As morn was faintly breaking: For many a weary mile Oh how my heart was aching!

But distance, time, and change, Have lost me Margaretta; And yet 'tis sadly strange That I can not forget her!

O queen of rural maids-- My dark-eyed Magaretta-- The heart the mind upbraids That struggles to forget her!

My love, I know, will seem A wayward, boyish folly; But, ah! it was a dream Most sweet--most melancholy.

Were mine the world's domain, To me 'twere fortune better To be a boy again, And dream of Margaretta.

Oh! memory of the past, Why linger to regret her?

My first love was my last!

And that is Margaretta!

The Colonel.

The Colonel!--Such a creature!

I met him at the ball!-- So fair in form and feature, And so divinely tall!

He praised my dimpled cheeks and curls, While whirling through the dance, And matched me with the dark-eyed girls Of Italy and France!

He said, in accents thrilling-- "Love's boundless as the sea; And I, dear maid, am willing To give up all for thee!"

I heard him--blushed--"Would ask mamma"-- And then my eyes grew dim!

He looked--I said, "Mamma--papa-- I'd give up all for him!"

My governor is rich and old; This well the Colonel knew.

"Love's wings," he said, "when fringed with gold, Are beautiful to view!"

I thought his 'havior quite the ton, Until I saw him stare When merely told that--brother--John-- Papa--would--make--his--heir!

Next day and the day after I dressed for him in vain; Was moved to tears and laughter-- He never came again!

But I have heard, for Widow Dash He bought the bridal ring; And he will we her for her cash-- The ugly, hateful thing!

The Sweep's Carol. [See Notes]

Through the streets of New York City, Blithely every morn, I carolled o'er my artless ditty, Cheerly though forlorn!

Before the rosy light, my lay Was to the maids begun, Ere winters snows had pa.s.sed away, Or smiled the summer sun.

CAROL--O--a--y--e--o!

In summer months I'd fondly woo Those merry, dark-eyed girls, With faces of ebon hue, And teeth like eastern pearls!

One vowed my love she would repay-- Her heart my song had won-- When winter snows had pa.s.sed away, And smiled the summer sun.

CAROL--O--a--y--e--o!

A year, alas! had scarcely flown-- Hope beamed but to deceive-- Ere I was left to weep alone, From morn till dewy eve!

She died one dreary break of day!-- Grief weighs my heart upon!-- In vain the snows may pa.s.s away, Or smile the summer sun.

CAROL--O--a--y--e--o!

The Seasons of Love.

The spring-time of love Is both happy and gay, For joy sprinkles blossoms And balm in our way; The sky, earth, and ocean, In beauty repose, And all the bright future Is COLEUR DE ROSE.

The summer of love Is the bloom of the heart, When hill, grove, and valley, Their music impart; And the pure glow of heaven Is seen in fond eyes, As lakes show the rainbow That's hung in the skies.

The autumn of love Is the season of cheer-- Life's mild Indian summer, The smile of the year!

Which comes when the golden Ripe harvest is stored, And yields its own blessings-- Repose and reward.