Poems by George Pope Morris Part 27

My Lady Waits for Me.

Suggested by a popular German melody.

My lady waits!--'Tis now the hour When morn unbars her gates!-- My vessel glides beneath the tower Where now my lady waits.

Her signal flutters from the wall, Above the friendly sea!

I life but to obey her call!

My lady waits for me.

My lady waits--for me she waits, While morning opes her golden gates.

My lady waits!--No fairer flower E'er deck'd the floral grove, Than she, the pride of hall and bower, The lady of my love!

The eastern hills are flecked with light, The land-breeze curls the sea!

By love and truth sustained, for flight, My lady waits for me.

My lady waits--for me she waits, While morning opes her golden gates.

Music.

The wind-harp has music it moans to the tree, And so has the sh.e.l.l that complains to the sea, The lark that sings merrily over the lea, The reed of the rude shepherd boy!

We revel in music when day has begun, When rock-fountains gush into glee as they run, And stars of the morn sing their hymns to the sun, Who brightens the hill-tops with joy!

The spirit of melody floats in the air, Her instruments tuning to harmony there, Our senses beguiling from sorrow and care, In blessings sent down from above!

But Nature has music far more to my choice-- And all in her exquisite changes rejoice!

No tones thrill my heart like the dear human voice When breathed by the being I love!

The Millionaire.

In the upper circles Moves a famous man Who has had no equal Since the world began.

He was once a broker Down by the exchange; He is now a nabob-- Don't you think it strange?

In his low back office, Near the Bowling Green, With his brother brokers He was often seen;-- Shaving and discounting, Dabbling in the stocks, He achieved a fortune Of a million ROCKS!'

Next he formed a marriage With a lady fair, And his splendid carriage Bowled about THE square, Where his s.p.a.cious mansion Like a palace stood, Envied and admired By the mult.i.tude.

Then he took the tour Of the continent, Bearer of dispatches From the President: A legation b.u.t.ton By permission wore, And became that worthy, An official bore.

Charmed with foreign countries, Lots of coin to spend, He a house in London Took a the West End, Where he dwelt a season, And in grandeur shone, But to all the beau monde Utterly unknown.

England then was "foggy, And society Too aristocratic"

For his--pedigree: So he crossed the channel To escape the BLUES, And became the idol Of the parvenues.

"Dear, delightful Paris!"

He would often say: "Every earthly pleasure One can have for--pay.

Wealth gives high position; But when money's tight, Man is at a discount, And it serves him right."

After years of study How to cut a dash, He came home embellished With a huge--moustache!

Now he is a lion, All the rage up town, And gives gorgeous parties Supervised by--Brown!

The almighty dollar Is, no doubt, divine, And he worships daily At that n.o.ble shrine; Fashion is his idol, Money is his G.o.d, And they both together Rule him like a rod.

Books, and busts, and pictures, Are with him a card-- While abroad he bought them Cheaply--by the yard!

But his sumptuous dinners, To a turn quite right, With his boon companions, Are his chief delight.

Thee his wit and wa.s.sail, Like twin-currents flow In his newest stories, Published--long ago.

His enchanted hearers Giggle till they weep, As it is their duty Till they--fall asleep.

On his carriage panel Is a blazoned crest, With a Latin motto Given him--in jest.

His black coach and footman, Dressed in livery, Every day at Stewart's Many crowd to see.

Well--in upper-ten-dom Let him rest in peace, And may his investments Cent, per cent, increase: Though on earth for no one Cares the millionaire, So does NOT exactly His devoted--heir!

There's a useful moral Woven with my rhyme, Which may be considered At--some other time: Crockery is not porcelain-- It is merely delf-- And the kind most common Is the man himself.

In Memory of Charles H. Sandford.

He died, as he had lived, beloved, Without an enemy on earth; In word and deed he breathed and moved The soul of honor and of worth: His hand was open as the day, His bearing high, his nature brave; And, when from life he pa.s.sed away, Our hearts went with him to the grave.

What desolation filled our home When death from us our treasure bore!-- Oh! for the better world to come Where we shall meet to part no more!

The hope of THAT sustains us now, In THAT we trust on bended knee, While thus around his faded brow We twine the wreath of memory.