Poems by George Pope Morris Part 5

Oh, keep that flag flying!--The pride of the van!

To all other nations display it!

The ladies for union are all to a--MAN!

But not to the man who'd betray it.

Then the union of lakes--the union of lands-- The union of states none can sever-- The union of hearts--the union of hands-- And the Flag of the Union for ever And ever!

The Flag of our Union for ever!

Lines

After the Manner of the Olden Time.

O Love! the mischief thou hast done!

Thou G.o.d of pleasure and of pain!-- None can escape thee--yes there's one-- All others find the effort vain: Thou cause of all my smiles and tears!

Thou blight and bloom of all my years!

Love bathes him in the morning dews, Reclines him in the lily bells, Reposes in the rainbow hues, And sparkles in the crystal wells, Or hies him to the coral-caves, Where sea-nymphs sport beneath the waves.

Love vibrates in the wind-harp's tune-- With fays and oreads lingers he-- Gleams in th' ring of the watery moon, Or treads the pebbles of the sea.

Love rules "the court, the camp, the grove"-- Oh, everywhere we meet thee, Love!

And everywhere he welcome finds, From cottage-door to palace-porch-- Love enters free as spicy winds, With purple wings and lighted torch, With tripping feet and silvery tongue, And bow and darts behind him slung.

He tinkles in the shepherd's bell The village maiden leans to hear-- By lattice high he weaves his spell, For lady fair and cavalier: Like sun-bursts on the mountain snow, Love's genial warmth melts high and low.

Then why, ye nymphs Arcadian, why-- Since Love is general as the air-- Why does he not to Lelia fly, And soften the obdurate fair?

Scorn nerves her proud, disdainful heart!

She scoffs at Love and all his art!

Oh, boy-G.o.d, Love!--An archer thou!-- Thy utmost skill I fain would test; One arrow aim at Lelia now, And let thy target be her breast!

Her heart bind in thy captive train, Or give me back my own again!

The Dream of Love.

I've had the heart-ache many times, At the mere mention of a name I've never woven in my rhymes, Though from it inspiration came.

It is in truth a holy thing, Life-cherished from the world apart-- A dove that never tries its wing, But broods and nestles in the heart.

That name of melody recalls Her gentle look and winning ways Whose portrait hangs on memory's walls, In the fond light of other days.

In the dream-land of Poetry, Reclining in its leafy bowers, Her bright eyes in the stars I see, And her sweet semblance in the flowers.

Her artless dalliance and grace-- The joy that lighted up her brow-- The sweet expression of her face-- Her form--it stands before me now!

And I can fancy that I hear The woodland songs she used to sing, Which stole to my attending ear, Like the first harbingers of spring.

The beauty of the earth was hers, And hers the purity of heaven; Alone, of all her worshippers, To me her maiden vows were given.

They little know the human heart, Who think such love with time expires; Once kindled, it will ne'er depart, But burn through life with all its fires.

We parted--doomed no more to meet-- The blow fell with a stunning power-- And yet my pulse will strangely beat At the remembrance of that hour!

But time and change their healing brought, And years have pa.s.sed in seeming glee, But still alone of her I've thought Who's now a memory to me.

There may be many who will deem This strain a wayward, youthful folly, To be derided as a dream Born of the poet's melancholy.

The wealth of worlds, if it were mine, With all that follows in its train, I would with grat.i.tude resign, To dream that dream of love again.

I'm With You Once Again.

I'm with you once again, my friends, No more my footsteps roam; Where it began my journey ends, Amid the scenes of home.

No other clime has skies so blue, Or streams so broad and clear, And where are hearts so warm and true As those that meet me here?

Since last with spirits, wild and free, I pressed my native strand, I've wandered many miles at sea, And many miles on land.

I've seen fair realms of the earth By rude commotion torn, Which taught me how to prize the worth Of that where I was born.

In other countries, when I heard The language of my own, How fondly each familiar word Awoke an answering tone!

But when our woodland songs were sung Upon a foreign mart, The vows that faltered on the tongue With rapture thrilled the heart!

My native land, I turn to you, With blessing and with prayer, Where man is brave and woman true, And free as mountain air.

Long may our flag in triumph wave Against the world combined, And friends a welcome--foes a grave, Within our borders find.

Oh, Would that She were Here!

Oh, would that she were here, These hills and dales among, Where vocal groves are gayly mocked By Echo's airy tongue: Where jocund nature smiles In all her boon attire, And roams the deeply-tangled wilds Of hawthorn and sweet-brier.

Oh, would that she were here-- The gentle maid I sing, Whose voice is cheerful as the songs Of forest-birds in spring!