Take me as you find me,Take me so,Else from love unbind me,Let me go.Two twin gifts God gave me,Body and soul;These shall lose or save me,As years roll.I can never alter;I must wendOnward, thus, nor falterTo the end.If you love, then, love me,Sweetheart, soYou’ll not look above me,Nor below.
Take me as you find me,Take me so,Else from love unbind me,Let me go.Two twin gifts God gave me,Body and soul;These shall lose or save me,As years roll.I can never alter;I must wendOnward, thus, nor falterTo the end.If you love, then, love me,Sweetheart, soYou’ll not look above me,Nor below.
Take me as you find me,Take me so,Else from love unbind me,Let me go.
Two twin gifts God gave me,Body and soul;These shall lose or save me,As years roll.
I can never alter;I must wendOnward, thus, nor falterTo the end.
If you love, then, love me,Sweetheart, soYou’ll not look above me,Nor below.
The evening stars are shiningAmid the gloom of air,Like gold and jewels twiningAmong thy golden hair.They guard the dawn’s shut portalAnd count the moments fleet,—O maiden, we are mortal,Why hasten not thy feet?The moonlight and the shadowsAre wooing by the stream,And far across the meadowsThy windows brightly gleam.My eager heart is beatingBeneath the trysting tree,The evening hours are fleeting,Why com’st thou not to me?
The evening stars are shiningAmid the gloom of air,Like gold and jewels twiningAmong thy golden hair.They guard the dawn’s shut portalAnd count the moments fleet,—O maiden, we are mortal,Why hasten not thy feet?The moonlight and the shadowsAre wooing by the stream,And far across the meadowsThy windows brightly gleam.My eager heart is beatingBeneath the trysting tree,The evening hours are fleeting,Why com’st thou not to me?
The evening stars are shiningAmid the gloom of air,Like gold and jewels twiningAmong thy golden hair.
They guard the dawn’s shut portalAnd count the moments fleet,—O maiden, we are mortal,Why hasten not thy feet?
The moonlight and the shadowsAre wooing by the stream,And far across the meadowsThy windows brightly gleam.
My eager heart is beatingBeneath the trysting tree,The evening hours are fleeting,Why com’st thou not to me?
Taken from the Pacific at Santa Monica, Cal.
From seas Alaskan, where, through sunless days,The grinding ice floes cast a spectral glare,I come to shores where, through the golden air,Palms wave and bees dip in the orange sprays.From shores Siberian, where the keen knout preysOn women, wan with torture and despair,I come, a voiceless, palpitating prayer,Where Freedom dwells, yet succor still delays.From far Cathay, the oldest land of lands,A giant sunk in poppied, dreamful rest,I come where earth’s great last-born nation stands,Flower of the centuries, the titanic West.I come where East and West stand face to face,The childhood and the manhood of the race.
From seas Alaskan, where, through sunless days,The grinding ice floes cast a spectral glare,I come to shores where, through the golden air,Palms wave and bees dip in the orange sprays.From shores Siberian, where the keen knout preysOn women, wan with torture and despair,I come, a voiceless, palpitating prayer,Where Freedom dwells, yet succor still delays.From far Cathay, the oldest land of lands,A giant sunk in poppied, dreamful rest,I come where earth’s great last-born nation stands,Flower of the centuries, the titanic West.I come where East and West stand face to face,The childhood and the manhood of the race.
From seas Alaskan, where, through sunless days,The grinding ice floes cast a spectral glare,I come to shores where, through the golden air,Palms wave and bees dip in the orange sprays.From shores Siberian, where the keen knout preysOn women, wan with torture and despair,I come, a voiceless, palpitating prayer,Where Freedom dwells, yet succor still delays.
From far Cathay, the oldest land of lands,A giant sunk in poppied, dreamful rest,I come where earth’s great last-born nation stands,Flower of the centuries, the titanic West.I come where East and West stand face to face,The childhood and the manhood of the race.
Through the quaint southern winter without snow,Without an icy blast or chilling air,When the broad mesas arid lie and bare,The Ishmael cactus and the sage brush grow.The golden orange bends the lithe branch low,The sunflowers throng the by-ways everywhere,Palms wave, birds sing. The earth lies free of care,Basking in skies one golden, cloudless glow.Then come the rains, and in their cortege bringStreams to the canyons, and to ranch and glenWild flowers and orange blossoms, wherein ridesThe bee on golden zephyrs. Swiftly then,Like wind-blown fire, up the Sierra sidesA blaze of poppies runs, and it is Spring.
Through the quaint southern winter without snow,Without an icy blast or chilling air,When the broad mesas arid lie and bare,The Ishmael cactus and the sage brush grow.The golden orange bends the lithe branch low,The sunflowers throng the by-ways everywhere,Palms wave, birds sing. The earth lies free of care,Basking in skies one golden, cloudless glow.Then come the rains, and in their cortege bringStreams to the canyons, and to ranch and glenWild flowers and orange blossoms, wherein ridesThe bee on golden zephyrs. Swiftly then,Like wind-blown fire, up the Sierra sidesA blaze of poppies runs, and it is Spring.
Through the quaint southern winter without snow,Without an icy blast or chilling air,When the broad mesas arid lie and bare,The Ishmael cactus and the sage brush grow.
The golden orange bends the lithe branch low,The sunflowers throng the by-ways everywhere,Palms wave, birds sing. The earth lies free of care,Basking in skies one golden, cloudless glow.
Then come the rains, and in their cortege bringStreams to the canyons, and to ranch and glenWild flowers and orange blossoms, wherein ridesThe bee on golden zephyrs. Swiftly then,Like wind-blown fire, up the Sierra sidesA blaze of poppies runs, and it is Spring.
In the Sierras.
O’er the Sierras scarce the moon yestre’enWas risen to flood each sombre peak with light,Ere came a cloud host through the gusty night,Storming the crags. Sheer canyon walls betweenThey swept, and hid bare ledge and living green.Hoarse thunder pealed from unseen height to height,As though the vast hills boasted of their might,Though Chaos’ self upon them seemed to lean.Dawn drew aside night’s veil of mist, and cameAcross the hills. The clouds retired, and lo!On every wind-swept crag, as Day looked forth,Bright in the southern sunshine gleamed the snow,A vision of the unforgotten North’Twixt golden skies and poppy fields aflame.
O’er the Sierras scarce the moon yestre’enWas risen to flood each sombre peak with light,Ere came a cloud host through the gusty night,Storming the crags. Sheer canyon walls betweenThey swept, and hid bare ledge and living green.Hoarse thunder pealed from unseen height to height,As though the vast hills boasted of their might,Though Chaos’ self upon them seemed to lean.Dawn drew aside night’s veil of mist, and cameAcross the hills. The clouds retired, and lo!On every wind-swept crag, as Day looked forth,Bright in the southern sunshine gleamed the snow,A vision of the unforgotten North’Twixt golden skies and poppy fields aflame.
O’er the Sierras scarce the moon yestre’enWas risen to flood each sombre peak with light,Ere came a cloud host through the gusty night,Storming the crags. Sheer canyon walls betweenThey swept, and hid bare ledge and living green.Hoarse thunder pealed from unseen height to height,As though the vast hills boasted of their might,Though Chaos’ self upon them seemed to lean.
Dawn drew aside night’s veil of mist, and cameAcross the hills. The clouds retired, and lo!On every wind-swept crag, as Day looked forth,Bright in the southern sunshine gleamed the snow,A vision of the unforgotten North’Twixt golden skies and poppy fields aflame.
Snow on the hills, but in the valley, flowers,Poppies aflame and orange blooms, whose scentWith the faint odor of the snow is blent.Snow on the peaks, but in the canyons, showers,And torrents drinking strength from stormy hours.The geese wheel seaward through the clouds half spent,Fleeing the snow and screaming discontent,But in the vale birds trill in blossomy bowers.Summer is in the vale, though in the heightsThe bandit Winter lurks to seize his prey.Still springs the grain, vines grow and fruit delightsSun and soft winds through many a golden dayIn many an Eden valley, nestling warmBelow the stern Sierras, wrapped in storm.
Snow on the hills, but in the valley, flowers,Poppies aflame and orange blooms, whose scentWith the faint odor of the snow is blent.Snow on the peaks, but in the canyons, showers,And torrents drinking strength from stormy hours.The geese wheel seaward through the clouds half spent,Fleeing the snow and screaming discontent,But in the vale birds trill in blossomy bowers.Summer is in the vale, though in the heightsThe bandit Winter lurks to seize his prey.Still springs the grain, vines grow and fruit delightsSun and soft winds through many a golden dayIn many an Eden valley, nestling warmBelow the stern Sierras, wrapped in storm.
Snow on the hills, but in the valley, flowers,Poppies aflame and orange blooms, whose scentWith the faint odor of the snow is blent.Snow on the peaks, but in the canyons, showers,And torrents drinking strength from stormy hours.The geese wheel seaward through the clouds half spent,Fleeing the snow and screaming discontent,But in the vale birds trill in blossomy bowers.
Summer is in the vale, though in the heightsThe bandit Winter lurks to seize his prey.Still springs the grain, vines grow and fruit delightsSun and soft winds through many a golden dayIn many an Eden valley, nestling warmBelow the stern Sierras, wrapped in storm.
Ere yet the Spanish cavalierFor this new world set sail,Ere yet the padres came anearSan Gabriel’s sunny vale,Ere yet the thirst for gold drew menAcross the western hills,I rippled down this rocky glen,The happiest of rills.The shadows of the spreading oakOft lay upon my breast;Oft through the brown madronas brokeThe bear upon his quest.Past starry yuccas, to my brink,At many a crimson dawn,The mountain lion came to drink,And oft a timid fawn.The golden moments came and wentOf many a sunny year,And still I rippled on, contentAnd solitary here.At times a weary miner cameAnd quaffed my cooling stream,At times I saw the camp-fire flameOf hardy hunters gleam.Though oft I paused to hear some birdTrill in the leaves above,A maid I never saw nor heard,Nor knew the name of love.Oh, there was never rivuletSo merry in a glen;But now I never can forget,Nor merry be again.She came, in thoughtless, girlish mood,The dizzy trail along.Upon my ferny marge she stoodAnd listened to my song.I saw her, and I leapt for gleeIn many a lucent wave,And when she stooped to drink from me,My very heart I gave.She passed, and now no more I singAmong the granite hills;Instead, my ceaseless murmuringThe sombre canyon fills.Oh! ye to whom that maid divineHath also heartless been,Come join your mournful plaint with mine,The pool of Sant’ Oline.
Ere yet the Spanish cavalierFor this new world set sail,Ere yet the padres came anearSan Gabriel’s sunny vale,Ere yet the thirst for gold drew menAcross the western hills,I rippled down this rocky glen,The happiest of rills.The shadows of the spreading oakOft lay upon my breast;Oft through the brown madronas brokeThe bear upon his quest.Past starry yuccas, to my brink,At many a crimson dawn,The mountain lion came to drink,And oft a timid fawn.The golden moments came and wentOf many a sunny year,And still I rippled on, contentAnd solitary here.At times a weary miner cameAnd quaffed my cooling stream,At times I saw the camp-fire flameOf hardy hunters gleam.Though oft I paused to hear some birdTrill in the leaves above,A maid I never saw nor heard,Nor knew the name of love.Oh, there was never rivuletSo merry in a glen;But now I never can forget,Nor merry be again.She came, in thoughtless, girlish mood,The dizzy trail along.Upon my ferny marge she stoodAnd listened to my song.I saw her, and I leapt for gleeIn many a lucent wave,And when she stooped to drink from me,My very heart I gave.She passed, and now no more I singAmong the granite hills;Instead, my ceaseless murmuringThe sombre canyon fills.Oh! ye to whom that maid divineHath also heartless been,Come join your mournful plaint with mine,The pool of Sant’ Oline.
Ere yet the Spanish cavalierFor this new world set sail,Ere yet the padres came anearSan Gabriel’s sunny vale,Ere yet the thirst for gold drew menAcross the western hills,I rippled down this rocky glen,The happiest of rills.
The shadows of the spreading oakOft lay upon my breast;Oft through the brown madronas brokeThe bear upon his quest.Past starry yuccas, to my brink,At many a crimson dawn,The mountain lion came to drink,And oft a timid fawn.
The golden moments came and wentOf many a sunny year,And still I rippled on, contentAnd solitary here.At times a weary miner cameAnd quaffed my cooling stream,At times I saw the camp-fire flameOf hardy hunters gleam.
Though oft I paused to hear some birdTrill in the leaves above,A maid I never saw nor heard,Nor knew the name of love.Oh, there was never rivuletSo merry in a glen;But now I never can forget,Nor merry be again.
She came, in thoughtless, girlish mood,The dizzy trail along.Upon my ferny marge she stoodAnd listened to my song.I saw her, and I leapt for gleeIn many a lucent wave,And when she stooped to drink from me,My very heart I gave.
She passed, and now no more I singAmong the granite hills;Instead, my ceaseless murmuringThe sombre canyon fills.Oh! ye to whom that maid divineHath also heartless been,Come join your mournful plaint with mine,The pool of Sant’ Oline.
At home the blossoms are asleepBeside the frost-bound rills;At home the snow is drifting deepUpon the windy hills;At home the ice king mocks the sun,The woods are drear and bare,And of the birds there is not oneLeft singing anywhere.But here the fields are green with grain,The mesas bright with flowers.The birds repeat each dulcet strainThey learned in Eden’s bowers.’Midst ripening fruit, the orange treesHave mingled odorous blooms,And here and there the eager beesHum through the golden glooms.The swart Sierras, crowned with snow,Stand knee deep in the green,Like patriarchs smiling as they goBlithe groups of youth between.Behind them is the burning sandOf the Mojave[A]waste;Before, the warm Pacific strand,By golden seas embraced.When in the palm tree’s shade I restThrough a many a perfect day,My heart would fain forget life’s quest,And live in dreams alway;But when upon the snow-clad hillsMine eyes again look forth,I wake. Thy spell my bosom thrills,Stern homeland in the north!Give me the seasons of the year,The bursting of the leaf,The northern summer brief but dear,And autumn’s golden sheaf.Give me the wintry moon’s pale gleam,With snow and storm at strife.The south is a bewitching dream,But in the north is life.
At home the blossoms are asleepBeside the frost-bound rills;At home the snow is drifting deepUpon the windy hills;At home the ice king mocks the sun,The woods are drear and bare,And of the birds there is not oneLeft singing anywhere.But here the fields are green with grain,The mesas bright with flowers.The birds repeat each dulcet strainThey learned in Eden’s bowers.’Midst ripening fruit, the orange treesHave mingled odorous blooms,And here and there the eager beesHum through the golden glooms.The swart Sierras, crowned with snow,Stand knee deep in the green,Like patriarchs smiling as they goBlithe groups of youth between.Behind them is the burning sandOf the Mojave[A]waste;Before, the warm Pacific strand,By golden seas embraced.When in the palm tree’s shade I restThrough a many a perfect day,My heart would fain forget life’s quest,And live in dreams alway;But when upon the snow-clad hillsMine eyes again look forth,I wake. Thy spell my bosom thrills,Stern homeland in the north!Give me the seasons of the year,The bursting of the leaf,The northern summer brief but dear,And autumn’s golden sheaf.Give me the wintry moon’s pale gleam,With snow and storm at strife.The south is a bewitching dream,But in the north is life.
At home the blossoms are asleepBeside the frost-bound rills;At home the snow is drifting deepUpon the windy hills;At home the ice king mocks the sun,The woods are drear and bare,And of the birds there is not oneLeft singing anywhere.
But here the fields are green with grain,The mesas bright with flowers.The birds repeat each dulcet strainThey learned in Eden’s bowers.’Midst ripening fruit, the orange treesHave mingled odorous blooms,And here and there the eager beesHum through the golden glooms.
The swart Sierras, crowned with snow,Stand knee deep in the green,Like patriarchs smiling as they goBlithe groups of youth between.Behind them is the burning sandOf the Mojave[A]waste;Before, the warm Pacific strand,By golden seas embraced.
When in the palm tree’s shade I restThrough a many a perfect day,My heart would fain forget life’s quest,And live in dreams alway;But when upon the snow-clad hillsMine eyes again look forth,I wake. Thy spell my bosom thrills,Stern homeland in the north!
Give me the seasons of the year,The bursting of the leaf,The northern summer brief but dear,And autumn’s golden sheaf.Give me the wintry moon’s pale gleam,With snow and storm at strife.The south is a bewitching dream,But in the north is life.
O blossoming lives that to the fruitsNow ripened for the gathering in,Speak of old days, ere life’s pursuitsTouched the new soul with taint of sin,We who now watch you at your game,We, weary of the toil and strife,Must envy you your scorn of fame,Your eager, loving trust in life.Perchance, the babe that, thoughtless, pilesHis blocks unsteadily in air,May yet a minster build, whose aislesShall echo to a nation’s prayer.Perchance, the child that scarce can tellThe letters on his cubes of wood,May yet with a poetic spellCharm and uplift the multitude.They question not, they only liveTo pluck the blossoms of each hour.Ambition frets them not, they giveNo thought to pomp or place or power.We too have toys, and we pursueOur trivial aims; we rage and sighBecause our blocks are built askew,And our best hopes in ruins lie.Yet over us, as over these,A teacher watches, true and kind,Striving to guide our fantasies,And patient with the groping mind.From flower of wisdom unto flowerHe leads us, as these babes are led,Till chimes, at last, the closing hour,The prizes won, the lessons said.And happy he who in this schoolOf life, that fits the soul for death,Has learned to serve as well as rule,And speak for truth with every breath.
O blossoming lives that to the fruitsNow ripened for the gathering in,Speak of old days, ere life’s pursuitsTouched the new soul with taint of sin,We who now watch you at your game,We, weary of the toil and strife,Must envy you your scorn of fame,Your eager, loving trust in life.Perchance, the babe that, thoughtless, pilesHis blocks unsteadily in air,May yet a minster build, whose aislesShall echo to a nation’s prayer.Perchance, the child that scarce can tellThe letters on his cubes of wood,May yet with a poetic spellCharm and uplift the multitude.They question not, they only liveTo pluck the blossoms of each hour.Ambition frets them not, they giveNo thought to pomp or place or power.We too have toys, and we pursueOur trivial aims; we rage and sighBecause our blocks are built askew,And our best hopes in ruins lie.Yet over us, as over these,A teacher watches, true and kind,Striving to guide our fantasies,And patient with the groping mind.From flower of wisdom unto flowerHe leads us, as these babes are led,Till chimes, at last, the closing hour,The prizes won, the lessons said.And happy he who in this schoolOf life, that fits the soul for death,Has learned to serve as well as rule,And speak for truth with every breath.
O blossoming lives that to the fruitsNow ripened for the gathering in,Speak of old days, ere life’s pursuitsTouched the new soul with taint of sin,
We who now watch you at your game,We, weary of the toil and strife,Must envy you your scorn of fame,Your eager, loving trust in life.
Perchance, the babe that, thoughtless, pilesHis blocks unsteadily in air,May yet a minster build, whose aislesShall echo to a nation’s prayer.
Perchance, the child that scarce can tellThe letters on his cubes of wood,May yet with a poetic spellCharm and uplift the multitude.
They question not, they only liveTo pluck the blossoms of each hour.Ambition frets them not, they giveNo thought to pomp or place or power.
We too have toys, and we pursueOur trivial aims; we rage and sighBecause our blocks are built askew,And our best hopes in ruins lie.
Yet over us, as over these,A teacher watches, true and kind,Striving to guide our fantasies,And patient with the groping mind.
From flower of wisdom unto flowerHe leads us, as these babes are led,Till chimes, at last, the closing hour,The prizes won, the lessons said.
And happy he who in this schoolOf life, that fits the soul for death,Has learned to serve as well as rule,And speak for truth with every breath.
The budding flower that wakes at dewy mornAttains perfection through the sun-swept day,And poets, to life’s highest mission born,By slow unfolding reach the perfect lay.And like the harp, attuned to every breeze,That in the open casement sighs or sings,The poet soul is void of melodiesTill unseen spirit fingers sweep the strings.Life, the magician, with his subtle powers,Death, the dark helmsman over seas unknown,Nature, all-mother, and the teaching hoursThrough him their grand, mysterious chants intone.And oft his numbers falter, and his songIn discord breaks, ere he can hymn againThe anthems of the wondrous spirit throng,And voice strange thoughts beyond our mortal ken.And oft the world and the world’s sins immeshHis soul, which still the pitying spirits calm;And in the warfare between soul and fleshHis heart oft rises to the noblest psalm.But should he cease to wage the upward strife,Or thrall himself a slave to evil’s power,Too proud the Muse to bless a craven life,Too pure, a sinful heart with song to dower.For the true poet, throwing down his gageTo fate, fights upwards far beyond life’s mist,And with the broadened vision of the sageBeholds all earth by hope’s warm sungleams kissed.He learns that all who would be truly greatMix with the battling world, nor shirk their part,But take such trials as are given by FateAnd set them to sweet music by their art.He only is a poet who can findIn sorrow, happiness, in darkness, light,Love everywhere, and lead his fellow kindBy flowery paths towards life’s sunny height.
The budding flower that wakes at dewy mornAttains perfection through the sun-swept day,And poets, to life’s highest mission born,By slow unfolding reach the perfect lay.And like the harp, attuned to every breeze,That in the open casement sighs or sings,The poet soul is void of melodiesTill unseen spirit fingers sweep the strings.Life, the magician, with his subtle powers,Death, the dark helmsman over seas unknown,Nature, all-mother, and the teaching hoursThrough him their grand, mysterious chants intone.And oft his numbers falter, and his songIn discord breaks, ere he can hymn againThe anthems of the wondrous spirit throng,And voice strange thoughts beyond our mortal ken.And oft the world and the world’s sins immeshHis soul, which still the pitying spirits calm;And in the warfare between soul and fleshHis heart oft rises to the noblest psalm.But should he cease to wage the upward strife,Or thrall himself a slave to evil’s power,Too proud the Muse to bless a craven life,Too pure, a sinful heart with song to dower.For the true poet, throwing down his gageTo fate, fights upwards far beyond life’s mist,And with the broadened vision of the sageBeholds all earth by hope’s warm sungleams kissed.He learns that all who would be truly greatMix with the battling world, nor shirk their part,But take such trials as are given by FateAnd set them to sweet music by their art.He only is a poet who can findIn sorrow, happiness, in darkness, light,Love everywhere, and lead his fellow kindBy flowery paths towards life’s sunny height.
The budding flower that wakes at dewy mornAttains perfection through the sun-swept day,And poets, to life’s highest mission born,By slow unfolding reach the perfect lay.
And like the harp, attuned to every breeze,That in the open casement sighs or sings,The poet soul is void of melodiesTill unseen spirit fingers sweep the strings.
Life, the magician, with his subtle powers,Death, the dark helmsman over seas unknown,Nature, all-mother, and the teaching hoursThrough him their grand, mysterious chants intone.
And oft his numbers falter, and his songIn discord breaks, ere he can hymn againThe anthems of the wondrous spirit throng,And voice strange thoughts beyond our mortal ken.
And oft the world and the world’s sins immeshHis soul, which still the pitying spirits calm;And in the warfare between soul and fleshHis heart oft rises to the noblest psalm.
But should he cease to wage the upward strife,Or thrall himself a slave to evil’s power,Too proud the Muse to bless a craven life,Too pure, a sinful heart with song to dower.
For the true poet, throwing down his gageTo fate, fights upwards far beyond life’s mist,And with the broadened vision of the sageBeholds all earth by hope’s warm sungleams kissed.
He learns that all who would be truly greatMix with the battling world, nor shirk their part,But take such trials as are given by FateAnd set them to sweet music by their art.
He only is a poet who can findIn sorrow, happiness, in darkness, light,Love everywhere, and lead his fellow kindBy flowery paths towards life’s sunny height.
My love is now a woman grown.About her shoulders fall no moreHer locks, in beauty all their own.Their days of liberty are o’er.No longer may, with soft caress,The zephyr’s unseen hand upliftEach net-like, golden-threaded tressTo catch the sunlight’s moted drift.I know each tress, and have a nameWhereby my memory holds it dear,From that which is her forehead’s frameTo that which hides her shelly ear.And one there is I loved to touch,On which my heart first suffered wreck,That sometimes fell aside too muchAnd showed the ivory of her neck.And though ’tis bound upon her headAnd all its beauty hid from me,Still other charms I see instead,And still am in captivity.I see the grace of neck and earUnveiled, that erst beneath the tressBut peeped, as pearly sea shells peerThrough ocean’s weedy wilderness.Ye captive tresses that disdainedMy love, and wantoned in the wind,I know your grief, for I was chainedHer slave ere ye were thus confined.She hath but gloried in our love,And laughs to find us strain our gyves.Come, let us slaves unite and proveThat power to break her bond survives.Aid me with love her heart to chain,And soon, when she and I are wed,My hands shall set ye free againTo wanton sweetly round her head.
My love is now a woman grown.About her shoulders fall no moreHer locks, in beauty all their own.Their days of liberty are o’er.No longer may, with soft caress,The zephyr’s unseen hand upliftEach net-like, golden-threaded tressTo catch the sunlight’s moted drift.I know each tress, and have a nameWhereby my memory holds it dear,From that which is her forehead’s frameTo that which hides her shelly ear.And one there is I loved to touch,On which my heart first suffered wreck,That sometimes fell aside too muchAnd showed the ivory of her neck.And though ’tis bound upon her headAnd all its beauty hid from me,Still other charms I see instead,And still am in captivity.I see the grace of neck and earUnveiled, that erst beneath the tressBut peeped, as pearly sea shells peerThrough ocean’s weedy wilderness.Ye captive tresses that disdainedMy love, and wantoned in the wind,I know your grief, for I was chainedHer slave ere ye were thus confined.She hath but gloried in our love,And laughs to find us strain our gyves.Come, let us slaves unite and proveThat power to break her bond survives.Aid me with love her heart to chain,And soon, when she and I are wed,My hands shall set ye free againTo wanton sweetly round her head.
My love is now a woman grown.About her shoulders fall no moreHer locks, in beauty all their own.Their days of liberty are o’er.
No longer may, with soft caress,The zephyr’s unseen hand upliftEach net-like, golden-threaded tressTo catch the sunlight’s moted drift.
I know each tress, and have a nameWhereby my memory holds it dear,From that which is her forehead’s frameTo that which hides her shelly ear.
And one there is I loved to touch,On which my heart first suffered wreck,That sometimes fell aside too muchAnd showed the ivory of her neck.
And though ’tis bound upon her headAnd all its beauty hid from me,Still other charms I see instead,And still am in captivity.
I see the grace of neck and earUnveiled, that erst beneath the tressBut peeped, as pearly sea shells peerThrough ocean’s weedy wilderness.
Ye captive tresses that disdainedMy love, and wantoned in the wind,I know your grief, for I was chainedHer slave ere ye were thus confined.
She hath but gloried in our love,And laughs to find us strain our gyves.Come, let us slaves unite and proveThat power to break her bond survives.
Aid me with love her heart to chain,And soon, when she and I are wed,My hands shall set ye free againTo wanton sweetly round her head.
By town and hamlet, field and wood,Past glimpses of empurpled hills,O’er many a broad, sun-smitten floodAnd many a myriad tinkling rills,The train swings on and brings us twainEach minute nearer by a mile,While I to chafe at time am fain,Which holds me sundered from thy smile.I see among the emerald treesEmbowered, the village church spires gleam;I see white homestead front the breeze,And of our own sweet home I dream;While still the fleet train brings us twainEach minute nearer by a mile,And fewer moments yet remainTo hold me sundered from thy smile.The wheat fields shimmer in the sun,Sleek cattle in the meadows browse,Nor lift their heads, as past we run,The lithe-limbed steeds and patient cows.And still the fleet train brings us twainEach minute nearer by a mile,Till scarce a moment doth remainTo hold me sundered from thy smile.Onward we sweep, yet all our speedLeaves not pursuing night behind;Stars sparkle in the sky’s broad mead,And homeward plods the weary hind;And still the fleet train brings us twainEach minute nearer by a mile,Until my heart is home againAnd I am basking in thy smile.
By town and hamlet, field and wood,Past glimpses of empurpled hills,O’er many a broad, sun-smitten floodAnd many a myriad tinkling rills,The train swings on and brings us twainEach minute nearer by a mile,While I to chafe at time am fain,Which holds me sundered from thy smile.I see among the emerald treesEmbowered, the village church spires gleam;I see white homestead front the breeze,And of our own sweet home I dream;While still the fleet train brings us twainEach minute nearer by a mile,And fewer moments yet remainTo hold me sundered from thy smile.The wheat fields shimmer in the sun,Sleek cattle in the meadows browse,Nor lift their heads, as past we run,The lithe-limbed steeds and patient cows.And still the fleet train brings us twainEach minute nearer by a mile,Till scarce a moment doth remainTo hold me sundered from thy smile.Onward we sweep, yet all our speedLeaves not pursuing night behind;Stars sparkle in the sky’s broad mead,And homeward plods the weary hind;And still the fleet train brings us twainEach minute nearer by a mile,Until my heart is home againAnd I am basking in thy smile.
By town and hamlet, field and wood,Past glimpses of empurpled hills,O’er many a broad, sun-smitten floodAnd many a myriad tinkling rills,The train swings on and brings us twainEach minute nearer by a mile,While I to chafe at time am fain,Which holds me sundered from thy smile.
I see among the emerald treesEmbowered, the village church spires gleam;I see white homestead front the breeze,And of our own sweet home I dream;While still the fleet train brings us twainEach minute nearer by a mile,And fewer moments yet remainTo hold me sundered from thy smile.
The wheat fields shimmer in the sun,Sleek cattle in the meadows browse,Nor lift their heads, as past we run,The lithe-limbed steeds and patient cows.And still the fleet train brings us twainEach minute nearer by a mile,Till scarce a moment doth remainTo hold me sundered from thy smile.
Onward we sweep, yet all our speedLeaves not pursuing night behind;Stars sparkle in the sky’s broad mead,And homeward plods the weary hind;And still the fleet train brings us twainEach minute nearer by a mile,Until my heart is home againAnd I am basking in thy smile.
At dawn of day a shaft of lightPierces the sable breast of night,Which, dropping many a sable plume,Flits far into the nether gloom,All silently.At dawn of day the sun’s first beamDispels the mist that hides the stream,And scatters from the hill and woodThe clouds that there did sit and brood,Formless and grey.And when the night from earth is driven,And clouds and mist have fled from heaven,The waking birds take eager flightUp through the golden rain of light,With happy song.Into my life, that knew no day,A maiden winged a kindly ray,And, flying wearily and slow,Far fled the sombre bird of woeI harbored long.My heart no longer pined in night,The mists that hid hope’s stream took flight,Life’s hills a sunnier aspect took,And I found many a pleasant nookWithin life’s grove.And now my thoughts, like birds, arise,Singing, towards the golden skies,Afar from earthly doubt and strife,Through the pure radiance of her life,On wings of love.
At dawn of day a shaft of lightPierces the sable breast of night,Which, dropping many a sable plume,Flits far into the nether gloom,All silently.At dawn of day the sun’s first beamDispels the mist that hides the stream,And scatters from the hill and woodThe clouds that there did sit and brood,Formless and grey.And when the night from earth is driven,And clouds and mist have fled from heaven,The waking birds take eager flightUp through the golden rain of light,With happy song.Into my life, that knew no day,A maiden winged a kindly ray,And, flying wearily and slow,Far fled the sombre bird of woeI harbored long.My heart no longer pined in night,The mists that hid hope’s stream took flight,Life’s hills a sunnier aspect took,And I found many a pleasant nookWithin life’s grove.And now my thoughts, like birds, arise,Singing, towards the golden skies,Afar from earthly doubt and strife,Through the pure radiance of her life,On wings of love.
At dawn of day a shaft of lightPierces the sable breast of night,Which, dropping many a sable plume,Flits far into the nether gloom,All silently.
At dawn of day the sun’s first beamDispels the mist that hides the stream,And scatters from the hill and woodThe clouds that there did sit and brood,Formless and grey.
And when the night from earth is driven,And clouds and mist have fled from heaven,The waking birds take eager flightUp through the golden rain of light,With happy song.
Into my life, that knew no day,A maiden winged a kindly ray,And, flying wearily and slow,Far fled the sombre bird of woeI harbored long.
My heart no longer pined in night,The mists that hid hope’s stream took flight,Life’s hills a sunnier aspect took,And I found many a pleasant nookWithin life’s grove.
And now my thoughts, like birds, arise,Singing, towards the golden skies,Afar from earthly doubt and strife,Through the pure radiance of her life,On wings of love.
There is a star in the pure ether high,My other home it is,Whereto, when sorrow threatens me, I fly,And in my flight towards the vaulted skyThe hated sorrows rollDown from my fleet-winged soul,As from the sea gull’s circling form the sprayDrops to the storm-vext bayIts pinions erst did kiss.Well said the Seer, that overstudy broughtA weariness of the flesh;And oft my brain, worn with its overthought,Watches the night steal past, while sleep comes not.Then doth my star ariseSlowly before my eyes,Steady, serene and cold, yet heavenly bright,And, while my grief takes flight,Binds all my thoughts in leash.No longer fear and discontent combineTo make my future drear,For I arise and from that star of mineLook down and see our small earth dimly shine;And all life’s joy and painTheir proper worth obtain,And I to smile at all past fears begin,For earth’s discordant dinIs stilled, and God I hear.
There is a star in the pure ether high,My other home it is,Whereto, when sorrow threatens me, I fly,And in my flight towards the vaulted skyThe hated sorrows rollDown from my fleet-winged soul,As from the sea gull’s circling form the sprayDrops to the storm-vext bayIts pinions erst did kiss.Well said the Seer, that overstudy broughtA weariness of the flesh;And oft my brain, worn with its overthought,Watches the night steal past, while sleep comes not.Then doth my star ariseSlowly before my eyes,Steady, serene and cold, yet heavenly bright,And, while my grief takes flight,Binds all my thoughts in leash.No longer fear and discontent combineTo make my future drear,For I arise and from that star of mineLook down and see our small earth dimly shine;And all life’s joy and painTheir proper worth obtain,And I to smile at all past fears begin,For earth’s discordant dinIs stilled, and God I hear.
There is a star in the pure ether high,My other home it is,Whereto, when sorrow threatens me, I fly,And in my flight towards the vaulted skyThe hated sorrows rollDown from my fleet-winged soul,As from the sea gull’s circling form the sprayDrops to the storm-vext bayIts pinions erst did kiss.
Well said the Seer, that overstudy broughtA weariness of the flesh;And oft my brain, worn with its overthought,Watches the night steal past, while sleep comes not.Then doth my star ariseSlowly before my eyes,Steady, serene and cold, yet heavenly bright,And, while my grief takes flight,Binds all my thoughts in leash.
No longer fear and discontent combineTo make my future drear,For I arise and from that star of mineLook down and see our small earth dimly shine;And all life’s joy and painTheir proper worth obtain,And I to smile at all past fears begin,For earth’s discordant dinIs stilled, and God I hear.
O stately head, O rippling graceOf tresses flowing free,O dark-eyed, queenly, thoughtful face,Awake and comfort me.Since love can thrill with noble zealThe meanest of us all,It may thy glorious form reveal,Thy tender soul recall.Then come thou from thy gilded cageAnd nestle by my side,And I will be thy faithful page,If thou wilt be my bride.Come, trustful eyes, and trust in me,O sweet one, heed my cry;Speak sad, sweet mouth, I wait for theeTo bid me live or die.Tell me no artist’s god-like mindTo thy fair face gave birth,But that his vision I may findAlive upon this earth.And I will seek her far and wide,In palace and in cot,And love shall once more conquer pride,And she shall share my lot.
O stately head, O rippling graceOf tresses flowing free,O dark-eyed, queenly, thoughtful face,Awake and comfort me.Since love can thrill with noble zealThe meanest of us all,It may thy glorious form reveal,Thy tender soul recall.Then come thou from thy gilded cageAnd nestle by my side,And I will be thy faithful page,If thou wilt be my bride.Come, trustful eyes, and trust in me,O sweet one, heed my cry;Speak sad, sweet mouth, I wait for theeTo bid me live or die.Tell me no artist’s god-like mindTo thy fair face gave birth,But that his vision I may findAlive upon this earth.And I will seek her far and wide,In palace and in cot,And love shall once more conquer pride,And she shall share my lot.
O stately head, O rippling graceOf tresses flowing free,O dark-eyed, queenly, thoughtful face,Awake and comfort me.
Since love can thrill with noble zealThe meanest of us all,It may thy glorious form reveal,Thy tender soul recall.
Then come thou from thy gilded cageAnd nestle by my side,And I will be thy faithful page,If thou wilt be my bride.
Come, trustful eyes, and trust in me,O sweet one, heed my cry;Speak sad, sweet mouth, I wait for theeTo bid me live or die.
Tell me no artist’s god-like mindTo thy fair face gave birth,But that his vision I may findAlive upon this earth.
And I will seek her far and wide,In palace and in cot,And love shall once more conquer pride,And she shall share my lot.
Whoever reads a poet’s rhymeTo find the poet there,Might equally essay to climbTo castles in the air.He lives not in reality,Or rather, lives too much.He makes a forest of a tree,A palace of a hutch.To-day a transient pang appearsHis life’s eternal sorrow,But he is laughing through his tearsAnd full of joy to-morrow.For if there’s oft a germ of truth,The flower is fancy’s own.’Tis the world’s heart he shows, in sooth,And his is still unknown.And sometimes in his happiest days,Without excuse or cause,He pens the mournfullest of lays,To win the world’s applause.And from the saddest heart, at times,The merriest stanzas flow.Friend, think not by the poet’s rhymesThe poet’s heart to know.
Whoever reads a poet’s rhymeTo find the poet there,Might equally essay to climbTo castles in the air.He lives not in reality,Or rather, lives too much.He makes a forest of a tree,A palace of a hutch.To-day a transient pang appearsHis life’s eternal sorrow,But he is laughing through his tearsAnd full of joy to-morrow.For if there’s oft a germ of truth,The flower is fancy’s own.’Tis the world’s heart he shows, in sooth,And his is still unknown.And sometimes in his happiest days,Without excuse or cause,He pens the mournfullest of lays,To win the world’s applause.And from the saddest heart, at times,The merriest stanzas flow.Friend, think not by the poet’s rhymesThe poet’s heart to know.
Whoever reads a poet’s rhymeTo find the poet there,Might equally essay to climbTo castles in the air.
He lives not in reality,Or rather, lives too much.He makes a forest of a tree,A palace of a hutch.
To-day a transient pang appearsHis life’s eternal sorrow,But he is laughing through his tearsAnd full of joy to-morrow.
For if there’s oft a germ of truth,The flower is fancy’s own.’Tis the world’s heart he shows, in sooth,And his is still unknown.
And sometimes in his happiest days,Without excuse or cause,He pens the mournfullest of lays,To win the world’s applause.
And from the saddest heart, at times,The merriest stanzas flow.Friend, think not by the poet’s rhymesThe poet’s heart to know.
O little one, new born,I would I were like thee;Then were this whole world’s scornAnd praise alike to me.Then would I look on lifeAs do thine azure eyes,And know how vain its strife,How paltry what we prize.Tradition cannot claimDominion over thee,Nor fear the pinions maimOf thy young soul and free.All things to thee are new.Thy mind runs in no groove.Thou dost both false and trueQuestion alike, and prove.Thou art no shadowy soul,But the incarnate “I”,And thou wilt reach thy goal,Or failing, thou wouldst die.Indomitable willThat makes us all obey,—If I were childlike still,I were more man to-day.
O little one, new born,I would I were like thee;Then were this whole world’s scornAnd praise alike to me.Then would I look on lifeAs do thine azure eyes,And know how vain its strife,How paltry what we prize.Tradition cannot claimDominion over thee,Nor fear the pinions maimOf thy young soul and free.All things to thee are new.Thy mind runs in no groove.Thou dost both false and trueQuestion alike, and prove.Thou art no shadowy soul,But the incarnate “I”,And thou wilt reach thy goal,Or failing, thou wouldst die.Indomitable willThat makes us all obey,—If I were childlike still,I were more man to-day.
O little one, new born,I would I were like thee;Then were this whole world’s scornAnd praise alike to me.
Then would I look on lifeAs do thine azure eyes,And know how vain its strife,How paltry what we prize.
Tradition cannot claimDominion over thee,Nor fear the pinions maimOf thy young soul and free.
All things to thee are new.Thy mind runs in no groove.Thou dost both false and trueQuestion alike, and prove.
Thou art no shadowy soul,But the incarnate “I”,And thou wilt reach thy goal,Or failing, thou wouldst die.
Indomitable willThat makes us all obey,—If I were childlike still,I were more man to-day.
Miles upon miles of ocean’Twixt Scotland roll and me.Its hills and dales I have not seen,And scarce expect to see.The homestead of my fathersThe keen ploughshare has torn,And where the hearth once welcomed allWaves now the golden corn.Oh, Canada, my country,My love for thee is deep,Yet I fain would see the old church-yardWhere my forefathers sleep.And fondly, ever fondly,My heart in secret yearns,That its songs may find a welcomeIn the bonnie land of Burns.Upon the Scottish heatherI opened not my eyes,I cannot speak the sweet Scotch tongue,Remote my pathway lies;Yet Scotland, mother Scotland,Though fate us twain may part,I claim my heritage of thee,For I have the Scottish heart.
Miles upon miles of ocean’Twixt Scotland roll and me.Its hills and dales I have not seen,And scarce expect to see.The homestead of my fathersThe keen ploughshare has torn,And where the hearth once welcomed allWaves now the golden corn.Oh, Canada, my country,My love for thee is deep,Yet I fain would see the old church-yardWhere my forefathers sleep.And fondly, ever fondly,My heart in secret yearns,That its songs may find a welcomeIn the bonnie land of Burns.Upon the Scottish heatherI opened not my eyes,I cannot speak the sweet Scotch tongue,Remote my pathway lies;Yet Scotland, mother Scotland,Though fate us twain may part,I claim my heritage of thee,For I have the Scottish heart.
Miles upon miles of ocean’Twixt Scotland roll and me.Its hills and dales I have not seen,And scarce expect to see.The homestead of my fathersThe keen ploughshare has torn,And where the hearth once welcomed allWaves now the golden corn.
Oh, Canada, my country,My love for thee is deep,Yet I fain would see the old church-yardWhere my forefathers sleep.And fondly, ever fondly,My heart in secret yearns,That its songs may find a welcomeIn the bonnie land of Burns.
Upon the Scottish heatherI opened not my eyes,I cannot speak the sweet Scotch tongue,Remote my pathway lies;Yet Scotland, mother Scotland,Though fate us twain may part,I claim my heritage of thee,For I have the Scottish heart.
The years may come, the years may go,And many a song be sungAcross the footlight’s golden glowBy many a silvery tongue,But though new divas charm the ear,Still memory shall recallOne song we nevermore shall hear:“His ’art was true to Poll.”For who that hath the singer’s heartWill care to sing that songTo those whom She, with witching art,Had held in thrall so long?Let other songs our pulses stir,Delight us with them all,But leave unsung for sake of her“His ’art was true to Poll.”Time was when every heart beat high,Each lip was wreathed in smilesTo hear her sing that melodyWith all her witching wiles;But now, ’twould be no song of mirth,’Twould bid the sad tears fall,For though She dwells no more on earth,Our ’arts are true to Poll.
The years may come, the years may go,And many a song be sungAcross the footlight’s golden glowBy many a silvery tongue,But though new divas charm the ear,Still memory shall recallOne song we nevermore shall hear:“His ’art was true to Poll.”For who that hath the singer’s heartWill care to sing that songTo those whom She, with witching art,Had held in thrall so long?Let other songs our pulses stir,Delight us with them all,But leave unsung for sake of her“His ’art was true to Poll.”Time was when every heart beat high,Each lip was wreathed in smilesTo hear her sing that melodyWith all her witching wiles;But now, ’twould be no song of mirth,’Twould bid the sad tears fall,For though She dwells no more on earth,Our ’arts are true to Poll.
The years may come, the years may go,And many a song be sungAcross the footlight’s golden glowBy many a silvery tongue,But though new divas charm the ear,Still memory shall recallOne song we nevermore shall hear:“His ’art was true to Poll.”
For who that hath the singer’s heartWill care to sing that songTo those whom She, with witching art,Had held in thrall so long?Let other songs our pulses stir,Delight us with them all,But leave unsung for sake of her“His ’art was true to Poll.”
Time was when every heart beat high,Each lip was wreathed in smilesTo hear her sing that melodyWith all her witching wiles;But now, ’twould be no song of mirth,’Twould bid the sad tears fall,For though She dwells no more on earth,Our ’arts are true to Poll.
I know a maid beyond compareFor virtue sweet and beauty rare.Her eyes are turquoise and her hairIs sunlight netted.She has her lovers, great and small,The quiet student, wise and tall,The child that hugs its battered doll,—By them she’s petted.Her heart seems ever warm and gay,In smiles and kindly words, each day,She scatters round her on life’s wayLove beyond measure.The wild flowers, as she passes by,Bloom sweeter for her being nigh;The bird that mounts into the skySings for her pleasure.Her sorrows she is wont to hide,Her joys she shares on every side;She is her doting mother’s pride,Her father’s jewel.If we, who style this world so bad,But strove, like her, to make it glad,Life then would seem by far less sad,Nor half so cruel.
I know a maid beyond compareFor virtue sweet and beauty rare.Her eyes are turquoise and her hairIs sunlight netted.She has her lovers, great and small,The quiet student, wise and tall,The child that hugs its battered doll,—By them she’s petted.Her heart seems ever warm and gay,In smiles and kindly words, each day,She scatters round her on life’s wayLove beyond measure.The wild flowers, as she passes by,Bloom sweeter for her being nigh;The bird that mounts into the skySings for her pleasure.Her sorrows she is wont to hide,Her joys she shares on every side;She is her doting mother’s pride,Her father’s jewel.If we, who style this world so bad,But strove, like her, to make it glad,Life then would seem by far less sad,Nor half so cruel.
I know a maid beyond compareFor virtue sweet and beauty rare.Her eyes are turquoise and her hairIs sunlight netted.
She has her lovers, great and small,The quiet student, wise and tall,The child that hugs its battered doll,—By them she’s petted.
Her heart seems ever warm and gay,In smiles and kindly words, each day,She scatters round her on life’s wayLove beyond measure.
The wild flowers, as she passes by,Bloom sweeter for her being nigh;The bird that mounts into the skySings for her pleasure.
Her sorrows she is wont to hide,Her joys she shares on every side;She is her doting mother’s pride,Her father’s jewel.
If we, who style this world so bad,But strove, like her, to make it glad,Life then would seem by far less sad,Nor half so cruel.
Thou art o’erbold, Delilah, thus to tryThy traitorous arts upon a soul like mine,And lure me to eternal slaveryWith glances warm like wine.One clasp of my strong hands at will could breakThy tender body, like a fragile flower.How darest thou prey of my heart to make,And plot against my power?Hast thou no fear the brute in me will rise,Wrathful, and tear thy shapely limbs apart,And dull the jewelled lustre of thine eyes,And still thy faithless heart?Why dost thou let me look upon thy face,And see myself embowered in thine eyes,And every curve of thy lithe figure traceBeneath thy robe’s disguise.What harm have I wrought thee that thou shouldst standAnd menace all my life with one great woe?Thou hast me in the hollow of thy hand—Take me or let me go!
Thou art o’erbold, Delilah, thus to tryThy traitorous arts upon a soul like mine,And lure me to eternal slaveryWith glances warm like wine.One clasp of my strong hands at will could breakThy tender body, like a fragile flower.How darest thou prey of my heart to make,And plot against my power?Hast thou no fear the brute in me will rise,Wrathful, and tear thy shapely limbs apart,And dull the jewelled lustre of thine eyes,And still thy faithless heart?Why dost thou let me look upon thy face,And see myself embowered in thine eyes,And every curve of thy lithe figure traceBeneath thy robe’s disguise.What harm have I wrought thee that thou shouldst standAnd menace all my life with one great woe?Thou hast me in the hollow of thy hand—Take me or let me go!
Thou art o’erbold, Delilah, thus to tryThy traitorous arts upon a soul like mine,And lure me to eternal slaveryWith glances warm like wine.
One clasp of my strong hands at will could breakThy tender body, like a fragile flower.How darest thou prey of my heart to make,And plot against my power?
Hast thou no fear the brute in me will rise,Wrathful, and tear thy shapely limbs apart,And dull the jewelled lustre of thine eyes,And still thy faithless heart?
Why dost thou let me look upon thy face,And see myself embowered in thine eyes,And every curve of thy lithe figure traceBeneath thy robe’s disguise.
What harm have I wrought thee that thou shouldst standAnd menace all my life with one great woe?Thou hast me in the hollow of thy hand—Take me or let me go!
My lady has a stylish bonnet,Bedecked with ribands, gay and bright,And with a song bird perched upon it,With tiny wings outspread for flight.Its little beak is opened wide,As though in its most joyous trillThe harmless thing had suddenly died.One waits to hear it carol still.My lady has a tender heart,She feeds the poor, instructs the young,At tale of woe her tears will start,And words of kindness throng her tongue.My lady’s eyes are full of glee,But cloud and with just anger flashIf in her walk she chance to seeSome poor beast cringe beneath the lash.My lady has a stylish bonnet,Bedecked with ribands gay and bright,But with a slaughtered bird upon it.—My gentle lady, is this right?
My lady has a stylish bonnet,Bedecked with ribands, gay and bright,And with a song bird perched upon it,With tiny wings outspread for flight.Its little beak is opened wide,As though in its most joyous trillThe harmless thing had suddenly died.One waits to hear it carol still.My lady has a tender heart,She feeds the poor, instructs the young,At tale of woe her tears will start,And words of kindness throng her tongue.My lady’s eyes are full of glee,But cloud and with just anger flashIf in her walk she chance to seeSome poor beast cringe beneath the lash.My lady has a stylish bonnet,Bedecked with ribands gay and bright,But with a slaughtered bird upon it.—My gentle lady, is this right?
My lady has a stylish bonnet,Bedecked with ribands, gay and bright,And with a song bird perched upon it,With tiny wings outspread for flight.
Its little beak is opened wide,As though in its most joyous trillThe harmless thing had suddenly died.One waits to hear it carol still.
My lady has a tender heart,She feeds the poor, instructs the young,At tale of woe her tears will start,And words of kindness throng her tongue.
My lady’s eyes are full of glee,But cloud and with just anger flashIf in her walk she chance to seeSome poor beast cringe beneath the lash.
My lady has a stylish bonnet,Bedecked with ribands gay and bright,But with a slaughtered bird upon it.—My gentle lady, is this right?
She had been in the fields at playThrough golden summer hours,And brought with her, at close of day,A cluster of wild flowers.And when she slept, we went to seeThe little one at rest,Our own sweet flower, and there, ah, me!The flowers lay on her breast.Her little brow was smooth and white,Her merry eyes were closed,She smiled, as though some heavenly spriteWhispered as she reposed.She looked so pure, so white, so fairBelow the ominous flowers,She seemed a blossom plucked from careTo bloom in heavenly bowers.And oh, the whelming flood of pain,The sudden sense of dearth!We kissed her o’er and o’er again,And brought her back to earth.
She had been in the fields at playThrough golden summer hours,And brought with her, at close of day,A cluster of wild flowers.And when she slept, we went to seeThe little one at rest,Our own sweet flower, and there, ah, me!The flowers lay on her breast.Her little brow was smooth and white,Her merry eyes were closed,She smiled, as though some heavenly spriteWhispered as she reposed.She looked so pure, so white, so fairBelow the ominous flowers,She seemed a blossom plucked from careTo bloom in heavenly bowers.And oh, the whelming flood of pain,The sudden sense of dearth!We kissed her o’er and o’er again,And brought her back to earth.
She had been in the fields at playThrough golden summer hours,And brought with her, at close of day,A cluster of wild flowers.
And when she slept, we went to seeThe little one at rest,Our own sweet flower, and there, ah, me!The flowers lay on her breast.
Her little brow was smooth and white,Her merry eyes were closed,She smiled, as though some heavenly spriteWhispered as she reposed.
She looked so pure, so white, so fairBelow the ominous flowers,She seemed a blossom plucked from careTo bloom in heavenly bowers.
And oh, the whelming flood of pain,The sudden sense of dearth!We kissed her o’er and o’er again,And brought her back to earth.
In my garden a rosebud is growing, is growing,So fast, ’twill be blossoming soon.Around it the zephyrs are balmily blowing,The sweet scented zephyrs of June,Of June,The odorous zephyrs of June.My love shall watch o’er, and protect, and protect it,While shyly its petals unfold.The bees shall not rob nor the canker affect it,Nor night make it tremble with cold,With cold,Nor night make it shudder with cold.And when it is blown, I’ll bear it, I’ll bear itTo her whom I worship alone.On her beauteous bosom she’ll lay it and wear itAnd rival its charms by her own,Her own,And shame all its grace by her own.
In my garden a rosebud is growing, is growing,So fast, ’twill be blossoming soon.Around it the zephyrs are balmily blowing,The sweet scented zephyrs of June,Of June,The odorous zephyrs of June.My love shall watch o’er, and protect, and protect it,While shyly its petals unfold.The bees shall not rob nor the canker affect it,Nor night make it tremble with cold,With cold,Nor night make it shudder with cold.And when it is blown, I’ll bear it, I’ll bear itTo her whom I worship alone.On her beauteous bosom she’ll lay it and wear itAnd rival its charms by her own,Her own,And shame all its grace by her own.
In my garden a rosebud is growing, is growing,So fast, ’twill be blossoming soon.Around it the zephyrs are balmily blowing,The sweet scented zephyrs of June,Of June,The odorous zephyrs of June.
My love shall watch o’er, and protect, and protect it,While shyly its petals unfold.The bees shall not rob nor the canker affect it,Nor night make it tremble with cold,With cold,Nor night make it shudder with cold.
And when it is blown, I’ll bear it, I’ll bear itTo her whom I worship alone.On her beauteous bosom she’ll lay it and wear itAnd rival its charms by her own,Her own,And shame all its grace by her own.
Life with life is woven in.Neither sorrow nor delight,Neither nobleness nor sin,Known to oneBut falls uponAll men with its grace or blight.He who sinks into despair,He who from his task recoils,Makes his fellow-laborers bearOn life’s roadA heavier load.Some one for each sluggard toils.What though failure crown our task!’Tis the portal to success.Often Fortune wears a mask.Face the strifeAnd live your life;Be no coward in distress!
Life with life is woven in.Neither sorrow nor delight,Neither nobleness nor sin,Known to oneBut falls uponAll men with its grace or blight.He who sinks into despair,He who from his task recoils,Makes his fellow-laborers bearOn life’s roadA heavier load.Some one for each sluggard toils.What though failure crown our task!’Tis the portal to success.Often Fortune wears a mask.Face the strifeAnd live your life;Be no coward in distress!
Life with life is woven in.Neither sorrow nor delight,Neither nobleness nor sin,Known to oneBut falls uponAll men with its grace or blight.
He who sinks into despair,He who from his task recoils,Makes his fellow-laborers bearOn life’s roadA heavier load.Some one for each sluggard toils.
What though failure crown our task!’Tis the portal to success.Often Fortune wears a mask.Face the strifeAnd live your life;Be no coward in distress!