GERTRUDE.
BY MISS A. D. WOODBRIDGE,STOCKBRIDGE, MASS.
BY MISS A. D. WOODBRIDGE,STOCKBRIDGE, MASS.
BY MISS A. D. WOODBRIDGE,
STOCKBRIDGE, MASS.
List to the passers by!They’re hastening on, the young, the beautiful,To scenes of pleasure. To the throngedsoirée,The brilliant party, or the festive dance,The crowded theatre, or op’ra sweet.In each will wand’ring glances oft be turnedIn search of her, the gifted, lovely, young,And far-famed Gertrude.—She’s at home to-night.Look! who’d not be “a glove upon that hand,”[7]On which her brow reposes? Th’ other restsUpon the page she’s reading. Ah! that sheetWas filled, no doubt, by one she fondly loves;For, see! it meets her lip.—She rises now!Grace! thou’rt a name for her! She moves not likeA being of the earth. We almost feel’Tis sacrilege to gaze upon that faceWhere thought, emotion, beauty, love, all striveFor the expression.Hark! she touches nowThe strings of her guitar, and wakes that voice,Whose tones thrill o’er the spirit:—“He’s away! he’s away! he’s away!Yet I know he is constant and true,Still my path is illumed by love’s ray,Which though absent, brings him to my view.Yet ’tis darkness, compared with the beamWhich his presence flings over me still;When with Ernest, why should I not deemThat the world contains nothing of ill?“He’s away! he’s away! he’s away!Yet his voice will soon fall on mine ear.Its tones will tempt bliss here to stay,And e’en happiness linger to hear.When with Ernest, why should I not loseAll thoughts of the world and its hum?And his smile above fame ever choose?He will come! he will come! he will come!”Her song is done!Footsteps approach.—She starts! the door is oped.It must be—’tis her lover!—But enough.
List to the passers by!They’re hastening on, the young, the beautiful,To scenes of pleasure. To the throngedsoirée,The brilliant party, or the festive dance,The crowded theatre, or op’ra sweet.In each will wand’ring glances oft be turnedIn search of her, the gifted, lovely, young,And far-famed Gertrude.—She’s at home to-night.Look! who’d not be “a glove upon that hand,”[7]On which her brow reposes? Th’ other restsUpon the page she’s reading. Ah! that sheetWas filled, no doubt, by one she fondly loves;For, see! it meets her lip.—She rises now!Grace! thou’rt a name for her! She moves not likeA being of the earth. We almost feel’Tis sacrilege to gaze upon that faceWhere thought, emotion, beauty, love, all striveFor the expression.Hark! she touches nowThe strings of her guitar, and wakes that voice,Whose tones thrill o’er the spirit:—“He’s away! he’s away! he’s away!Yet I know he is constant and true,Still my path is illumed by love’s ray,Which though absent, brings him to my view.Yet ’tis darkness, compared with the beamWhich his presence flings over me still;When with Ernest, why should I not deemThat the world contains nothing of ill?“He’s away! he’s away! he’s away!Yet his voice will soon fall on mine ear.Its tones will tempt bliss here to stay,And e’en happiness linger to hear.When with Ernest, why should I not loseAll thoughts of the world and its hum?And his smile above fame ever choose?He will come! he will come! he will come!”Her song is done!Footsteps approach.—She starts! the door is oped.It must be—’tis her lover!—But enough.
List to the passers by!They’re hastening on, the young, the beautiful,To scenes of pleasure. To the throngedsoirée,The brilliant party, or the festive dance,The crowded theatre, or op’ra sweet.In each will wand’ring glances oft be turnedIn search of her, the gifted, lovely, young,And far-famed Gertrude.—She’s at home to-night.Look! who’d not be “a glove upon that hand,”[7]On which her brow reposes? Th’ other restsUpon the page she’s reading. Ah! that sheetWas filled, no doubt, by one she fondly loves;For, see! it meets her lip.—She rises now!Grace! thou’rt a name for her! She moves not likeA being of the earth. We almost feel’Tis sacrilege to gaze upon that faceWhere thought, emotion, beauty, love, all striveFor the expression.Hark! she touches nowThe strings of her guitar, and wakes that voice,Whose tones thrill o’er the spirit:—
List to the passers by!
They’re hastening on, the young, the beautiful,
To scenes of pleasure. To the throngedsoirée,
The brilliant party, or the festive dance,
The crowded theatre, or op’ra sweet.
In each will wand’ring glances oft be turned
In search of her, the gifted, lovely, young,
And far-famed Gertrude.—She’s at home to-night.
Look! who’d not be “a glove upon that hand,”[7]
On which her brow reposes? Th’ other rests
Upon the page she’s reading. Ah! that sheet
Was filled, no doubt, by one she fondly loves;
For, see! it meets her lip.—She rises now!
Grace! thou’rt a name for her! She moves not like
A being of the earth. We almost feel
’Tis sacrilege to gaze upon that face
Where thought, emotion, beauty, love, all strive
For the expression.
Hark! she touches now
The strings of her guitar, and wakes that voice,
Whose tones thrill o’er the spirit:—
“He’s away! he’s away! he’s away!Yet I know he is constant and true,Still my path is illumed by love’s ray,Which though absent, brings him to my view.Yet ’tis darkness, compared with the beamWhich his presence flings over me still;When with Ernest, why should I not deemThat the world contains nothing of ill?
“He’s away! he’s away! he’s away!
Yet I know he is constant and true,
Still my path is illumed by love’s ray,
Which though absent, brings him to my view.
Yet ’tis darkness, compared with the beam
Which his presence flings over me still;
When with Ernest, why should I not deem
That the world contains nothing of ill?
“He’s away! he’s away! he’s away!Yet his voice will soon fall on mine ear.Its tones will tempt bliss here to stay,And e’en happiness linger to hear.When with Ernest, why should I not loseAll thoughts of the world and its hum?And his smile above fame ever choose?He will come! he will come! he will come!”
“He’s away! he’s away! he’s away!
Yet his voice will soon fall on mine ear.
Its tones will tempt bliss here to stay,
And e’en happiness linger to hear.
When with Ernest, why should I not lose
All thoughts of the world and its hum?
And his smile above fame ever choose?
He will come! he will come! he will come!”
Her song is done!Footsteps approach.—She starts! the door is oped.It must be—’tis her lover!—But enough.
Her song is done!
Footsteps approach.—She starts! the door is oped.
It must be—’tis her lover!—But enough.