 | The forest minstrel |  |
TO ANN.
Look unto God, our Saviour!
He careth for thee still,
Though dark around thee gather
The spectre forms of ill;
Though all thy joys are faded,
Though all thy springs are dry,
Though hope's sweet harp is broken,
And storms are drifting nigh.
He careth for thee still,
Though dark around thee gather
The spectre forms of ill;
Though all thy joys are faded,
Though all thy springs are dry,
Though hope's sweet harp is broken,
And storms are drifting nigh.
I know thy heart is breaking,
I know thy brain is wrung,
Though not a word of bitterness
Has fallen from thy tongue;
I see thee fading meekly,
Like some bright summer flower,
The stalk of which is wounded
Past Nature's healing power.
I know thy brain is wrung,
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Has fallen from thy tongue;
I see thee fading meekly,
Like some bright summer flower,
The stalk of which is wounded
Past Nature's healing power.
Of hearts that thou hast cherished
In sunny days of old,
I know that some have perished,
And some are false and cold;
I know that fickle fortune
Has frowned upon thy way,
That envy and malevolence
Have marked thee for their prey.
In sunny days of old,
I know that some have perished,
And some are false and cold;
I know that fickle fortune
Has frowned upon thy way,
That envy and malevolence
Have marked thee for their prey.
I know thou sometimes dreamest
Of the white stone by the brook,
O'er which the ancient cedar
Its heavy branches shook;
While on the moss beneath it,
A few small rays of light,
Like diamonds on a velvet robe,
Lay flashing, purely bright.
Of the white stone by the brook,
O'er which the ancient cedar
Its heavy branches shook;
While on the moss beneath it,
A few small rays of light,
Like diamonds on a velvet robe,
Lay flashing, purely bright.
For ever it was hymning
A dreamy minstrelsy,
Like answer of deep waters
When winds sigh lovingly;
And softly from its bosom
The gentle mourning dove
Poured forth her pensive music
Of sorrow and of love.
A dreamy minstrelsy,
Like answer of deep waters
When winds sigh lovingly;
And softly from its bosom
The gentle mourning dove
Poured forth her pensive music
Of sorrow and of love.
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And in thy dream thou thinkest
Of summer evenings still,
When the silence of the moonlight
Lay bright on stream and hill,
And the star that loves the evening
Lay trembling in the west,
Like the first holy thought of love
In a young maiden's breast.
Of summer evenings still,
When the silence of the moonlight
Lay bright on stream and hill,
And the star that loves the evening
Lay trembling in the west,
Like the first holy thought of love
In a young maiden's breast.
Oh, pleasant are thy dreamings,
For one is with thee there,
In pride of manly beauty,
And brow untraced by care;
And, hand and heart united,
Full oft in that sweet bower,
Ye watched the changing loveliness
Of twilight's tender hour.
For one is with thee there,
In pride of manly beauty,
And brow untraced by care;
And, hand and heart united,
Full oft in that sweet bower,
Ye watched the changing loveliness
Of twilight's tender hour.
Ye watch'd the pencilled glories,
Till every gorgeous hue
Was changed to mourning drapery,
Or melted into dew—
And then bright hope were gilding
The west of future years,
Deemed ye they too would melt away
To mourning and to tears?
Till every gorgeous hue
Was changed to mourning drapery,
Or melted into dew—
And then bright hope were gilding
The west of future years,
Deemed ye they too would melt away
To mourning and to tears?
He who was then thy lover
Is on a foreign shore,
The plumes of that old cedar tree
Shall beckon thee no more;—
And thou mayst sit at nightfall
Beneath a greener tree,
But the greenness of the guileless heart
Can come no more to thee.
Is on a foreign shore,
The plumes of that old cedar tree
Shall beckon thee no more;—
And thou mayst sit at nightfall
Beneath a greener tree,
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Can come no more to thee.
'Tis vain to weep for pleasures
That never can return;
O'er broken hopes and buried joys
'Tis vanity to mourn.
Still onward time is speeding
Along a flow'ry shore;
Oh, why look backward weeping
And miss the joys before?
That never can return;
O'er broken hopes and buried joys
'Tis vanity to mourn.
Still onward time is speeding
Along a flow'ry shore;
Oh, why look backward weeping
And miss the joys before?
Why do we seek to garner
The bliss that cannot stay,
And wail for buds of beauty
That bloom but to decay?
Why do we think of naming
The summer birds our own,
And rail at heaven in autumn
That such bright things are flown?—
The bliss that cannot stay,
And wail for buds of beauty
That bloom but to decay?
Why do we think of naming
The summer birds our own,
And rail at heaven in autumn
That such bright things are flown?—
'Twere kind to use earth's treasures
As wild bees court the flowers,
To draw from each a honeyed drop
To cheer the wintry hours;
We know that death, and sorrow,
And chance, and change will come,
That we are only travellers
To an eternal home.
As wild bees court the flowers,
To draw from each a honeyed drop
To cheer the wintry hours;
We know that death, and sorrow,
And chance, and change will come,
That we are only travellers
To an eternal home.
Then look to God our Savir,ti
And leave the world behind;
Its brightest things are vanity,
They cannot fill the mind;
The loves of earth are fleeting,
And death is ever nigh,
Its richest joys, its sweetest ties
Dissolving with a sigh.
And leave the world behind;
Its brightest things are vanity,
They cannot fill the mind;
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And death is ever nigh,
Its richest joys, its sweetest ties
Dissolving with a sigh.
| The forest minstrel | |