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 | The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal |  |
Enigma No. 12.
Lives there a poet, old or young,
Who has not sung my praise?
For ever silent be his tongue,
Forgotten be his lays!
Who has not sung my praise?
For ever silent be his tongue,
Forgotten be his lays!
I have a father dark and stern,
A daughter bright and gay;
I weep upon his funeral urn,
I die beneath her sway.
A daughter bright and gay;
I weep upon his funeral urn,
I die beneath her sway.
And yet that father binds me fast,
Hushing my low sweet voice;
That daughter sets me free at last,
And bids me still rejoice.
Hushing my low sweet voice;
That daughter sets me free at last,
And bids me still rejoice.
249
Deceitful I am said to be,
A thing of treacherous smiles,
And many meet their end in me,
Wreck'd by my sunny wiles.
A thing of treacherous smiles,
And many meet their end in me,
Wreck'd by my sunny wiles.
Yet health and cure 'tis mine to give
To many a sickly frame;
An antelope of Africa
Usurps my well-known name.
To many a sickly frame;
An antelope of Africa
Usurps my well-known name.
I'm born beneath the cold hard ground,
Yet life and joy I bring,
With song and mirth to all around,
Upon my emerald wing.
Yet life and joy I bring,
With song and mirth to all around,
Upon my emerald wing.
I help to measure Time's swift flight;
Tide has to do with me;
In guns and traps behold my might:
O say what can I be?
Tide has to do with me;
In guns and traps behold my might:
O say what can I be?
| The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal | |