 | Specimens of American poetry |  |
RICHARD B. DAVIS
352
TO A SLEEPING INFANT.
Sweet are thy slumbers, innocence, reclined
On the fond bosom of maternal love;
Calm as the lake whose waters gently move,
Wafting the spirit of the dying wind.
For thee affection wakes with pleasing care,
Delighted smiles, and breathes the fervent prayer.
On the fond bosom of maternal love;
Calm as the lake whose waters gently move,
Wafting the spirit of the dying wind.
For thee affection wakes with pleasing care,
Delighted smiles, and breathes the fervent prayer.
Far different is sleep, when labor faints
On his hard couch, when restless avarice quakes;
When from the scene of dread that conscience paints,
Affrighted guilt with sudden horror wakes;
When from the eye of day misfortune shrinks,
And on his bed of thorns despondent sinks.
On his hard couch, when restless avarice quakes;
When from the scene of dread that conscience paints,
Affrighted guilt with sudden horror wakes;
When from the eye of day misfortune shrinks,
And on his bed of thorns despondent sinks.
When night recalls the toilsome day of care,
When hopeless love catches in short repose
Scenes that alike his aching bosom tear,
Visions of shadowy bliss or real woes.
When hopeless love catches in short repose
Scenes that alike his aching bosom tear,
Visions of shadowy bliss or real woes.
For dreams like these, and nights of anxious pain,
Manhood thy peaceful slumbers must resign,
And all his boasted wisdom sigh in vain
For the calm blessings of a sleep like thine.
Manhood thy peaceful slumbers must resign,
And all his boasted wisdom sigh in vain
For the calm blessings of a sleep like thine.
THOU ART THE MUSE.
No genius lends its sacred fire
To animate my song;
To me no heaven-presented lyre
Or muse-taught verse belong.
To animate my song;
To me no heaven-presented lyre
Or muse-taught verse belong.
353
She who first charm'd my soul to love,
Inspired the tuneful breath;
With love-instructed hand I wove
For her the early wreath.
Inspired the tuneful breath;
With love-instructed hand I wove
For her the early wreath.
To her the softest strains I owe
Who first inspired the flame;
And sweetest shall the numbers flow,
When graced with Emma's name.
Who first inspired the flame;
And sweetest shall the numbers flow,
When graced with Emma's name.
TO EMMA.
I've seen the loveliest roses blow
That Hudson's verdant banks adorn;
I 've seen the richest crimson glow
That paints the smiling face of morn:
That Hudson's verdant banks adorn;
I 've seen the richest crimson glow
That paints the smiling face of morn:
I 've listen'd while the evening gale,
(Fraught with the sweets of many a flower,
Wafted sweet incense through the vale,
And bless'd the contemplative hour.
(Fraught with the sweets of many a flower,
Wafted sweet incense through the vale,
And bless'd the contemplative hour.
Sweet tints the blushing rose adorn,
And sweet the rays of morning shine
Sweet are the sounds by zephyrs borne,
But sweeter charms, my fair, are thine.
And sweet the rays of morning shine
Sweet are the sounds by zephyrs borne,
But sweeter charms, my fair, are thine.
The rose shall droop, its charms shall fade,
Clouds shall obscure the brightest day;
Music shall cease to bless the shade,
And even thy beauties must decay:
Clouds shall obscure the brightest day;
Music shall cease to bless the shade,
And even thy beauties must decay:
But the bright flame that warms thy breast,
Beams from those eyes, and tunes that tongue,
Virtue—shall ever shine confess'd,
And ever claim my noblest song.
Beams from those eyes, and tunes that tongue,
Virtue—shall ever shine confess'd,
And ever claim my noblest song.
| Specimens of American poetry | |