 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
THE WREATH OF LOVE.
Let Fame her wreath for others twine,
The fragrant wreath of love be mine,
With balm-distilling blossoms wove;
Let the shrill trumpet's hoarse alarms
Bid laurels grace the victor's arms,
Where havoc's blood-stained banners move;
Be mine to wake the softer notes
Where Acidalia's banner floats,
And weave the gentler wreath of love.
The fragrant wreath of love be mine,
With balm-distilling blossoms wove;
Let the shrill trumpet's hoarse alarms
Bid laurels grace the victor's arms,
Where havoc's blood-stained banners move;
Be mine to wake the softer notes
Where Acidalia's banner floats,
And weave the gentler wreath of love.
The balmy rose let stoics scorn,
Let squeamish mortals dread the thorn,
And fear the pleasing pain to prove;
I'll fearless bind it to my heart,
While every pang its thorns impart
The floweret's balsam shall remove;
For, sweetened by the nectared kiss,
'T is pain that gives a zest to bliss,
And freshens still the wreath of love.
Let squeamish mortals dread the thorn,
And fear the pleasing pain to prove;
60
While every pang its thorns impart
The floweret's balsam shall remove;
For, sweetened by the nectared kiss,
'T is pain that gives a zest to bliss,
And freshens still the wreath of love.
Give me contentment, peace, and health,
A moderate share of worldly wealth,
And friends such blessings to improve;
A heart to give when misery pleads,
To heal or bind each wound that bleeds,
And every mental pain remove;
But with these give—else all deny—
The fair for whom I breathe the sigh,
And wedlock be a wreath of love.
A moderate share of worldly wealth,
And friends such blessings to improve;
A heart to give when misery pleads,
To heal or bind each wound that bleeds,
And every mental pain remove;
But with these give—else all deny—
The fair for whom I breathe the sigh,
And wedlock be a wreath of love.
Connubial bliss, unknown to strife,
A faithful friend—a virtuous wife,
Be mine for many years to prove:
Our wishes one, within each breast
The dove of peace shall make her nest,
Nor ever from the ark remove;
Till called to heaven; through ages there
Be ours the blissful lot to wear
A never-fading wreath of love.
A faithful friend—a virtuous wife,
Be mine for many years to prove:
Our wishes one, within each breast
The dove of peace shall make her nest,
Nor ever from the ark remove;
Till called to heaven; through ages there
Be ours the blissful lot to wear
A never-fading wreath of love.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |