 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
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PASTORAL POEMS.
THE BUCKET.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew!
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell,
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well—
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew!
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell,
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well—
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
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That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure,
For often at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well—
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well.
For often at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well—
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.
And now, far removed from the loved habitation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well—
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well!
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.
And now, far removed from the loved habitation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well—
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well!
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THE VILLAGE CLOCK.
The morn awakes, in blushes dressed,
The lambs are all at play,
The blackbird quits his dewy nest,
And carols on the spray;
The milkmaid hails the rosy dawn,
The shepherd seeks his fleecy flock,
The woods resound to the hunter's horn,
All roused by the village clock.
Tick! tick!—tick! tick!—tick! tick!
All roused by the village clock.
The lambs are all at play,
The blackbird quits his dewy nest,
And carols on the spray;
The milkmaid hails the rosy dawn,
The shepherd seeks his fleecy flock,
The woods resound to the hunter's horn,
All roused by the village clock.
Tick! tick!—tick! tick!—tick! tick!
All roused by the village clock.
The milky herd their stores resign,
And soon regain the mead,
Where cooling shades and streams combine
To cheer them while they feed.
When evening twilight veils the lawn,
Again the milkmaid trips away,
While woods resound to the distant horn,
At the closing hour of day.
Tick! tick!—tick! tick!—tick! tick!
At the closing hour of day.
And soon regain the mead,
Where cooling shades and streams combine
To cheer them while they feed.
When evening twilight veils the lawn,
Again the milkmaid trips away,
While woods resound to the distant horn,
At the closing hour of day.
Tick! tick!—tick! tick!—tick! tick!
At the closing hour of day.
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MY FATHER'S FARM.
Believe me, if there's aught on earth,
That can each grief disarm,
'Tis the sweet spot which gave me birth,
When smiling memory paints its worth,
It is my father's farm.
For every native rural charm
Adorns my father's farm.
That can each grief disarm,
'Tis the sweet spot which gave me birth,
When smiling memory paints its worth,
It is my father's farm.
For every native rural charm
Adorns my father's farm.
Though fancy's flight may mock the blast,
To seek some distant charm,
How soon her eyes are homeward cast!
She roves awhile, but lights, at last,
Upon my father's farm.
For every native rural charm
Adorns my father's farm.
To seek some distant charm,
How soon her eyes are homeward cast!
She roves awhile, but lights, at last,
Upon my father's farm.
For every native rural charm
Adorns my father's farm.
THE HAY-MAKERS.
It is sweet, love, to stray,
When the noon-tide is over,
Through the windrows of hay,
And the white-blossomed clover;
Where each lass may partake
In the toil and the pleasure,
Keeping time, with the rake,
To the lark's tuneful measure.
Oh 'tis sweet thus to stray,
When the noon-tide is over,
Through the windrows of hay,
And the white-blossomed clover.
When the noon-tide is over,
Through the windrows of hay,
And the white-blossomed clover;
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In the toil and the pleasure,
Keeping time, with the rake,
To the lark's tuneful measure.
Oh 'tis sweet thus to stray,
When the noon-tide is over,
Through the windrows of hay,
And the white-blossomed clover.
There the swains cut their paths
Through the sections assigned them,
Leaving sweet-scented swaths
Swelling gayly behind them.
Tender childhood and age,
Sturdy manhood and beauty,
All with ardor engage
In so pleasing a duty.
Oh 'tis sweet thus to stray,
When the noon-tide is over,
Through the windrows of hay,
And the white-blossomed clover.
Through the sections assigned them,
Leaving sweet-scented swaths
Swelling gayly behind them.
Tender childhood and age,
Sturdy manhood and beauty,
All with ardor engage
In so pleasing a duty.
Oh 'tis sweet thus to stray,
When the noon-tide is over,
Through the windrows of hay,
And the white-blossomed clover.
As the billow of grass
Over the meadow is driven,
By some rose-visaged lass
'Tis divided and riven,
When her swain lends his aid,
And the green hillock rises,
Then the half-willing maid
With a sly kiss surprises.
Oh 'tis sweet thus to stray,
When the noon-tide is over,
Through the windrows of hay,
And the white blossomed clover.
Over the meadow is driven,
By some rose-visaged lass
'Tis divided and riven,
When her swain lends his aid,
And the green hillock rises,
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With a sly kiss surprises.
Oh 'tis sweet thus to stray,
When the noon-tide is over,
Through the windrows of hay,
And the white blossomed clover.
See the gay romping elves,
Now the sweet task is over,
All amusing themselves,
On the balm-breathing clover;
There the swain whispers love
To his heart's dearest treasure,
Who affects to reprove,
While her eyes beam with pleasure.
Oh 'tis sweet thus to stray,
When the noon-tide is over,
Through the windrows of hay,
And the white-blossomed clover.
Now the sweet task is over,
All amusing themselves,
On the balm-breathing clover;
There the swain whispers love
To his heart's dearest treasure,
Who affects to reprove,
While her eyes beam with pleasure.
Oh 'tis sweet thus to stray,
When the noon-tide is over,
Through the windrows of hay,
And the white-blossomed clover.
HARVEST-HOME.
When mellow autumn yields
All her golden treasures,
Then those who dressed the fields,
Partake of harvest pleasures.
This, lads, is harvest-home:
Those who labor daily,
Well know 'tis sweet to come,
And pass the evening gayly.
Then let each heart be light,
Here's no room for sorrow,
Joy holds her court to-night,
Care may call to-morrow.
All her golden treasures,
Then those who dressed the fields,
Partake of harvest pleasures.
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Those who labor daily,
Well know 'tis sweet to come,
And pass the evening gayly.
Then let each heart be light,
Here's no room for sorrow,
Joy holds her court to-night,
Care may call to-morrow.
Now labor wipes his brow,
Rest and plenty wait him,
Barn, cellar, rick, and mow,
Are filled to recreate him.
Scythe, sickle, rake, and hoe,
All are now suspended,
Like trophies in a row,
For future use intended.
Then let each heart be light,
Here's no room for sorrow,
Joy holds her court to-night,
Care may call to-morrow.
Rest and plenty wait him,
Barn, cellar, rick, and mow,
Are filled to recreate him.
Scythe, sickle, rake, and hoe,
All are now suspended,
Like trophies in a row,
For future use intended.
Then let each heart be light,
Here's no room for sorrow,
Joy holds her court to-night,
Care may call to-morrow.
Now gay Pomona's store
Past exertions blesses;
Rich streams of nectar pour,
Sparkling from her presses.
Full goblets, steaming board,
Crown the farmer's labors,
These real bliss afford,
When shared by jovial neighbors.
Then let each heart beat light,
Here 's no room for sorrow,
Joy holds her court to-night,
Care may call to-morrow.
Past exertions blesses;
Rich streams of nectar pour,
Sparkling from her presses.
Full goblets, steaming board,
Crown the farmer's labors,
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When shared by jovial neighbors.
Then let each heart beat light,
Here 's no room for sorrow,
Joy holds her court to-night,
Care may call to-morrow.
THE WATERMELON.
'Twas noon, and the reapers reposed on the bank
Where our rural repast had been spread,
Beside us meandered the rill where we drank,
And the green willows waved overhead.
Lucinda, the queen of our rustical treat,
With smiles, like the season, auspicious,
Had rendered the scene and the banquet more sweet,
But, oh! the dessert was delicious!
Where our rural repast had been spread,
Beside us meandered the rill where we drank,
And the green willows waved overhead.
Lucinda, the queen of our rustical treat,
With smiles, like the season, auspicious,
Had rendered the scene and the banquet more sweet,
But, oh! the dessert was delicious!
A melon, the richest that loaded the vine,
The kind-hearted damsel had brought,
Its crimson core teemed with the sweetest of wine,
“How much like her kisses!” I thought.
And I said, as its nectarous juices I quaffed
“How vain are the joys of the vicious!
No tropical fruit ever furnished a draught
So innocent, pure, and delicious.
The kind-hearted damsel had brought,
Its crimson core teemed with the sweetest of wine,
“How much like her kisses!” I thought.
And I said, as its nectarous juices I quaffed
“How vain are the joys of the vicious!
No tropical fruit ever furnished a draught
So innocent, pure, and delicious.
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In the seeds which embellished this red juicy core
An emblem of life we may view,
For human enjoyments are thus sprinkled over
With specks of an ebony hue.
But if we are wise to discard from the mind
Every thought and affection that 's vicious,
Like the seed-speckled core of the melon, we'll find
Each innocent pleasure delicious.”
An emblem of life we may view,
For human enjoyments are thus sprinkled over
With specks of an ebony hue.
But if we are wise to discard from the mind
Every thought and affection that 's vicious,
Like the seed-speckled core of the melon, we'll find
Each innocent pleasure delicious.”
SWEET SECLUSION.
Here, in scenes of sweet seclusion,
Far from bustling towns, we dwell,
While around, in rich profusion,
Autumn's yellow bounties swell.
Far from bustling towns, we dwell,
While around, in rich profusion,
Autumn's yellow bounties swell.
There, the loaded fruit-trees, bending,
Strew with mellow gold the land;
Here, on high, from vines impending,
Purple clusters court the hand.
Strew with mellow gold the land;
Here, on high, from vines impending,
Purple clusters court the hand.
All the day, to recreate us,
Strains of music freight the breeze,
Healthful sports at eve awaits us,
What are city joys to those?
Strains of music freight the breeze,
Healthful sports at eve awaits us,
What are city joys to those?
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THE MILKMAID.
When blushing Aurora first tinges the east,
Arousing the musical choirs of the wood,
Inviting the bees to a nectarious feast,
And the flocks to partake of their dew-sprinkled food,
As blithe and as gay as the new-awakened day,
I rise and go tripping with milkpail away,
And hark! the sweet lark, kindly perched on the spray,
Responsively echoes my blithe roundelay.
Arousing the musical choirs of the wood,
Inviting the bees to a nectarious feast,
And the flocks to partake of their dew-sprinkled food,
As blithe and as gay as the new-awakened day,
I rise and go tripping with milkpail away,
And hark! the sweet lark, kindly perched on the spray,
Responsively echoes my blithe roundelay.
The innocent plunder I draw from the kine
Is richly repaid in the fields where they roam,
And a second supply they will gladly resign,
When evening invites, and they lowing come home.
Then, cheerful and gay as the first smile of day,
Again will I trip it with milkpail away;
And hark! the sweet lark, kindly perched on the spray,
Responsively echoes my blithe roundelay.
Is richly repaid in the fields where they roam,
And a second supply they will gladly resign,
When evening invites, and they lowing come home.
Then, cheerful and gay as the first smile of day,
Again will I trip it with milkpail away;
And hark! the sweet lark, kindly perched on the spray,
Responsively echoes my blithe roundelay.
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THE MOONBEAM.
The moonbeam on the Hudson sleeps,
While yon enamored billow
Delighted to the stranger creeps,
And makes his breast her pillow.
The rest, with dark and frowning mein,
And jealous murmurs, languish,
While amorous zephyrs pass the scene,
And sigh with kindred anguish.
While yon enamored billow
Delighted to the stranger creeps,
And makes his breast her pillow.
The rest, with dark and frowning mein,
And jealous murmurs, languish,
While amorous zephyrs pass the scene,
And sigh with kindred anguish.
So, when the fair Pastora's smile
Her favored Lubin blesses—
Who steals a kiss, and plays the while
With her unbraided tresses—
The shepherds who have wooed in vain,
In sorrow doomed to languish,
Behold the happy, envied swain,
And sigh with jealous anguish.
Her favored Lubin blesses—
Who steals a kiss, and plays the while
With her unbraided tresses—
The shepherds who have wooed in vain,
In sorrow doomed to languish,
Behold the happy, envied swain,
And sigh with jealous anguish.
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COME TO MY COT.
I've a peaceful little cot,
In a charming rural spot,
Far removed from the town's busy hum,
Where neither strife nor noise
Can molest our placid joys,
Oh then hither to my cot will you come?
To my rural little cot will you come?
Oh haste, my dearest maid,
And enjoy the fragrant shade,
To my rural little cot will you come?
In a charming rural spot,
Far removed from the town's busy hum,
Where neither strife nor noise
Can molest our placid joys,
Oh then hither to my cot will you come?
To my rural little cot will you come?
Oh haste, my dearest maid,
And enjoy the fragrant shade,
To my rural little cot will you come?
The honeysuckle there
With its odor fills the air,
And the fir lends its fragrant gum,
While on every verdant spray
Little songsters carol gay,
Oh then hither to my cot will you come?
To my rural little cot will you come?
Oh haste, my dearest maid,
And enjoy the fragrant shade,
To my rural little cot will you come?
With its odor fills the air,
And the fir lends its fragrant gum,
While on every verdant spray
Little songsters carol gay,
Oh then hither to my cot will you come?
To my rural little cot will you come?
Oh haste, my dearest maid,
And enjoy the fragrant shade,
To my rural little cot will you come?
Through the garden, and the mead
Where the lambkins play and feed,
Swells the honey-bee's tuneful hum,
While the distant lowing kine,
With the waterfall, combine
To invite you to my cot—Will you come?
To my rural little cot will you come?
Oh haste, my dearest maid,
And enjoy the fragrant shade,
To my rural little cot will you come?
Where the lambkins play and feed,
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While the distant lowing kine,
With the waterfall, combine
To invite you to my cot—Will you come?
To my rural little cot will you come?
Oh haste, my dearest maid,
And enjoy the fragrant shade,
To my rural little cot will you come?
And when the evening's shade
Is extending over the glade,
And the woodpecker ceases to drum,
Then the pensive whip-poor-will,
From the forest or the hill,
Still invites you to my cot—Will you come?
To my rural little cot will you come?
Oh haste, my dearest maid, &c.
Is extending over the glade,
And the woodpecker ceases to drum,
Then the pensive whip-poor-will,
From the forest or the hill,
Still invites you to my cot—Will you come?
To my rural little cot will you come?
Oh haste, my dearest maid, &c.
Dearest maiden, linger not,
Come and share my peaceful lot,
Far removed from the town's busy hum,
For if Eden seemed a wild
Until lovely woman smiled,
Oh how can I be happy till you come?
To my rural little cot will you come?
Then haste, my dearest maid,
And enjoy the fragant shade,
To my rural little cot will you come?
Come and share my peaceful lot,
Far removed from the town's busy hum,
For if Eden seemed a wild
Until lovely woman smiled,
Oh how can I be happy till you come?
To my rural little cot will you come?
Then haste, my dearest maid,
And enjoy the fragant shade,
To my rural little cot will you come?
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MORN OF MAY.
Arise, my love—the sun appears
To gild the infant day,
His golden beam the landscape cheers,
And nature smiles amid her tears,
To greet the morn of May.
To gild the infant day,
His golden beam the landscape cheers,
And nature smiles amid her tears,
To greet the morn of May.
Arise, my love—the lilac blooms,
The blossomed peach is gay,
The mead its flowery vest resumes,
And freights the zephyr with perfumes,
To cheer the morn of May.
The blossomed peach is gay,
The mead its flowery vest resumes,
And freights the zephyr with perfumes,
To cheer the morn of May.
Oh! then arise—'tis love invites,
Together let us stray;
Thy form, which every charm unites,
Shall lend a thousand new delights
To gild the morn of May.
Together let us stray;
Thy form, which every charm unites,
Shall lend a thousand new delights
To gild the morn of May.
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THE COTTAGE LASS.
The cottage lass, the courtly dame,
The child of toil, and slave of fashion,
Alike disown the mystic flame,
Yet feed with sighs the tender passion.
Each heart, ere age its fervor chills,
Is doomed by turns to throb and languish,
And prove the thousand nameless thrills
Of bashful love's delicious anguish.
The child of toil, and slave of fashion,
Alike disown the mystic flame,
Yet feed with sighs the tender passion.
Each heart, ere age its fervor chills,
Is doomed by turns to throb and languish,
And prove the thousand nameless thrills
Of bashful love's delicious anguish.
But infant love attempts in vain
To fan the flame with gilded pinion,
And quickly bursts the heavy chain
That ties him down to wealth's dominion.
For ah! that flame but seldom lives
In breasts with gaudy splendor laden,
Nor yields them half the joy it gives
The bashful, blooming, cottage maiden.
To fan the flame with gilded pinion,
And quickly bursts the heavy chain
That ties him down to wealth's dominion.
For ah! that flame but seldom lives
In breasts with gaudy splendor laden,
Nor yields them half the joy it gives
The bashful, blooming, cottage maiden.
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THE PRIDE OF THE VALLEY.
The pride of the valley is lovely young Ellen,
Who dwells in a cottage enshrined by a thicket,
Contentment and peace are the wealth of her dwelling,
And truth is the porter that waits at the wicket.
The zephyr that lingers on violet-down pinion,
With spring's blushing honors delighted to dally,
Ne'er breathed on a blossom in Flora's dominion,
So lovely as Ellen, the pride of the valley.
Who dwells in a cottage enshrined by a thicket,
Contentment and peace are the wealth of her dwelling,
And truth is the porter that waits at the wicket.
The zephyr that lingers on violet-down pinion,
With spring's blushing honors delighted to dally,
Ne'er breathed on a blossom in Flora's dominion,
So lovely as Ellen, the pride of the valley.
She 's true to her friend, and she 's kind to her mother,
Nor riches nor honors can tempt her from duty;
Content with her station she sighs for no other,
Though fortunes and titles have knelt to her beauty.
To me her affections and promise are plighted,
Our ages are equal, our tempers will tally;
Oh, moment of rapture! that sees me united
To lovely young Ellen, the pride of the valley.
Nor riches nor honors can tempt her from duty;
Content with her station she sighs for no other,
Though fortunes and titles have knelt to her beauty.
To me her affections and promise are plighted,
Our ages are equal, our tempers will tally;
Oh, moment of rapture! that sees me united
To lovely young Ellen, the pride of the valley.
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DANCING GAYLY.
Sweet the hour, when, freed from labor,
Lads and lasses thus convene,
To the merry pipe and tabor,
Dancing gayly on the green.
To the merry pipe and tabor,
Dancing gayly on the green.
Lads and lasses thus convene,
To the merry pipe and tabor,
Dancing gayly on the green.
To the merry pipe and tabor,
Dancing gayly on the green.
Nymphs, with all their native graces,
Swains with every charm to win,
Sprightly steps, and smiling faces,
Tell of happy hearts within.
Sweet the hour, when, freed from labor, &c.
Swains with every charm to win,
Sprightly steps, and smiling faces,
Tell of happy hearts within.
Sweet the hour, when, freed from labor, &c.
Blest with plenty, here the farmer
Toils for those he loves alone,
While some pretty smiling charmer,
Like the land, is all his own.
Sweet the hour, when, freed from labor, &c.
Toils for those he loves alone,
While some pretty smiling charmer,
Like the land, is all his own.
Sweet the hour, when, freed from labor, &c.
Though a tear for prospects blighted,
May, at times, unbidden flow,
Yet the heart will bound delighted,
Where such kindred bosoms glow.
Sweet the hour, when, freed from labor, &c.
May, at times, unbidden flow,
Yet the heart will bound delighted,
Where such kindred bosoms glow.
Sweet the hour, when, freed from labor, &c.
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THE BALM OF THE HEART.
When the mild star of evening invites to the bower,
Where music and mirth are to revel an hour,
Dismiss gloomy care, and bid sorrow depart,
For innocent mirth is the balm of the heart.
Where music and mirth are to revel an hour,
Dismiss gloomy care, and bid sorrow depart,
For innocent mirth is the balm of the heart.
Every pleasure is fleeting, and hastens away,
The fairest blown rose is the first to decay;
Then taste of its fragrance before it depart,
For innocent mirth is the balm of the heart.
The fairest blown rose is the first to decay;
Then taste of its fragrance before it depart,
For innocent mirth is the balm of the heart.
Quickly hasten then hither, ye youth and ye fair,
With eyes beaming pleasure, and hearts void of care;
Partake of the joys which our revels impart,
For innocent mirth is the balm of the heart.
With eyes beaming pleasure, and hearts void of care;
Partake of the joys which our revels impart,
For innocent mirth is the balm of the heart.
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EVENING.
'Tis pleasant, when the world is still,
And evening's mantle shrouds the vale,
To hear the pensive whip-poor-will
Pour her deep notes along the dale;
While through the self-taught rustic's flute
Wild warblings wake upon the gale,
And from each thicket, marsh, and tree,
The cricket, frog, and Katy-dee,
With various notes assist the glee,
Nor once through all the night are mute.
And evening's mantle shrouds the vale,
To hear the pensive whip-poor-will
Pour her deep notes along the dale;
While through the self-taught rustic's flute
Wild warblings wake upon the gale,
And from each thicket, marsh, and tree,
The cricket, frog, and Katy-dee,
With various notes assist the glee,
Nor once through all the night are mute.
The streamlet murmurs o'er its bed,
The wanton zephyrs kiss its breast,
Bid the green bulrush bend its head,
And sigh through groves in verdure dressed;
While Cynthia, from her silver horn,
Throws magic shades o'er evening's vest;
Sheds smiles upon the brow of night,
Not dazzling, like day's shower of light,
But soft as dew, which mocks the sight
Till seen to sparkle on the thorn.
The wanton zephyrs kiss its breast,
Bid the green bulrush bend its head,
And sigh through groves in verdure dressed;
While Cynthia, from her silver horn,
Throws magic shades o'er evening's vest;
Sheds smiles upon the brow of night,
Not dazzling, like day's shower of light,
But soft as dew, which mocks the sight
Till seen to sparkle on the thorn.
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I LOVE TO HEAR.
I love to hear the flute's sweet notes,
On zephyr's balmy pinion borne;
While soft the melting cadence floats,
And sighing echoes wake to mourn.
Stealing on the raptured ear,
At the closing hour of day,
Wildly warbling, sweet and clear,
Grateful as affection's tear,
Then in murmurs die away.
On zephyr's balmy pinion borne;
While soft the melting cadence floats,
And sighing echoes wake to mourn.
Stealing on the raptured ear,
At the closing hour of day,
Wildly warbling, sweet and clear,
Grateful as affection's tear,
Then in murmurs die away.
I love to hear, when blushing morn
First tips the clouds with rosy hue,
The new-waked lark salute the dawn,
His matin song of praise renew.
Singing as he skims the plain,
Or directs his flight above;
Waking all the tuneful train
To begin the sylvan strain,
Harmonizing every grove.
First tips the clouds with rosy hue,
The new-waked lark salute the dawn,
His matin song of praise renew.
Singing as he skims the plain,
Or directs his flight above;
Waking all the tuneful train
To begin the sylvan strain,
Harmonizing every grove.
I love to hear, when mid-day heat
With listless languor fills the brain,
Deep in some shady, cool retreat,
The distant waterfall complain,
As it leaps the craggy mound,
Pouring down the rocky height,
Foaming o'er the pebbled ground,
While it sparkles on the sight.
With listless languor fills the brain,
Deep in some shady, cool retreat,
The distant waterfall complain,
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Pouring down the rocky height,
Foaming o'er the pebbled ground,
While it sparkles on the sight.
But when with her, whose image dwells
Within my glowing breast, I stray,
The music more divinely swells,
The lark more sweetly tunes his lay;
While beneath the shade we rove,
Murmuring streamlets sooth the ear,
Through the calm sequestered grove,
Echo whispers only love—
Cupids only hover near.
Within my glowing breast, I stray,
The music more divinely swells,
The lark more sweetly tunes his lay;
While beneath the shade we rove,
Murmuring streamlets sooth the ear,
Through the calm sequestered grove,
Echo whispers only love—
Cupids only hover near.
YES OR NO.
The groves their vernal sweets have lost,
No blossoms now perfume the gale,
The lawns are silvered o'er with frost,
And autumn lingers in the vale.
But do the seasons, as they roll,
Affect the heart with joy and wo?
Can autumn thus depress the soul:
Or spring elate it?—Yes, or no?
No blossoms now perfume the gale,
The lawns are silvered o'er with frost,
And autumn lingers in the vale.
But do the seasons, as they roll,
Affect the heart with joy and wo?
Can autumn thus depress the soul:
Or spring elate it?—Yes, or no?
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The grove again shall yield its shade,
And vernal sweets perfume the gale,
The modest violet deck the glade,
And richest verdure clothe the vale.
But will the flower of hope survive,
And gain from spring a brighter glow?
A smile, sweet maid, would bid it thrive,
Wilt thou bestow it?—Yes, or no?
And vernal sweets perfume the gale,
The modest violet deck the glade,
And richest verdure clothe the vale.
But will the flower of hope survive,
And gain from spring a brighter glow?
A smile, sweet maid, would bid it thrive,
Wilt thou bestow it?—Yes, or no?
GOOD-MORNING.
The blushing precursor of Phœbus expands
The crystalline portals of light,
And scatters the dew-dripping tints from her hands
To crimson the mantle of night.
Sleep shakes his soft pinions and soars to the sky.
With rapture I greet my dear Jane,
Whose health-glowing visage and love-beaming eye
Aurora but mimics in vain—
“Good-morning!”
The crystalline portals of light,
And scatters the dew-dripping tints from her hands
To crimson the mantle of night.
Sleep shakes his soft pinions and soars to the sky.
With rapture I greet my dear Jane,
Whose health-glowing visage and love-beaming eye
Aurora but mimics in vain—
“Good-morning!”
Thy presence to me is the dawning of light,
And pleasure illumines my breast;
But, ah! in thy absence, morn changes to night—
Hope sinks like the star of the west.
Then let us, my fair one, the moments improve
Which morning allows us for bliss,
Let the new-risen day be devoted to love,
And, in earnest, accept of a kiss—
“Good-morning!”
And pleasure illumines my breast;
But, ah! in thy absence, morn changes to night—
Hope sinks like the star of the west.
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Which morning allows us for bliss,
Let the new-risen day be devoted to love,
And, in earnest, accept of a kiss—
“Good-morning!”
When evening returns, and in slumber I lie,
Then fancy the scene shall retrace;
Shall light up anew the soft glance of thine eye,
And restore me thy blissful embrace.
And when through the lattice Aurora's tints play,
Oh fly to the arms of thy swain,
With him taste the sweets of the infantile day,
And hear him repeat, on the plain—
“Good-morning!”
Then fancy the scene shall retrace;
Shall light up anew the soft glance of thine eye,
And restore me thy blissful embrace.
And when through the lattice Aurora's tints play,
Oh fly to the arms of thy swain,
With him taste the sweets of the infantile day,
And hear him repeat, on the plain—
“Good-morning!”
COME, LET US TRIP IT LIGHTLY.
Come, let us trip it lightly, love,
Where Flora's sweets are blending;
The moon is beaming brightly, love,
With starry lamps attending.
The grove and hill, the mead and rill,
Have charms that must delight thee,
Then let us haste their sweets to taste,
While zephyr's sighs invite thee.
An hour like this imparts a bliss
To souls of kindred feeling,
A pure delight, serenely bright,
Along the pulses stealing.
Where Flora's sweets are blending;
The moon is beaming brightly, love,
With starry lamps attending.
The grove and hill, the mead and rill,
Have charms that must delight thee,
Then let us haste their sweets to taste,
While zephyr's sighs invite thee.
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To souls of kindred feeling,
A pure delight, serenely bright,
Along the pulses stealing.
The evening star is peeping, love,
From yonder paler cluster,
The glassy lake is sleeping, love,
Enriched with borrowed lustre.
The babbling brook, with brighter look,
Meanders through the dingle;
And chirping notes from insect throats,
In tuneless measures mingle.
An hour like this, which wakes to bliss,
The hearts of meaner creatures,
Must surely light a smile as bright
On love's expressive features.
From yonder paler cluster,
The glassy lake is sleeping, love,
Enriched with borrowed lustre.
The babbling brook, with brighter look,
Meanders through the dingle;
And chirping notes from insect throats,
In tuneless measures mingle.
An hour like this, which wakes to bliss,
The hearts of meaner creatures,
Must surely light a smile as bright
On love's expressive features.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |