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The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems

Simms, William Gilmore (1806-1870)

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[section]
  
[dedication]
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THE VISION OF CORTES.
  
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 1. 
I.
 2. 
II.
 3. 
III.
 4. 
IV.
 5. 
V.
 6. 
VI.
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VII.
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VIII.
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IX.
 10. 
X.
 12. 
XII.
 13. 
XIII.
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XIV.
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XV.
 16. 
XVI.
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XVII.
 18. 
XVIII.
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XIX.
 20. 
XX.
 21. 
XXI.
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XXII.
 23. 
XXIII.
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XXIV.
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XXV.
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XXVI.
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XXVII.
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XXVIII.
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XXIX.
 30. 
XXX.
 31. 
XXXI.
 32. 
XXXII.
 33. 
XXXIII.
  
CAIN.
  
ASHLEY RIVER.
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
  
THE STARS.
  
STANZAS TO IDA.
  
DIRGE OF THE LEAVES.
  
THE LAST LEAF.
  
STANZAS TO IDA.
  
TO THE SAME.
  
TO THE SAME.
  
STANZAS.
  
TO THYRZA.
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SONNETS.
  
[Come down, ye dark brow'd ministers of thought]
  
[Can I not lay me down, at once, and die?]
  
[Thou wilt remark my fate, when I am dead]
  
[Ambition owns no friend—yet be thou mine]
  
[To-morrow, I shall have no charge in life]
  
[The barque is ready, for your carriage hence]
  
[Ay, I have heard enough]
  
[Last night, the moon shone suddenly in streams]
  
[It was a picture of much loveliness]
  
[My child, my beautiful child, when I am gone]
  
[I saw it in my dream. O! could I task]
  
[Thou hast enamor'd me of woodland scenes]
  
[Ah! me, that sleeping, like Endymion]
  
[Moonlight is down among the pleasant hills]
  
[Sweetness, and gamesome images, surround]
  
[Come, sit thee down beside me—I would rest]
  
[The spirits that do dress the flow'rs with dew]
  
[I think, good shepherd, you did dream of this]
  
FAREWELL TO IDA.

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[My child, my beautiful child, when I am gone]

My child, my beautiful child, when I am gone,
Strangers and time, will have untaught thee all,
Thy father's love; ere thou wilt well have known
Thou had'st a father, tho' his name thou'lt call—
And I shall leave behind me, nought, that may
Teach thee thy loss, unless it be my song—
And that, perchance, will scarcely linger long,
To keep my memory coupled with my lay!
Sad lay! invoked in sorrow, tuned by wrong,
Harsh and unmusical, yet sadly deep—
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Such notes as tempests waken, when they sweep
O'er wind-harps, with a pinion swift and strong!
Breaking perchance, each string, yet lifting high,
A dying shriek of mournful melody.
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