 | Specimens of American poetry |  |
351
GEORGE P. MORRIS
WOMAN.
Ah! woman—in this world of ours,
What gift can be compared to thee?
How slow would drag life's weary hours,
Though man's proud brow were bound with flowers,
And his the wealth of land and sea,
If destined to exist alone,
And ne'er call woman's heart his own.
What gift can be compared to thee?
How slow would drag life's weary hours,
Though man's proud brow were bound with flowers,
And his the wealth of land and sea,
If destined to exist alone,
And ne'er call woman's heart his own.
My mother!—at that holy name,
Within my bosom there's a gush
Of feeling, which no time can tame,
A feeling which, for years of fame,
I would not, could not crush.
And sisters!—they are dear as life—
But when I look upon my WIFE,
My life-blood gives a sudden rush,
And all my fond affections blend,
In mother—sisters—wife—and friend.
Within my bosom there's a gush
Of feeling, which no time can tame,
A feeling which, for years of fame,
I would not, could not crush.
And sisters!—they are dear as life—
But when I look upon my WIFE,
My life-blood gives a sudden rush,
And all my fond affections blend,
In mother—sisters—wife—and friend.
Yes, woman's love is free from guile,
And pure as bright Aurora's ray—
The heart will melt before its smile,
And earthly passions fade away.
Were I the monarch of the earth,
And master of the swelling sea,
I would not estimate their worth,
Dear woman, half the price of thee.
And pure as bright Aurora's ray—
The heart will melt before its smile,
And earthly passions fade away.
Were I the monarch of the earth,
And master of the swelling sea,
I would not estimate their worth,
Dear woman, half the price of thee.
352
THE MINIATURE.
William was holding in his hand
The likeness of his wife:
'T was drawn by some enchanter's wand—
It look'd—it smiled—like life!
He almost thought it spoke—he gazed
Upon the painting still,
And was delighted and amazed
To view the artist's skill.
The likeness of his wife:
'T was drawn by some enchanter's wand—
It look'd—it smiled—like life!
He almost thought it spoke—he gazed
Upon the painting still,
And was delighted and amazed
To view the artist's skill.
“This picture is thyself, sweet Jane,—
'T is drawn to nature true;
I 've kiss'd it o'er and o'er again,
It is so much like you!”
“And has it kiss'd you back, my dear?”
“Why—no, my love,” said he;
“Then, William, it is very clear
It 's not at all like me.”
'T is drawn to nature true;
I 've kiss'd it o'er and o'er again,
It is so much like you!”
“And has it kiss'd you back, my dear?”
“Why—no, my love,” said he;
“Then, William, it is very clear
It 's not at all like me.”
WHAT CAN IT MEAN?
I'm much too young to marry,
For I am only seventeen;
Why think I then of Harry?—
What can it mean—what can it mean?
For I am only seventeen;
Why think I then of Harry?—
What can it mean—what can it mean?
Whenever Harry meets me,
Beside the brook, or on the green,
How tenderly he greets me!
What can it mean—what can it mean?
Beside the brook, or on the green,
How tenderly he greets me!
What can it mean—what can it mean?
Whene'er my name he utters,
A blush upon my cheek is seen,
And then my heart so flutters—
What can it mean—what can it mean?
A blush upon my cheek is seen,
And then my heart so flutters—
What can it mean—what can it mean?
And when he mentions Cupid,
Or, smiling, calls me “fairy queen,”
I sigh and look so stupid!—
What can it mean—what can it mean?
Or, smiling, calls me “fairy queen,”
I sigh and look so stupid!—
What can it mean—what can it mean?
353
Oh, mercy! what can ail me?
I'm growing pale and very lean;
My spirits often fail me!
What can it mean—what can it mean?
I'm growing pale and very lean;
My spirits often fail me!
What can it mean—what can it mean?
I'm not in love!—oh smother
Such a thought at seventeen:
I'll go and ask my mother
What it can mean—what it can mean.
Such a thought at seventeen:
I'll go and ask my mother
What it can mean—what it can mean.
| Specimens of American poetry | |