 | Specimens of American poetry |  |
LOUISA P. SMITH
THE HUMA.
Fly on! nor touch thy wing, bright bird,
Too near our shaded earth,
Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard
May lose its note of mirth.
Fly on—nor seek a place of rest,
In the home of “care-worn things,”
'T would dim the light of thy shining crest,
And thy brightly burnish'd wings,
To dip them where the waters glide
That flow from a troubled earthly tide.
Too near our shaded earth,
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May lose its note of mirth.
Fly on—nor seek a place of rest,
In the home of “care-worn things,”
'T would dim the light of thy shining crest,
And thy brightly burnish'd wings,
To dip them where the waters glide
That flow from a troubled earthly tide.
The fields of upper air are thine,
Thy place where stars shine free,
I would thy home, bright one, were mine,
Above life's stormy sea.
I would never wander—bird, like thee,
So near this place again,
With wing and spirit once light and free—
They should wear no more, the chain
With which they are bound and fetter'd here,
For ever struggling for skies more clear.
Thy place where stars shine free,
I would thy home, bright one, were mine,
Above life's stormy sea.
I would never wander—bird, like thee,
So near this place again,
With wing and spirit once light and free—
They should wear no more, the chain
With which they are bound and fetter'd here,
For ever struggling for skies more clear.
There are many things like thee, bright bird,
Hopes as thy plumage gay,
Our air is with them for ever stirr'd,
But still in air they stay.
And happiness, like thee, fair one!
Is ever hovering o'er,
But rests in a land of brighter sun,
On a waveless, peaceful shore,
And stoops to lave her weary wings,
Where the fount of “living waters” springs.
Hopes as thy plumage gay,
Our air is with them for ever stirr'd,
But still in air they stay.
And happiness, like thee, fair one!
Is ever hovering o'er,
But rests in a land of brighter sun,
On a waveless, peaceful shore,
And stoops to lave her weary wings,
Where the fount of “living waters” springs.
“A bird peculiar to the east. It is supposed to fly constantly in the air, and never touch the ground”
RECOLLECTIONS.
I've pleasant thoughts that memory brings, in moments free from care,
Of a fairy-like and laughing girl, with roses in her hair;
Her smile was like the star-light of summer's softest skies,
And worlds of joyousness there shone, from out her witching eyes.
Of a fairy-like and laughing girl, with roses in her hair;
Her smile was like the star-light of summer's softest skies,
And worlds of joyousness there shone, from out her witching eyes.
Her looks were looks of melody, her voice was like the swell
Of sudden music, notes of mirth, that of wild gladness tell;
She came like spring, with pleasant sounds of sweetness and of mirth,
And her thoughts were those wild, flowery ones, that linger not on earth.
Of sudden music, notes of mirth, that of wild gladness tell;
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And her thoughts were those wild, flowery ones, that linger not on earth.
A quiet goodness beam'd amid the beauty of her face,
And all she said and did, was with its own instinctive grace;
She seem'd as if she thought the world a good and pleasant one,
And her light spirit saw no ill, in all beneath the sun.
And all she said and did, was with its own instinctive grace;
She seem'd as if she thought the world a good and pleasant one,
And her light spirit saw no ill, in all beneath the sun.
I 've dream'd of just such creatures, but they never met my view
'Mid the sober, dull reality, in their earthly form and hue.
And her smile came gently over me, like spring's first scented airs,
And made me think life was not all a wilderness of cares.
'Mid the sober, dull reality, in their earthly form and hue.
And her smile came gently over me, like spring's first scented airs,
And made me think life was not all a wilderness of cares.
I know not of her destiny, or where her smile now strays,
But the thought of her comes o'er me, with my own lost sunny days,
With moonlight hours, and far-off friends, and many pleasant things,
That have gone the way of all the earth on time's resistless wings.
But the thought of her comes o'er me, with my own lost sunny days,
With moonlight hours, and far-off friends, and many pleasant things,
That have gone the way of all the earth on time's resistless wings.
| Specimens of American poetry | |