RICHARD PENN SMITH
THE COTTAGE LOVERS.
The mist of the morn is still grey on the mountain;
The violet blooms on the brink of the fountain;
Low murmurs the stream from the mossy rock gushing,
But wildly and loud through the dark ravine rushing.
The pheasant now springs from his dew-spangled nest;
The crescent moon sinks like a bark in the west;
The first streak of morning now breaks through the night,
And mountains and vales ring with hymns of delight.
The horn of the huntsman sounds far o'er the hill,
The voice of the fleet hound is frequent and shrill,
While panting the chased stag appears at the lake,
He swims the dark stream and then bounds through the brake.
How sweet is the woodbine o'er yon lattice creeping,
Which blushingly steals where the maiden is sleeping!
How softly the breeze sounds that kisses the billow!
But softer by far is the sigh on yon pillow.
The dash of a light oar is heard on the lake,
And gaily a voice sings “Awake! oh! awake!
The morning already is gray on the hill;
The crow of the barn cock is frequent and shrill.
And hark, the wood echoes the wood cutter's stroke;
The mocking bird sings on the top of the oak;
The cow-boy is driving the herd to the lake,
The plough-boy's afield, and all nature's awake.
Oh! come, dearest, come, to the cot of thy lover,
Where souls may be free as the wings of the plover,
And hearts shall be pure as the vestal maid's shrine,
And the day star of true love shall never decline.
The bright face of one at the lattice is seen,
And ruby lips glow through the foliage of green,
Like buds of the vine the wild breezes perfuming,
Ere breath of the morning has kiss'd them to blooming.
The maiden now stands on the brink of the stream,
And looks upon life as a fairy-like dream,
For she hies to the spot where her soul may be blest
With a passion as mild as the dove in its nest.
On the stern of the skiff she is seated in haste,
Her lover beside her with arm round her waist,
He presses her lips as they float from the shore
And they mingle their songs with the dash of the oar.
FRAGMENT.
Art thou a husband?—hast thou lost
The partner of thy joys—thy woes;
Didst watch her when in anguish tost,
And share the dire conflicting throes
Of agonized mortality,
Till e'en to thee 't was bliss to close
The last fond look of her glazed eye?
Art thou a father?—hath thy son,
The prop of thy declining life,
Fail'd ere his manly race was run,
And left thee to a world of strife?
Dost thou pursue in cold neglect
The remnant of thy journey here;
No one thy frailties to protect,
Or gray-hair'd sorrows to revere?
Is it denied thy stricken heart
To gaze upon the face of one,
Who seem'd thy former counterpart,
Recalling ages long since gone?
To see the follies that were thine
When life ran frolic through each vein;
And thus, e'en in thy life's decline
To live the hours of youth again.
Art thou a lover?—is the theme
Of all thy raptures torn from thee;
Hast broke the wild ecstatic dream
And woke to actual agony?
The eyes where countless cupids play'd;
The form as light as gossamer;
The neck where thy warm lips have stray'd—
Say, does the grave worm fatten there?
If so, say, hast thou never known
The joy of gazing on the sky
While nature sleeps, and you alone
Seem roused to thought and misery.
Hast never watch'd the pallid moon,
While resting on some sifted cloud,
Pure as the fretful ocean's foam,
And filmy as an angel's shroud.
Gazed on her while her crescent pride
Seem'd through a sea of pitch to float;
Then from the depth of darkness glide,
And burst to view a fairy boat;
And shed her beams so strong and bright,
That the globe seem'd a chrysolite?—
'T is heavenly at that hour to muse,
When sleep is o'er the senses stealing,
And e'en to agony profuse,
Indulge the luxury of feeling.
The features to recall of those,
Who moulder in their last repose;
To chase each image that may rise
In mockery before the eyes,
Until you catch the happy clue
That brings to life the wonted smile,
And gives the cheek its roseate hue
That moulders in decay the while;
Then dead to reason; dead to pain,
You dream an hour of bliss again.
