 | Poems by Miss H. F. Gould |  |
210
COME HITHER, BRIGHT BIRD.
Come hither, bright bird, from thy wild native bower,
While high o'er the hill-tops the sun rises clear.
Come, sing a sweet song to this new-opened flower,
And drink off the dew-drop;—it looks like a tear!
While high o'er the hill-tops the sun rises clear.
Come, sing a sweet song to this new-opened flower,
And drink off the dew-drop;—it looks like a tear!
It cannot be true, that, so stainless and young,
The heart of my flower has been clouded by grief;
I would not, then, see on it outwardly hung
The semblance of sorrow, to burden a leaf.
The heart of my flower has been clouded by grief;
I would not, then, see on it outwardly hung
The semblance of sorrow, to burden a leaf.
Be quick! for it has but a morning to live
So fresh in its odors, in beauty so fair.
To pay for thy music, to thee it will give
The first spicy breathing it throws upon air.
So fresh in its odors, in beauty so fair.
To pay for thy music, to thee it will give
The first spicy breathing it throws upon air.
Make haste, little vagrant! 't is waiting for thee,
Its perfume to take on thy delicate plume.
Come, say if a brighter or sweeter can be
Concealed in thy desert home, lonely to bloom.
Its perfume to take on thy delicate plume.
Come, say if a brighter or sweeter can be
Concealed in thy desert home, lonely to bloom.
It has not yet looked in the stream from the fount,
To see how itself to another may shine:
It has not begun its attractions to count,—
A study too sure to begin their decline!
To see how itself to another may shine:
It has not begun its attractions to count,—
A study too sure to begin their decline!
For, well do I know in this light world of ours,
Where loveliness withers, and beauty is vain,
It chances too oft with the fairest of flowers,
That, after the mirror, few charms will remain.
Where loveliness withers, and beauty is vain,
It chances too oft with the fairest of flowers,
That, after the mirror, few charms will remain.
211
Of praising her, then, pretty minstrel, beware,
Whatever thy wonder her glory to hail.
If told but for once, she is winning and rare,
'T will follow too soon that she's simple and frail.
Whatever thy wonder her glory to hail.
If told but for once, she is winning and rare,
'T will follow too soon that she's simple and frail.
Yet, come, and thy rapture in melody pour,
While flitting delighted around my young flower;
But let her believe thou hast left many more,
Her rivals, that bloom in thy far-away bower!
While flitting delighted around my young flower;
But let her believe thou hast left many more,
Her rivals, that bloom in thy far-away bower!
| Poems by Miss H. F. Gould | |