Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton collected and arranged by H. Augusta Dodge |
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Canto First.
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 | Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton |  |
Canto First.
Introductory Address to his Lordship.
Long is the time, my Prince, ah! long
Since last I sung my joyous song.
Long hath my harp, neglected, lain.
I thought to touch its strings again
No more, for Time's resistless hand
Hath thrust me far from “Fair Dream Land.”
The sunken cheek and silvered hair
And furrowed brow stern witness bear,
That Youth long since from me hath fled,
And left cold wrinkled Age instead.
Since last I sung my joyous song.
Long hath my harp, neglected, lain.
I thought to touch its strings again
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Hath thrust me far from “Fair Dream Land.”
The sunken cheek and silvered hair
And furrowed brow stern witness bear,
That Youth long since from me hath fled,
And left cold wrinkled Age instead.
Yet, Mighty Prince, when unto me
The breezes wafted o'er the Sea
The tidings, that thine azure eyes
Had gazed with infantine surprise
Upon this world, so strange and new
To thy bewildered, wondering view—
Then Youth's life-tide once more returned—
Then my seared heart with rapture burned.
The frozen streams of “feeling fine”
Dissolved by genial Love's sunshine.
I felt that I again was young—
That Childhood's scenes I stood among—
With Fervor, then I swept once more
My palsied hand the lute-strings o'er.
The breezes wafted o'er the Sea
The tidings, that thine azure eyes
Had gazed with infantine surprise
Upon this world, so strange and new
To thy bewildered, wondering view—
Then Youth's life-tide once more returned—
Then my seared heart with rapture burned.
The frozen streams of “feeling fine”
Dissolved by genial Love's sunshine.
I felt that I again was young—
That Childhood's scenes I stood among—
With Fervor, then I swept once more
My palsied hand the lute-strings o'er.
Thus, then, O Prince, I send to thee
A greeting o'er the rolling sea.
I sing not of proud Briton's fame,
Her bright though not unsullied name,
I give not, now, a passing glance
To Scotia's hills of wild Romance—
I sing not of the crested knight—
Of honor, won in deadly fight—
Where heroes fear—not Death but Shame—
Of periled life for haughty dame.
I sing not of the ancient lore
Of nations,—nations now no more,
Of ancient wood and mystic rite,
Shrouded in everlasting night,
Where man poured out his brother's blood,
A sacrifice, before his God.
A greeting o'er the rolling sea.
I sing not of proud Briton's fame,
Her bright though not unsullied name,
I give not, now, a passing glance
To Scotia's hills of wild Romance—
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Of honor, won in deadly fight—
Where heroes fear—not Death but Shame—
Of periled life for haughty dame.
I sing not of the ancient lore
Of nations,—nations now no more,
Of ancient wood and mystic rite,
Shrouded in everlasting night,
Where man poured out his brother's blood,
A sacrifice, before his God.
Such scenes as these would scarce be meet
In song thy rising life to greet.
I may not chill thy infant soul
With tales of thrilling horror told,
Of superstition's bloody sway,
Of Battle's raging fierce affray;
Mine—mine shall be a gentler lay—
A lay of love—a lay of truth—
The fresh, young love of happy youth.
List to the tale, I pray thee, now,
Of Aaron Clark and Betty Dow.
In song thy rising life to greet.
I may not chill thy infant soul
With tales of thrilling horror told,
Of superstition's bloody sway,
Of Battle's raging fierce affray;
Mine—mine shall be a gentler lay—
A lay of love—a lay of truth—
The fresh, young love of happy youth.
List to the tale, I pray thee, now,
Of Aaron Clark and Betty Dow.
| Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton | |