 | Massachusetts and other poems |  |
45
POEMS.
A MA CHERE AMIE.
Farewell to thee, ma chere amie!
We part, but not forever;
The chain of friendship's ductile length
Extension cannot sever.
We part, but not forever;
The chain of friendship's ductile length
Extension cannot sever.
The world is cold, ma chere amie,
And it chills our heart's warm feeling;
We hail with joy sweet friendship's vine
Around our spirits stealing.
And it chills our heart's warm feeling;
We hail with joy sweet friendship's vine
Around our spirits stealing.
The chill blast comes, ma chere amie,
And the world its wild war wages;
But friendship's tendrils closer cling,
As wild the tempest rages.
And the world its wild war wages;
But friendship's tendrils closer cling,
As wild the tempest rages.
I'll think of thee, ma chere amie,
When the beautiful stars are beaming;
I'll think that thine's the brightest one
Whose rays on me are streaming.
When the beautiful stars are beaming;
I'll think that thine's the brightest one
Whose rays on me are streaming.
Then fare thee well, ma chere amie!
We part, but not forever;
The chain of friendship's ductile length
Extension cannot sever.
We part, but not forever;
The chain of friendship's ductile length
Extension cannot sever.
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LONELINESS.
Loneliness!'Tis not in deserts—not within the deep
And dark old forests, where the rising sun
Waketh no murmur, and his going down
Is silent—but the crowd—the rushing crowd
Is solitude. There is no voice
In the loud tumult of the city's throngs,
There is no communing of spirits there;
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Each in his individual life bound up.
And he, the Pilgrim, with a lonely heart,
Broken on Fortune's wheel, he feels the dearth
Of mingling life. O, tell me not the woods
Are solitudes, while selfish men exist.
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SONNET.
AFTER A THUNDER-STORM.
Soft blows the freshen'd air! the gloomy cloudsThat hung above the misty mount are breaking;
The birds are bursting from their leafy shrouds,
And hill and vale with minstrelsy are waking,
With gushing rivulets sweet music making.
Earth breathes again! for she has cast away
The nightmare Tempest, and in sunlight basks,
To drink its warmth, while kindly Nature tasks
Her art, to bring, beneath her gentle sway,
Our late-complaining souls to smile in gladness.
Thus, gladd'ning every bosom with his rays,
And bidding every tongue to shout his praise,
And drying Nature's tear-drops in his blaze,
The happy sun can wake mankind from sadness.
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SUMMER-MUSINGS.
Sunlight around me danceth! shadows creep
Across my sight, and vanish; balmy airs
Float up and down around me; gentle flowers,
Green, waving trees, and golden-plumag'd birds,
Painted and fanciful butterflies, and bees,
Buzzing and circling round;—all summer life!
All that doth make the forest beautiful—
All that doth speak of joy—is round me now.
There is a little brooklet at my feet,
Purling and whispering, as if its breast
Labored with some huge secret, which it fain
Would tell to me. And there, beneath the bank
All green and mossy, where the willows hang
In beautiful festoons—within that nook—
The silver-pinioned troutling glideth slow.
Across my sight, and vanish; balmy airs
Float up and down around me; gentle flowers,
Green, waving trees, and golden-plumag'd birds,
Painted and fanciful butterflies, and bees,
Buzzing and circling round;—all summer life!
All that doth make the forest beautiful—
All that doth speak of joy—is round me now.
There is a little brooklet at my feet,
Purling and whispering, as if its breast
Labored with some huge secret, which it fain
Would tell to me. And there, beneath the bank
All green and mossy, where the willows hang
In beautiful festoons—within that nook—
The silver-pinioned troutling glideth slow.
Yonder, upon a fall'n and mossy oak,
That once in majesty o'ertopped the scene,
Creepeth a lazy caterpillar, with a dull
And measured listlessness. Perchance, as now,
With slow, monotonous march, he crawleth on,
He dreameth with a trusting hopefulness
Of light and beauty in his crysalis-birth;
And so plods perseveringly along,
Sustained and strengthened.
May I learn from him
To bear this caterpillar-load of life,
Until from heaven shall fall my spirit-wings!
That once in majesty o'ertopped the scene,
Creepeth a lazy caterpillar, with a dull
And measured listlessness. Perchance, as now,
With slow, monotonous march, he crawleth on,
He dreameth with a trusting hopefulness
Of light and beauty in his crysalis-birth;
And so plods perseveringly along,
Sustained and strengthened.
May I learn from him
To bear this caterpillar-load of life,
Until from heaven shall fall my spirit-wings!
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“WHAT TIME IS IT?”
“What time is it?” How oft we hear,
In walks of common life,
This question asked, and yet appear
To heed it not, although, I fear,
With meaning it is rife.
In walks of common life,
This question asked, and yet appear
To heed it not, although, I fear,
With meaning it is rife.
“What time is it?” the drunkard asks,
The answer here is plain;
'Tis time to leave your brandy-flasks,
To pay attention to your tasks,
And health and comfort gain.
The answer here is plain;
'Tis time to leave your brandy-flasks,
To pay attention to your tasks,
And health and comfort gain.
“What time is it?” inquires the fop,
Who daily struts the street;
'Tis time your lounging ways to drop,
Your monkeyfied moustaches crop,
Your tailor's bills to meet.
Who daily struts the street;
'Tis time your lounging ways to drop,
Your monkeyfied moustaches crop,
Your tailor's bills to meet.
“What time is it?” the gambler cries;
The answer I'll be giving;
'Tis time to leave your cards and dice,
Your cheating, knavery, and lies,
And gain an honest living.
The answer I'll be giving;
'Tis time to leave your cards and dice,
Your cheating, knavery, and lies,
And gain an honest living.
“What time is it?” now next inquires
The hungry office-seeker;
'Tis time to quench your faction-fires,
To think of other men's desires,
And be a little meeker.
The hungry office-seeker;
'Tis time to quench your faction-fires,
To think of other men's desires,
And be a little meeker.
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