 | Dryburgh Abbey and other poems |  |
SOMETHING CHEAP.
There's not a cheaper thing on earth,
Nor yet one half so dear;
'Tis worth more than distinguish'd birth,
Or thousands gained a-year;
It lends the day a new delight;
'Tis virtue's firmest shield;
And adds more beauty to the night
Than all the stars may yield.
Nor yet one half so dear;
'Tis worth more than distinguish'd birth,
Or thousands gained a-year;
It lends the day a new delight;
'Tis virtue's firmest shield;
And adds more beauty to the night
Than all the stars may yield.
It maketh poverty content,
To sorrow whispers peace;
It is a gift from Heaven sent
For mortals to increase:
It meets you with a smile at morn;
It lulls you to repose;
A flower for peer and peasant born,
An everlasting rose.
To sorrow whispers peace;
It is a gift from Heaven sent
For mortals to increase:
It meets you with a smile at morn;
It lulls you to repose;
A flower for peer and peasant born,
An everlasting rose.
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A charm to banish grief away,
To snatch the frown from care;
Turn tears to smiles, make dulness gay—
Spread gladness everywhere:
And yet 'tis cheap as summer dew,
That gems the lily's breast;
A talisman for love, as true
As ever man possess'd.
To snatch the frown from care;
Turn tears to smiles, make dulness gay—
Spread gladness everywhere:
And yet 'tis cheap as summer dew,
That gems the lily's breast;
A talisman for love, as true
As ever man possess'd.
As smiles the rainbow through the cloud
When threatening storm begins—
As music 'mid the tempest loud,
That still its sweet way wins—
As springs an arch across the tide,
Where waves conflicting foam,
So comes this seraph to our side,
This angel of our home.
When threatening storm begins—
As music 'mid the tempest loud,
That still its sweet way wins—
As springs an arch across the tide,
Where waves conflicting foam,
So comes this seraph to our side,
This angel of our home.
What may this wondrous spirit be,
With power unheard before—
This charm, this bright divinity?
Good temper—nothing more!
Good temper!—'tis the choicest gift
That woman homeward brings,
And can the poorest peasant lift
To bliss unknown to kings.
With power unheard before—
This charm, this bright divinity?
Good temper—nothing more!
Good temper!—'tis the choicest gift
That woman homeward brings,
And can the poorest peasant lift
To bliss unknown to kings.
| Dryburgh Abbey and other poems | |