 | Songs and Ballads |  |
1
WILL YOU LOVE ME THEN?
Wilt thou love me when at last
We are left alone?
When the revelry is past,
And gay friends are gone?
When the shade of dulness comes
From her dreary den?
And you think of brighter homes,—
Will you love me then?
We are left alone?
When the revelry is past,
And gay friends are gone?
When the shade of dulness comes
From her dreary den?
And you think of brighter homes,—
Will you love me then?
Will you love me when these eyes
All their light have lost?
When the glossy curls you prize
Show the wintry frost?
When my voice has lost its tone
Praised by flatt'ring men?
And when youth's light step is gone—
Will you love me then?
All their light have lost?
When the glossy curls you prize
Show the wintry frost?
When my voice has lost its tone
Praised by flatt'ring men?
And when youth's light step is gone—
Will you love me then?
11
THE DAHLIA.
Iv'e heard there once was a terrible fight
For precedence in Flora's bowers;
From sprigs of quality turning their back
Upon what they deem'd commoner flowers;
Oh great was the struggle! exotics toss'd
Their aristocratic heads,
And many who had been inclined to shoot,
Were obliged to keep their beds.
For precedence in Flora's bowers;
From sprigs of quality turning their back
Upon what they deem'd commoner flowers;
Oh great was the struggle! exotics toss'd
Their aristocratic heads,
And many who had been inclined to shoot,
Were obliged to keep their beds.
The lily had beauty and fashion too,
'Twas own'd that she bore the bell,
And the roses are a recherche race,
As all by their cuttings may tell;
But when the fair Dahlia came, she heard
A London pride thus say—
“We nobles of botany scorn to heed
“With the blossoms of Botany Bay.”
'Twas own'd that she bore the bell,
And the roses are a recherche race,
As all by their cuttings may tell;
But when the fair Dahlia came, she heard
A London pride thus say—
“We nobles of botany scorn to heed
“With the blossoms of Botany Bay.”
But when worth and modesty chance to rise,
It matters not whence they came,
For 'tis upstart folly himself who points
To his former humble name:
The Dahlia family now we meet,
In the most select of bowers;
Permitted to carry their heads as high
As some of the older flowers.
It matters not whence they came,
For 'tis upstart folly himself who points
To his former humble name:
The Dahlia family now we meet,
In the most select of bowers;
Permitted to carry their heads as high
As some of the older flowers.
16
SAY—WHERE IS THE NIGHTINGALE?
Say where is the nightingale I gave you in the spring?
Sweetly in unclouded nights the captive used to sing;
Oh it had the wildest notes that ever yet were heard;
Tell me not you've changed it for yon green and scarlet bird!
Sweetly in unclouded nights the captive used to sing;
Oh it had the wildest notes that ever yet were heard;
Tell me not you've changed it for yon green and scarlet bird!
Better is a gentle voice than a painted cheek,
I will have the wood notes wild, you the golden beak;
Take discordant beauty hence, I'm for plainer sweets,
I will have the nightingale's, you the paroquet's.
I will have the wood notes wild, you the golden beak;
Take discordant beauty hence, I'm for plainer sweets,
I will have the nightingale's, you the paroquet's.
18
WHY COMES HE NOT?
Why comes he not?—Why comes he not?
Oh sister can you say?
My boy and I have watch'd the path
Together all the day.
I'm jealous of the eager child,
I fain would be alone,
That his first coming may be seen,
By no eye save my own.
Oh sister can you say?
My boy and I have watch'd the path
Together all the day.
I'm jealous of the eager child,
I fain would be alone,
That his first coming may be seen,
By no eye save my own.
He comes—'tis he! I hear his steed,
Ah would he were in sight!
You think I am deceived? But hark,
You hear him—I was right.
Fool that I was—had I gone forth,
Beyond that shady grove,
I might already have beheld
The form of him I love.
Ah would he were in sight!
You think I am deceived? But hark,
You hear him—I was right.
Fool that I was—had I gone forth,
Beyond that shady grove,
I might already have beheld
The form of him I love.
He darts like lightning from the trees,
He waves his hand aloft,
Again I hear those words of love,
That I have heard so oft.
I envy not the dame whose lord
Is never forc'd to roam,
She never knew the boundless joy
Of such a welcome home!
He waves his hand aloft,
Again I hear those words of love,
That I have heard so oft.
I envy not the dame whose lord
Is never forc'd to roam,
She never knew the boundless joy
Of such a welcome home!
33
WHO IS IT HAS THE HAPPY FACE?
Who is it has the happy face
Where smiles unceasing play?
Who trips o'er all the thorns of life
Still gayest of the gay?
Oh is it not the heart that bears
No consciousness of sin,
That scatters round it radiant smiles
From self esteem within?
Where smiles unceasing play?
Who trips o'er all the thorns of life
Still gayest of the gay?
Oh is it not the heart that bears
No consciousness of sin,
That scatters round it radiant smiles
From self esteem within?
Who is it has the gentle voice
That sooths away a care?
Who strives to wean you from the past,
And paints the future fair?
Oh is it not the heart that bears
No consciousness of sin,
That scatters round it radiant smiles
From self esteem within?
That sooths away a care?
Who strives to wean you from the past,
And paints the future fair?
Oh is it not the heart that bears
No consciousness of sin,
That scatters round it radiant smiles
From self esteem within?
Who in severest storms, ne'er leaves
The guidance of his bark?
Who e'en in shipwreck clings to hope,
The green leaf of the ark.
Oh is it not the heart that bears
No consciousness of sin,
That scatters round it radiant smiles
From self esteem within?
The guidance of his bark?
Who e'en in shipwreck clings to hope,
The green leaf of the ark.
Oh is it not the heart that bears
No consciousness of sin,
That scatters round it radiant smiles
From self esteem within?
91
TO HELENA ON HER BIRTHDAY.
My own Love! my true Love! here's health and joy to you, Love!
A happy year, without a tear, and sweet smiles not a few, Love.
Of all my anniversaries, I prize your birthday best,
And well I may, for 'twas the day that brighten'd all the rest;
To this I owe my bliss below—oh, more than that, the Love
Whose purity my guide may be to happiness above!
A happy year, without a tear, and sweet smiles not a few, Love.
Of all my anniversaries, I prize your birthday best,
And well I may, for 'twas the day that brighten'd all the rest;
To this I owe my bliss below—oh, more than that, the Love
Whose purity my guide may be to happiness above!
My wedding-day is welcome, but it shines in borrow'd bliss,—
That day owes all its value to the dear one born on this:
In doubt, you are the monitor, I scorn not to obey,
You are the friend I turn to, when a joy is torn away:
In sorrow, I have often feign'd hope's softly soothing tone,
Till, striving to subdue your grief, I half forgot my own.
And then in bliss—oh, what is bliss, I ask, unless it be
To look upon your happiness!—aye, that's the bliss for me!
That day owes all its value to the dear one born on this:
In doubt, you are the monitor, I scorn not to obey,
You are the friend I turn to, when a joy is torn away:
In sorrow, I have often feign'd hope's softly soothing tone,
Till, striving to subdue your grief, I half forgot my own.
And then in bliss—oh, what is bliss, I ask, unless it be
To look upon your happiness!—aye, that's the bliss for me!
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