There is enough of sadness to invite, If only for the rose that died, whose doom Is Beauty's, - she that with the living bloom Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light; There is enough of sorrowing, and quite Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear, Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl; Enough of fear and shadowy despair, To frame her cloudy prison for the soul! BALLAD. SPRING it is cheery, Winter is dreary, Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly; When he's forsaken, Wither'd and shaken, What can an old man do but die? Love will not clip him, Maids will not lip him, Maud and Marian pass him by ; Youth it is sunny, Age has no honey, What can an old man do but die? June it was jolly, O for its folly! A dancing leg and a laughing eye; Youth may be silly, Wisdom is chilly, What can an old man do but die? Friends, they are scanty, Beggars are plenty, If he has followers, I know why; Gold's in his clutches, (Buying him crutches!) What can an old man do but die? HYMN TO THE SUN. GIVER of glowing light! Though but a god of other days, The kings and sages Of wiser ages Still live and gladden in thy genial rays! King of the tuneful lyre, Still poets' hymns to thee belong; Though lips are cold Whereon of old Thy beams all turn'd to worshipping and song! Lord of the dreadful bow, None triumph now for Python's death; But thou dost save From hungry grave The life that hangs upon a summer breath. |