THE MOON. Time wears her not; she doth his chariot guide; Mortality below her orb is placed. RALEIGH. THE full-orbed moon with unchanged ray Not doomed to these short nights for aye, She does not wane, but my fortune, And if she faintly glimmers here, Yet alway in her proper sphere She's mistress of the night. T. TO THE MAIDEN IN THE EAST. Low in the eastern sky Is set thy glancing eye; And though its gracious light. Behind the gnarled limbs Believe I knew thy thought, Over my head, While gentle things were said. Believe the thrushes sung, The trees a welcome waved, When thy free mind It was a summer eve, From yonder comes the sun, Along his dusty way, Only auroral heats, Nor ever sets, To hasten vain regrets. Direct thy pensive eye Accept it for a sign That I am near, I'll be thy Mercury, Thou Cytherea to me, The earth shall learn my place; As near beneath thy light Still will I strive to be To trip thy slender foot. I'll walk with gentle pace, And careful dip the oar, And shun the winding shore, And gently steer my boat Where water lilies float, And cardinal flowers Stand in their sylvan bowers. THE SUMMER RAIN. My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read, 'Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too, Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough, Between the ants upon this hummock's crown. Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn, If red or black the gods will favor most, Tell Shakspeare to attend some leisure hour, This bed of herdsgrass and wild oats was spread And violets quite overtop my shoes. And now the cordial clouds have shut all in, Drip, drip the trees for all the country round, For shame the sun will never show himself, T. THE ARTIST. He breathed the air of realms enchanted, That bore us flowers for use too bright, Unless it were to stay some spirit's viewless flight. With us he lived a common life, And wore a plain familiar name, That to inferior spirits came, Yet bore a pulse within, the world could never tame. A sky more soft than Italy's A halcyon light around him spread; And tones were his, and only his, So sweetly floating o'er his head, None knew at what rich feast the favored guest was fed. They could not guess or reason why He chose the ways of poverty ; They read no secret in his eye, But scorned the holy mystery, That brooded o'er his thoughts and gave him power to see. But all unveiled the world of sense An inner meaning had for him; And Beauty loved in innocence, Not sought in passion or in whim, Within a soul so pure could ne'er grow dull or dim. And in this vision did he toil, And in this Beauty lived and died; And think not that he left our soil By no fruit-offerings sanctified: In olden times he might have been his country's pride: And yet may be though he hath gone; For spirits of so fine a mould. Lose not the glory they have won; Their memory turns not pale and cold; While Love lives on, the lovely never can grow old. C. P. C. |