Who, that ever approach'd him, when free from the crowd, In a home full of love, he delighted to tread 'Mong the trees which a nation had giv'n, and which bow'd, As if each brought a new civic crown for his head Is there one, who hath thus, through his orbit of life Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same, Oh no, not a heart, that e'er knew him but mourns I'VE A SECRET TO TELL THEE. I'VE a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here,- I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear, Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps; Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush; Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs, The rose saith, chidingly, "Hush, sweet, hush!” There, amid the deep silence of that hour, Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip: The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush. Sits ever thus, his only song To earth and heaven, "Hush. all, hush!" THE MINSTREL BOY. THE Minstrel Boy to the war is gone, And his wild harp slung behind him.— "Land of song!" said the. warrior-bard, Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, "One faithful harp shall praise thee!" The Minstrel fell-but the foeman's chain For he tore its chords asunder; And said, “No chains shall sully thee, "Thou soul of love and bravery! Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery." Lesbia wears a robe of gold, But all so close the nymph hath lac'd it, Not a charm of beauty's mould Presumes to stay where nature plac'd it. Oh! my Nora's gown for me, That floats as wild as mountain breezes, Leaving every beauty free To sink or swell as Heaven pleases. My simple, graceful Nora Creina, Is loveliness The dress you wear, my Nora Creina. Lesbia hath a wit refin'd, But, when its points are gleaming round us Who can tell if they're design'd To dazzle merely, or to wound us? In safer slumber Love reposes— My mild, my artless Nora Creina! Hath no such light, As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina. DOWN in the valley come meet me to-night, But for the world, let no one be nigh, Lest haply the stars should deceive me; Such secrets between you and me and the sky Should never go farther, believe me. If at that hour the heav'ns be not dim, And if to that phantom you'll be kind, Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight, He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotionAn ardour, of which such an innocent sprite You'd scarcely believe had a notion. What other thoughts and events may arise, As in destiny's book I've not seen them, Must only be left to the stars and your eyes To settle, ere morning, between them. THE WANDERING BARD. WHAT life like that of the bard can be,- The world's to him like some play-ground, Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom, They tell us, in the moon's bright round, Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim? Then, welcome the bard where'er he comes,- Yet still, from time to time, he loves No matter how far, how fleet he flies, Proclaims he's wanting on earth! |