Have ye tippled drink more nne
Than mine host's Canary wine?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison? O generous food!
Dress'd as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and boose from horn and can.
I have heard that on a day
Mine host's signboard flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,
Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new old sign
Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac.
Souls of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
ELL me, now that thou art mine,
Why thou wert not sooner so:
Did thy bosom ne'er repine,
When thy lips had answer'd-no?
When I call'd up visions bright
From the realms of hope and bliss,
Did thy fancy shun the sight?
Did thy wishes fly my kiss?
What! and wouldst thou have me tell
How my foolish heart was won?
Wouldst thou have me break the spell,
Ere its whole sweet work is done?
Many a year the same light chain
That has bound me now should last;
And I fear 'twould fall in twain,
Were a glance but on it cast.
HAVE had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her-
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
Left him to muse on the old familiar faces.
Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood; Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces-
How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
PASS'D the cot but yesterday,
'Twas neat and clean, its inmates gay, All pleased and pleasing, void of guile, Pursuing sport or healthful toil.
To-day the skies are far more bright,
The woods pour forth more wild delight,
The air seems all one living hum,
And every leaflet breathes perfume.
Then why is silence in the cot,
Its wonted industry forgot,
The fire untrimm'd, the floor unred,
The chairs with clothes and dishes spread,
While, all in woful dishabille,
Across the floor the children steal?
Alas! these smother'd groans! these sighs!
Sick, sick the little darling lies;
The mother, while its moan ascends,
Pale, o'er the cradle, weeping, bends;
And, all absorbed in speechless woe,
The father round it paces slow.
Behind them close, with clasped hands,
The kindly village matron stands,
Bethinking what she shall direct,
For all night long, without effect,
Her patient care has been applied,
And all her various simples tried,
And glad were she could that be found
Would bring the baby safely round.
Meanwhile, the little innocent
To deeper moans gives ampler vent,
Lifts up its meek but burden'd eye,
As if to say, "Let me but die;
For me, your cares, your toils give o'er,
To die in peace, I ask no more."
But who is there with aspect kind,
Where faith, and hope, and love are join'd,
And pity sweet? The man of God,
Who soothes, exhorts, in mildest mood,
And to the pressure of the case
Applies the promises of grace-
Then lifts his pleading voice and eye
To Him enthroned above the sky,
Who, compass'd once with pains and fears,
Utter'd strong cries-wept bitter tears,
And hence his sympathetic glow
He feels for all his people's woe;
For health restored, and length of days,
To the sweet Babe he humbly prays,
But 'specially that he may prove
An heir of faith, a child of love,
That, when withdrawn from mortal eyes,
May bloom immortal in the skies-
And for the downcast parent pair,
Beneath this load of grief and care-
That grace divine may bear them up,
And sweeten even this bitter cup,
Which turns to gall their present hopes,
With consolation's cordial drops-
He pauses. Now the struggle's done,
His span is closed, his race is run,
No-yet he quivers-Ah! that thrill!
That wistful look-Ah! now how still.
But yesterday the cot was gay
With smiling Virtue's seraph train!
There Sorrow dwells with Death to-day,
When shall the cot be gay again?
THOU! by whose expressive art
Her perfect image Nature sees, In union with the graces, start, And sweeter by reflection please. In whose creative hand the hues, Stolen from yon orient rainbow shine:
I bless thee, Promethean Muse,
And hail thee brightest of the Nine!
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