But his famous fathers, dead, And yet he was but friend to one By some lone fountain fringed with green: He lived (none else would he obey KING DEATH. KING DEATH was a rare old fellow ! Hurrah! for the coal-black wine! There came to him many a maiden, Hurrah! for the coal-black wine! The scholar left all his learning,- Hurrah! for the coal-black wine! All came to the royal old fellow, Who laugh'd till his eyes dropp'd brine; As he gave them his hand so yellow, And pledg'd them in death's black wine. Hurrah! hurrah! Hurrah! for the coal-black wine! DIRGE. LET the moaning music die, Turn'd by strong neglect to pain! Like a lump of idle clay! They are gone who loved and died,— The once lover and his bride; Therefore we our sorrow weave Into songs ;-yet wherefore grieve? They are gone together: They are safe from wind and weather, Lightning and the drowning rain, And the hell of earthly pain. They are dead ;— —or if they live, There is One who can forgive, Though a thousand errors ran Through the fond, false heart of man. Let the moaning music perish! Though we weep, we weep in vain! Haply to the summer shores,- Music with the flooding light, And the night doth chase the day, They are gone-where pleasure reigns Far above the scathing thunder, Far above the storms and jars Over Beauty's number'd years! SERENADE. AWAKE!-the starry midnight hour Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight; In its own sweetness sleeps the flower, And the doves lie hushed in deep delight: Awake! awake! Look forth, my love, for love's sweet sake! Awake!-soft dews will soon arise From daisied mead, and thorny brake; Then, sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes, And like the tender morning break! Awake! awake! Dawn forth, my love, for love's sweet sake! Awake!-within the musk-rose bower I watch, pale flower of love, for thee; What wealth of love thou hidest from me! Show all thy love, for love's sweet sake! Awake!—ne'er heed, though listening night She comes, at last, for love's sweet sake! LIFE. We are born; we laugh, we weep, Ah! wherefore do we laugh, or weep? Why do we live, or die? Who knows that secret deep? Alas, not I! Why doth the violet spring Why do the radiant seasons bring We toil-through pain and wrong; We love, we lose-and then, ere long, O life! is all thy song "Endure and-die ?" TO A WOUNDED SINGING BIRD. POOR singer! hath the fowler's gun, And breathe on thee, and keep thee warm; Perhaps some human kindness still May make amends for human ill. We'll take thee in, and nurse thee well, Till summer fall on field and fell, And thou shalt be our feather'd child; And tell us all thy pain and wrong, When thou canst speak again in song. |