The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. My grandmamma has said- That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose But now his nose is thin, And a crook is in his back, In his laugh. I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat And the breeches, and all that, And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling. OLD IRONSIDES. Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! And burst the cannon's roar;— The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more! Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, No more shall feel the victor's tread, O better that her shattered hulk And there should be her grave; Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms, THE VOICELESS. We count the broken lyres that rest Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, But o'er their silent sister's breast The wild-flowers who will stoop to number? A few can touch the magic string, And noisy Fame is proud to win them :— Alas for those that never sing, But die with all their music in them! Nay, grieve not for the dead alone Whose song has told their heart's sad story,— Weep for the voiceless, who have known The cross without the crown of glory! Not where Leucadian breezes sweep O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, But where the glistening night-dews weep On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. O hearts that break and give no sign Save whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his cordial wine Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,If singing breath or echoing chord To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven! Inha Ward home. THE FINE LADY. Her heart is set on folly, An amber gathering straws; She has a little beauty, And she flaunts it in the day, Steal all its charm away. Pity her! She has a little money, And she flings it everywhere; 'Tis a gewgaw on her bosom, 'Tis a tinsel in her hair. Pity her! She has a little feeling, She spreads a foolish net That snares her own weak footsteps, Not his for whom 'tis set. Pity her! Ye harmless household drudges, A softer heart may bear. Pity her! Ye steadfast ones, whose burthens And brows that will not frown, Ye saints, whose thoughts are folded As graciously to rest As a dove's stainless pinions Upon her guileless breast, But most, ye helpful angels That send distress and work, Pity her! THE FLAG. There's a flag hangs over my threshold, whose folds are more dear to me Than the blood that thrills in my bosom its earnest of liberty; And dear are the stars it harbors in its sunny field of blue As the hope of a further heaven that lights all our dim lives through. |