Puslapio vaizdai
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The mossy marbles rest

On the lips that he has prest
In their bloom,

And the names he loved to hear

Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said-
Poor old lady, she is dead
Long ago—

That he had a Roman nose,

And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff,

And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack

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,
Are so queer!

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!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle-shout,

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,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee;-
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

O better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,

And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every threadbare sail,

And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!

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 counts each poor occurrence,
Heeds not the heavenly laws.
Pity her!

She has a little beauty,

And she flaunts it in the day,
While the selfish wrinkles, spreading,

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,
Your draggled daily wear
And horny palms of labor

A softer heart may bear.

Pity her!

Ye steadfast ones, whose burthens
Weigh valorous shoulders down,
With hands that cannot idle,

And brows that will not frown,
Pity her!

Ye saints, whose thoughts are folded

As graciously to rest

As a dove's stainless pinions

Upon her guileless breast,
Pity her!

But most, ye helpful angels

That send distress and work,
Hot task and sweating forehead,
To heal man's idle irk,

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.

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