Puslapio vaizdai
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STANZAS

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STANZAS.

BY LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

THEY dread no storm that lowers,
No perished joys bewail,
They pluck no thorn-clad flowers,
Nor drink of streams that fail,
There is no tear-drop in their eye,
No change upon their brow,
The placid bosom heaves no sigh,
Though all earth's idols bow.

Who are so greatly blest?—

From whom hath sorrow fled?Who share such deep, unbroken rest, While all things toil?—The dead! The holy dead!-why weep ye so

Above the sable bier ?--

Thrice blessed!—they have done with wo
The living claim the tear.

Go to their sleeping bowers,

Deck their low couch of clay

With early spring's uncolored flowers,

And when they fade away, Think of the amaranthine wreath

The bright bowers never dim,

And tell me why thou flyest from death
Or hidest thy friends from him?-

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We dream but they awake,

Dark visions mar our rest,

Through thorns and snares our way we take,
And yet we mourn the blest!

For those who throng the eternal Throne
Lost are the tears we shed,-
They are the living,-they alone
Whom thus we call the dead.

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It was a fleeting passion, brief and vain,
As the mere shadow of an idle dream,
And bound me slightly as a silken chain

Might bind the flowing breeze or floating stream;
It happened thus-I met her, called her dear,
And whispered loving nonsense in her ear.

It grew upon me, and in time I came
To think upon her often when away;

And yet more brightly burned the rising flame;
And, while her image haunted me by day,
Oft to my nightly visions came the glance,
That beamed so sweetly in the evening dance.

Thus it went on. It was no fault of mine

That I should dearly love to sit and talk with her;

PHILOSOPHY.

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That in the moonlight or the bright star shine,
I thought it very sweet indeed to walk with her;
And chat of half a millon pretty things,

Which beauty's presence to your tongue's end brings.

I was not far from twenty, and the fairy,
Within some seven years, was about the same;
For the rhyme's sake we'll call our beauty Mary,
Though I assure you that is not her name:
Excuse my noting names and ages so,

But then I thought that you might like to know.

She loved me, often promised that her love
Should cling to me, while she should cling to life;
She called upon the burning stars above,

And whispered something of that sweet word, wife ;
But what is endless love, except where cash is?
The fabled fruit of blooming gilded ashes.

Do you like letter-reading? if you do,

I have some twenty dozen very pretty ones;
Gay sober, rapturous, solemn, very true,
And very lying-stupid ones, and witty ones;
On gilt edged paper, blue perhaps or pink,
And frequently in fancy colored ink.

And then the seals-a silver cresent moon, With half a line of melting French or Latin; The flower which has an eye as bright as noon,

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And leaf as delicate as softest satin,
Called the Forget-me-not, but known as well
By twenty names I cannot stop to tell---

A leaf with half a dozen words, that mean
'I only change in death;' a gentle dove,
With an Italian motto-you have seen
Fifty just like them, if you've been in love
And had occasion to write billet-doux,
Or had them written in return to you.

Do you like trinkets? I have chains and rings,
And ringlets of her own dark, glossy hair,
Lockets, and favors, and the little things,
That gentlemen in love are wont to wear;
Among the rest a pair of hearts-in token
Of her own faithlessness, one heart is broken!

Now who would think it? I am very quiet,
And not disposed to murmur at the sex,
And though, I fancy, if disposed to try it
I might tell tales that would be apt to vex
Some pert coquettes—yet, take them on the whole,
You very seldom find one with a soul.

It was a very charming autumn night,

When forest leaves had not yet changed their hue,
The many sentinel stars were shining bright
In the o'erarching sky's unclouded blue;
And every thing, around us and above,

Breathed sweetest incense to our vows of love.

PHILOSOPHY.

That autumn evening I remember yet,
It was so full of joy; and you may say,
That I had little reason to forget

Such an occasion to my dying day;
I parted from her at eleven or past,
And little thought that parting was our last.

I knew there was a rival in the case,
A very rich and very stupid fellow;
With bushy whiskers on an ugly face,
And a complexion not a little yellow;
Six feet in height, and of a stately carriage,
And of an age to make a prudent marriage.

But that did not diminish my surprise,
When, on the very afternoon succeeding,
A black-sealed billet met my startled eyes,
Filled to the brim with entertaining reading;
It was, indeed, most singularly phrased,
And left me quite peculiarly amazed.

She was extremely sorry, on her soul,
Hoped I might still continue as a brother,
But circumstances, she could not control,
Forced her, alas! to marry with another;
And friends, regardless of her deep affection,
Had interfered to sever our connexion!

I am not of the family of Stoics,

And thought at first of nothing short of death;

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