Ah! 'twere a lot too blessed For ever in thy coloured shades to stray; To rove and dream for aye; And leave the vain low strife That makes men mad-the tug for wealth and power, The passions and the cares that wither life, And waste its little hour. MUTATION. A SONNET. THEY talk of short-lived pleasure-be it so- And after dreams of horror, comes again Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease: Are fruits of innocence and blessedness: Thus joy, o'erborne and bound, doth still release His young limbs from the chains that round him press. Weep not that the world changes-did it keep A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep. NOVEMBER. A SONNET. YET one smile more, departing, distant sun! One smile on the brown hills and naked trees, And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast, And the blue gentian flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last. Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, The cricket chirp upon the russet lea, And man delight to linger in thy ray. Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air. SONG OF THE GREEK AMAZON. I BUCKLE to my slender side The pistol and the scimitar, And in my maiden flower and pride And yonder stands my fiery steed, That paws the ground and neighs to go, My charger of the Arab breed, I took him from the routed foe. My mirror is the mountain spring, And wash away the blood-stain there. It was for one-oh, only one— I kept its bloom, and he is dead. But they who slew him—unaware And left him to the fowls of air, Are yet alive-and they must die. They slew him—and my virgin years Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now, And many an Othman dame, in tears, I touched the lute in better days, Whose hands can touch a lover's hand. The march of hosts that haste to meet |