His nerveless arms thine iron sinews bind, And lead in chains the desert's fallen king; Are these the beings that have dared to twine Their feeble threads around those limbs of thine? So must it be; the weaker, wiser race, That wields the tempest and that rides the sea, Even in the stillness of thy solitude Must teach the lesson of its power to thee; And thou, the terror of the trembling wild, Must bow thy savage strength, the mockery of a child! TO MY COMPANIONS. INE ancient Chair! thy wide-embracing arms Have clasped around me even from Hadst thou a voice to speak of years gone by, And thou, my Table! though unwearied Time And in my memory thou art living now; Thou melancholy Mug! thy sober brown Hath something pensive in its evening hue, Not like the things that please the tasteless clown, With gaudy streaks of orange and of blue; And I must love thee, for thou art mine own, Pressed by my lip, and pressed by mine alone. My broken Mirror! faithless, yet beloved, Thou who canst smile, and smile alike on all, Oft do I leave thee, oft again return, I scorn the siren, but obey the call; I hate thy falsehood, while I fear thy truth, But most I love thee, flattering friend of youth. Primeval Carpet! every well-worn thread Fainter and fainter in mine anxious eye; I love you all! there radiates from our own A soul that lives in every shape we see; Like echoed music answering to its key. And these poor frailties have a simple tone, THE LAST LEAF. SAW him once before, The pavement stones resound, As he totters o'er the ground With his cane. They say that in his prime, Not a better man was found But now he walks the streets, And he shakes his feeble head, 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. 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, I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin But the old three-cornered hat, And if I should live to be Let them smile, as I do now, TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER. JAN-VISAGED thing! thy virgin leaf Who can thy unborn meaning scan? Love may light on thy snowy cheek, And shake his Eden-breathing plumes; Then shalt thou tell how Lelia smiles, Or Angelina blooms. Satire may lift his bearded lance, Forestalling Time's slow-moving scythe, And, scattered on thy little field, Disjointed bards may writhe. Perchance a vision of the night, Some grizzled spectre, gaunt and thin, If it should be in pensive hour Some sorrow-moving theme I try, Ah, maiden, how thy tears will fall, But if in merry mood I touch Thy leaves, then shall the sight of thee Sow smiles as thick on rosy lips As ripples on the sea. The Weekly press shall gladly stoop To bind thee up among its sheaves; The Daily steal thy shining ore, To gild its leaden leaves. |