I stood by the Avon, whose waves as I care not who sees it, they glide Still whisper his glory who sleeps at their side. But my heart would still yearn for the sound of the waves That sing as they flow by my forefathers' graves; If manhood yet honors my cheek with a tear, here! Farewell to the deep-bosomed stream of the West! I fling this loose blossom to float on its breast; Nor let the dear love of its children Till the channel is dry where its waters A POEM They hint that papers by the score FOR THE MEETING OF THE AMERICAN They don't exactly mean a bore, MEDICAL ASSOCIATION AT NEW YORK, A flattering letter-more's the pity, - And signed per order of Committee; My well-known — something — don't ask what, But only trying to the patience; Should bring the dews of Hippocrene - The same old story; that's the chaff To catch the birds that sing the ditties; My poor old songs, my kind affec- Upon my soul, it makes me laugh Our friends will come with anxious Why, who am I, to lift me here faces (To see our blankets off, no doubt, And trot us out and show our paces). And beg such learned folk to listen,→ To ask a smile, or coax a tear Beneath these stoic lids to glisten? . |