ROUTLEDGE'S RED LINE POETS. COWPER. MILTON. WORDSWORTH. SOUTHEY. GOLDSMITH, BURNS. MOORE. BYRON. РОРЕ. SCOTT. HERBERT. CAMPBELL. SHAKSPERE. CHAUCER. WILLIS. SACRED POEMS. FAMILIAR QUOTATIONS. MRS. HEMANS. SHELLEY. COLERIDGE. HOOD. COMIC POETRY. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. To my Readers. NAY, blame me not; I might have spared The chestnut-burs await the frost." When those I wrote, my locks were brown, When these I write-ah, well-a-day! The autumn thistle's silvery down Is not the purple bloom of May ! Go, little book, whose pages hold O sexton of the alcoved tomb, Where souls in leathern cerements lie, It matters little, soon or late, A day, a month, a year, an age, I read oblivion in its date, And Finis on its title-page. Before we sighed, our griefs were told; And all our passions shaped of old In vain a fresher mould we seek,- Caged in the poet's lonely heart, Love wastes unheard its tenderest tone; Deal gently with us, ye who read! Our ripest fruit we never reach; The buds of song that never blow. April 8, 1862. |