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456 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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A mountain I never mistake for the ocean, A horse I can tell with great ease from a deer,
Of great things and small I've an excellent notion, And distinguish a fly from a whale very clear.
And now to conclude with a stiffish conundrum — " A part of the stern of a boat o'er the wave,
Seven hazels whose barren twigs cast no fruit under 'em," Is the name of the fair one who holds me a slave.
Not one in a thousand that try will make out of it The name of the maid most belov'd of my heart;
And though love touch my brain, yet the sense 'twon't take out of it, For I swear there's no poison or pain in his dart. |
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MARY OF THE CURLS
A
S oak-leaves, when autumn is turning them sere, Is the hue of my own Mary's beautiful hair; And light as young ash-sprays, that droop in the grove, Are the ringlets that wave round the head that I love.
Dear Mary ! each ringlet, so silken and fine,
Is a fetter that round my poor heart you entwine;
And if the wide ocean I roamed to the West,
It would still draw me back to the maid I love best.
Like stars that shine out from the calm summer sky Are the glances that beam from your melting blue eye; |
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