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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. |
59 |
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THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.
The time I've lost in wooing.
In watching and pursuing • The light that lies in woman's eyes,
Has heen my heart's undoing.
Though Wisdom oft has sought me,
I scorned the lore she brought me; My only books were woman's looks,
And folly's all they've taught me!
Her smile, when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted, Like him the Sprite whom maids by night , Oft meet in glen that's haunted.
Like him, too, Beauty won me,
But while her eyes were on me, ' If once their ray was turned away,
Oh, winds could not outrun me!
And are those follies going?
And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise for brilliant eyes
Again to set it glowing?
No—vain, alas! the endeavor
From bonds so sweet to sever:— , Poor Wisdom's chance against a glance
Is now as weak as ever! |
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THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUERED.
This life is all chequered with pleasures and woes,
That chase one another like waves of the deep— Each brightly or darkly, as onward It flows,
Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep. So closely our whims on our miseries tread,
That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried; And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity Is shed.
The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside. But pledge me the cup—If existence would cloy.
With hearts ever happy and heads ever wise, Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy,
And the light, brilliant Folly, that flashes and dies. When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
Through fields full of light, with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount,
And neglected his task for the flowers on the way. Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted
The fountain that rues by Philosophy's shrine, Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,
And left their light urns all as empty as mine. But pledge me the goblet—while Idleness weaves ' These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see One bright drop or two that has fallen on the leaves.
From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me. |
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THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.
'Tis the Last Rose of Summer, left blooming alone; All her lovely compa'nions are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, no rosebud Is nigh, To reflect back her blushes—to give sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, to pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, go sleep thou with them; Thus kindly I scatter thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow, when friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle the gems drop away! When true hearts lie withered, and fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit this bleak world alone? |
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