| Share page | Visit Us On FB |
|
IM HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
||
|
|
||
|
FLY NOT YET.
Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flow'r,
That scorns the eye of vulgar light.
Begins to bloom for sons of night,
And maids who love the moon!
'Twas but to bless these hours of shad*
That beauty and the moon were made,
'Tls then soft attractions glowing.
Set the tides and goblets flowing,
Oh! stay,— oh! stay,—
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that oh! 'tis pain
To break Its links so soon.
Oh! stay, oh! stay,—
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that oh! 'tis pain
To break its links so soon.
Fly not yet; the fount that play'd
In times of old, through Ammon's shade,
Though ley cold by day it ran,
Yet still, like souls of mirth, began
To burn when night was near;
And thus should women's hearts and looks
At noon be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindle till the night, returning,
Brings their genial hour for burning,
Oh! stay—oh! stay, When did morning ever break. And find such beaming eyes awake, As those that sparkle here!
Oh! stay, etc.
SWEET SYBYL.
My Love Is as fresh as the morning sky.
My Love is as soft as the summer air, My Love is as true as the Saints on high. And never was saint so fair! O, glad is my heart when I name her name,
For it sounds like a song to me— I'll love you, it sings, nor heed their blame, For you love me Astor Macbree! Sweet Sibyl! sweet Sibyl! my heart is wild
With the fairy spell that her eyes have lit; I sit in a dream where my Love has smil'd— I kiss where her name is writ! O, darling, I fly like a dreamy boy;
The toil that is Joy to the strong and true, The life that the brave for their land employ, I squander In dreams of you. The face of my Love has the changeful light That gladdens the sparkling sky of spring; The voice of my Love Is a strange delight, As when birds in the May-time sing. O, hope of my heart! O, light of my life!
O, come to me, darling, with peace and rest! O, come like the Summer, my own sweet wife, To your home In my longing breast! Be Messed with the home sweet Sibyl will sway With the glance of her soft and queenly eyes; O! happy the love young Sibyl wlli pay With the breatb of her tender sighs. That home Is the hope of my waking dreams—
That love fills my eyes with pride— There's light in their glance, there's joy in their beams. When I think of my own young bride. |
||