And yet a little longer speak, Calm this resentful mood;And while the savage heart grows meek, For other token do not seek, But let the tear upon my cheek Evince my gratitude!
THE OLD STOIC.
Riches I hold in light esteem, And Love I laugh to scorn;And lust of fame was but a dream, That vanished with the morn:
And if I pray, the only prayer That moves my lips for me Is, "Leave the heart that now I bear, And give me liberty!"
Yes, as my swift days near their goal:
'Tis all that I implore ;In life and death a chainless soul, With courage to endure.
*
POEMS BY ACTON BELL, A REMINISCENCE.
Yes, thou art gone! and never more Thy sunny smile shall gladden me;But I may pass the old church door, And pace the floor that covers thee, May stand upon the cold, damp stone, And think that, frozen, lies below The lightest heart that I have known, The kindest I shall ever know.
Yet, though I cannot see thee more, 'Tis still a comfort to have seen;And though thy transient life is o'er, 'Tis sweet to think that thou hast been;To think a soul so near divine, Within a form so angel fair, United to a heart like thine, Has gladdened once our humble sphere.
THE ARBOUR.
I'll rest me in this sheltered bower, And look upon the clear blue sky That smiles upon me through the trees, Which stand so thick clustering by;And view their green and glossy leaves, All glistening in the sunshine fair;And list the rustling of their boughs, So softly whispering through the air.
And while my ear drinks in the sound, My winged soul shall fly away;Reviewing lone departed years As one mild, beaming, autumn day;And soaring on to future scenes, Like hills and woods, and valleys green, All basking in the summer's sun, But distant still, and dimly seen.
Oh, list! 'tis summer's very breath That gently shakes the rustling trees--
But look! the snow is on the ground--
How can I think of scenes like these?
'Tis but the FROST that clears the air, And gives the sky that lovely blue;They're smiling in a WINTER'S sun, Those evergreens of sombre hue.