I hear thee in the dreamy serenade, That wakes the charméd ear of night, And loosens in some farthest glade, A mocking bird to lyric flight. I see thee where the silence falls On haunted sleep men lie within,-- And ah! thy dreamless solace calls, Far, faint and thin. And ever calls, Till perfect silence falls. I see, thee, hear thee, feel thee every where, O! passing breath! And life is glorified for thou art there, O! Death!
I saw a lassie on the green, Ah me! Ah me! No sweeter sight since have I seen, Nor ever more may see.
At morning fair, at evening pale, And overcast. Oh, stay thou lassie, sad and frail, Why seek the night so fast?
I took her hand, 'twas limp and cold, She had no smile, And in her eyes gleamed something old That flickered out the while.
And then she told such piteous tale, And heaved a sigh:-- "I dreamed that beauty could not fail, "Nor simple pleasure die.
"I held him long, I held him fast-- "But he has gone. "Oh stay me not--this way he past, "And I must hasten on."
I saw a wannish haggard in the night,-- Alone was she. I heard her laugh, her eyes were bright, Ah me! ah woe is me!
Ah Ha! A lack-wit is the Time-- A foolish piece and niddy-noddy, To teach her gentle daughter, Rhime, To flirt and dance with everybody.
Her cheek was fresh, and passing fair When very few did come to court her, And king or swain must worship there, That dared, or fancied to transport her.
And often there a sceptered king, And often there a wit or jester, Have fondly kneel'd her praise to sing, And learned how sore it is to pester.
But now alas! 'Tis come to pass, She loves the addlest headed dandy. A bon-bon lyric suits the lass, Her Epic is a piece of candy.
A poet came in a golden noon, His eyes were bright and his soul in tune, And he sang a song of a nameless bird. And never a song of songs was sung, As sweet and as rich as the lay that sprung, From the forest-wild muse in the lyrical verd.
An old man dozing and dying alone, Hath startled enrapt at the wondrous tone, And thinks on his own youth's minstrelsy. And his fingers tremble and itch again And his tongue is lashed in its bed of pain, To know at last such music may be.
A youth starts up, with his soul on fire, And shatters his harp for something higher, And sings of a glory he has not known, Till his mad soul sinks on the raging sea, As sad and as weary as spent wings be, In the guideless paths where his hopes have flown.