'T was twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;
It was the time of roses,--
We plucked them as we passed.--
[Decoration]
_SONG._
O Lady, leave thy silken thread
And flowery tapestrie:
There 's living roses on the bush,
And blossoms on the tree;
Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand
Some random bud will meet;
Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find
The daisy at thy feet.
'T is like the birthday of the world,
When earth was born in bloom;
The light is made of many dyes,
The air is all perfume;
There 's crimson buds, and white and blue--
The very rainbow showers
Have turned to blossoms where they fell,
And sown the earth with flowers.
There 's fairy tulips in the east,
The garden of the sun;
The very streams reflect the hues,
And blossom as they run:
While Morn opes like a crimson rose,
Still wet with pearly showers;
Then, Lady, leave the silken thread
Thou twinest into flowers!
[Decoration]
_I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER._
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember,
The roses, red and white,
The vi'lets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday,--
The tree is living yet!
[Illustration: Full-page Plate]
I remember, I remember
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!
I remember, I remember
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 't is little joy
To know I 'm farther off from heav'n
Than when I was a boy.
_BALLAD._
She 's up and gone, the graceless Girl!
And robbed my failing years;
My blood before was thin and cold
But now 't is turned to tears;--
My shadow falls upon my grave,
So near the brink I stand,
She might have stayed a little yet,
And led me by the hand!
Ay, call her on the barren moor,
And call her on the hill,
'T is nothing but the heron's cry,
And plover's answer shrill;
My child is flown on wilder wings,
Than they have ever spread,
And I may even walk a waste
That widened when she fled.
Full many a thankless child has been,
But never one like mine;
Her meat was served on plates of gold,
Her drink was rosy wine;
But now she 'll share the robin's food,
And sup the common rill,
Before her feet will turn again
To meet her father's will!
[Decoration]
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