If Love were king,
That sacred Love which knows not selfish pleasure,
But for its children spends its fondest treasure,
Sad hearts would sing,
And all the hosts of misery and wrong
Forget their anguish in the happy song
That joy would bring.
If Love were king,
Gaunt wickedness would hide his loathsome features,
And virtue would to all the world's sad creatures
Her treasures fling;
Till drooping souls would rise above their fate,
And find sweet flowers for all the desolate
And sorrowing.
If Love were king,
Before the scepter of his might should vanish
Toil's curse and care, and happiness should banish
Want's awful sting;
While laughing plenty from sweet hands would throw
Delightful raptures over all below,
And gladness bring.
If Love were king,
The nations would eternal sunshine borrow,
And conquer all the heavy clouds of sorrow
And every thing
That binds the race in groans and agony;
Life's changing seasons would forever be
Unvaried spring.
If Love were king!
O, broken feet that wander worn and weary
Beneath the crags and awful mountains dreary,
With rapture cling
Your anguished arms about him; drink delight
Upon his perfect bosom soft and white
And comforting!
"SING ME THE OLD SONGS, MOTHER."
Our souls are the deserts of sorrow,
Our hearts are the ashes of hope,
And madly from gladness we borrow
The brightness where sadness may grope;
My raptures in wretchedness vanish,
My bosom is weeping with wrongs;
Then sing me the old songs, mother,
Then sing me the dear old songs.
My joys are in memory lying,
Still ardently happy with youth,
When smiles in ambition were dying,
And life was the vision of youth;
My brow for your gentle caresses
And kisses of tenderness longs;
Then sing me the old songs, mother,
Then sing me the dear old songs.
Sweet murmurs in mystical measures
Come soothingly over my soul,
Where voices of babyish pleasures
And echoes of lullabies roll;
The struggles of all my endeavor
Are bound in the darkest of thongs;
Then sing me the old songs, mother,
Then sing me the dear old songs.
I fain would return in my dreaming
To years that proclaimed me a boy,
When gladness was happily beaming
And life was a musical toy;
My sorrow has never Nepenthe,
My woe in its bitterness throngs;
Then sing me the old songs, mother,
Then sing me the dear old songs.