For, the cord shall be broke and the prisoner free, A FUNERAL PIECE. LIFT not, lift not the shadowy pall For, we could not look on a face so dear But seek 'mid the throng of the youthful fair Ye will find her not, for 't is her we bear She's gone from our sight like a gladdening ray To brighten the earth; but hath past away, Her heart so feeling and finely strung, For, when by grief it was rudely wrung And that tender flower to the cold, dark tomb, A mournful group at her dying bed, We watch'd with sorrowing o'er her, Till the soul shone forth with her pinions spread But grief was hush'd in the final hour, And mute we stood around her, As the spirit escaped with a mighty power For, the delicate clay lay pale and chill, And we heard a voice pronounce, "Be still, "The bars of the grave through time must be But they who trust, shall find in me THE CONQUEROR. THERE's blood on the laurel that wreathes his brow, But the might of his arm shall lose its dread, The plume must be stripp'd from the conqueror's head, To nod o'er the conqueror's bier! Alone he must march to the terrible fight, For there is no army to save! His glory must set in an endless night, He must measure the darksome valley alone, Nor rod, nor staff help the traveller on, He sinks! and none shall his requiem sound, His head with a clod of the vale is crown'd, His terrible spirit has spurn'd its clay, And shivering, and naked hath past away But who shall follow the fugitive home Or, the curtain remove, when it veils the doom CUPID'S WARNING. "TAKE heed! take heed! "Oh! pull away," Did the maiden say, "For who is the coward to mind His bow he drew; And the shafts they flew Till the maiden was heard to cry, "Oh! take this dart from my aching heart, Dear Cupid! or else I die, I die, I die, Dear Cupid, or else I die!" He said, and smiled, "I am but a child, And should have no skill to find, E'en with both my eyes, where the dart now lies, Then, you know, fair maid, I'm blind, I'm blind, I'm blind, You know, fair maid, I'm blind! But pray, be calm, And I'll name a balm That's brought by an older hand, And I'm told is sure these wounds to cure; 'Tis Hymen applies the band; The band, the band, 'Tis Hymen applies the band! Now, I must not stay- These fluttering things, my glistening wings, To fly, to fly, She tells me were made to fly!" TO THE AUTOMATON CHESS PLAYER. THOU wond'rous cause of speculation- Of many a head, and many a nation— Have tried their wits to answer whether When first I view'd thine awful face, I marvell'd whether I had seen A sudden shuddering seized my frame; I deem'd thee form'd with power and will; And curdled with a fearful chill, Which made me tremble. I thought if, e'en within thy glove, That I should be transform'd, and see When busy, curious, learn'd, and wise, Turning thy head with grave precision, Thou giv'st them "check!" Some say a little man resides Between thy narrow, bony sides, And round the world within thee rides: For what's the human thing 't would lurk Some whisper that thou 'rt him who fell And lurid flame. Thy keeper, then, deserves a pension Now, though all Europe has confest With all our intellectual sight, That none should view thy nature right- Our keen-eyed city. |