SONG. TO A WELSH AIR, "AR HYD Y NOS." OLD I am, yet not past feeling, Maiden, think not so ; Time, the thief, for ever stealing Moments as they go, Still the moment dear has left me, Moment that of self bereft me, Moment that did wound with healing, Cause and cure of woe. Hope, and yet not hope, it gave me— Yet 'twas sweet the while. Bright as joy, and soft as pity, Little like thyself, and pretty, Nought beside can now enslave me, Old I am and daily older, Not in days alone, Yet, methinks, that I am bolder Since that grey I'm grown; Young, I had not dared address thee, Old, I may presume to bless thee; Hope is dead, and fancies moulder, All but Love is flown. Smile again. The look that gazes, But when I have done with sighing, In the quiet churchyard lying, Softly smile upon the daisies. On my grave that grow. ON SEEING THREE YOUNG LADIES ON WITHIN the compass of a little vale There lies a Lake unknown in Fairy tale, Yet on that Lake I have beheld a Boat And in it three of "Beauty's " youngest daughters. Then gliding soft as light upon a billow, The oar, so fond :—yet there it might not rest, For new achievement on the plain so bright. Oh! when it stopp'd, the boat, and damsels three Which none would more expect or wish to cease The fancy of old Greece That gave to beauty and to loveliness The definite outline and the shape express, Could not conceive, and therefore could not make, And those three lovely maids upon its bosom rowing. MARRIED LIFE. WRITTEN ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF A WEDDING-DAY. THE earth once more hath run its annual round, One in the Lord, as one in heart and choice, When Autumn grave brings back the wedding-day. All hath not haply been as young conceit Duties there needs must be, and toils, and cares, That unexpected come and unawares To all that walk in wedlock's lightest chains. |