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— Oh! that lovely smile— Yet 'twas sweet the while, Bright as joy, and sweet as pity, Little like thyself, and pretty, Nought beside can now enslave me, VOL. II. P Old I am and daily older, Not in days alone, Yet, methinks, that I am bolder Hope is dead and fancies moulder, All but Love is flown. Smile again. The look that gazes, Laugh at all my woe. 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, Which not a Poet knew in ancient days, The oar, so fond :—yet there it might not rest, Oh! when it stopped, the boat, and damsels three Sole motion, only life on all the mere, "Twas like the motion of the lapsing year, 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. |