Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare How small a part of time they share, [Yet, though thou fade, From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; That Goodness Time's rude hand defies, H. K. WHITE. THE WANDERING BOY. A SONG. WHEN the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door; When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye, Oh, how hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy. The winter is cold, and I have no vest, And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast; Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire, But my father and mother were summon'd away, And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey; I fled from their rigour with many a sigh, And now I'm a poor little Wandering Boy. The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale, CANZONET. MAIDEN! wrap thy mantle round thee, All under the tree Thy bed may be, And thou mayst slumber peacefully. Maiden! once gay pleasure knew thee, Yet, poor maiden, do not weep: All under the tree, Where thou will sleep most peacefully. SONG. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. SOFTLY, softly blow, ye breezes, Lo! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly; He lies by the deep, All along where the salt waves sigh. I have cover'd him with rushes, My love is asleep, He lies by the deep, All along where the salt waves sigh. Still he sleeps; he will not waken, Paler is his cheek, and chiller He has chose his death-bed All along where the salt waves sigh. Is it, is it so, my Edwy? Will thy slumbers never fly? Couldst thou think I would survive thee? No, my love, thou bid'st me die. Thou bid'st me seek Thy death-bed bleak All along where the salt waves sigh. I will gently kiss thy cold lips, And the winds shall sing our death dirge, And the wild wave will beat, Oh! so softly o'er our lonely bed. THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG TO THE NIGHT. THOU, spirit of the spangled night! The winds are whistling o'er the wolds, Sweet is the scented gale of morn, That marks thy mournful reign. I've pass'd here many a lonely year, And I have linger'd in the shade, To sing my evening song. |