STODDARD'S POEMS
"I am a white falcon, hurrah!
My home is the mountains so high;
But away o'er the lands and the waters,
Wherever I please, I can fly.
"I wander from city to city,
I dart from the wave to the cloud;
And when I am dead I shall slumber,
With my own white wings for a shroud!"
"I know a little rose,
And O but I were blest,
Could I but be the drop of dew
That lies upon her breast!
"But I dare not look so high,
Nor die a death so sweet;
It is enough for me to be
The dust about her feet!"
The Horatian touch, that can add a grace to the simplest theme, is visible in these dainty couplets:
TO A FRIEND, WITH A VASE
Poet, take this little vase,
From a lover of the race,
Given to hold—a funeral jar—
The ashes of thy loved cigar.
If for that it seem too fine,
Fill it to the brim with wine,
And drink, in love, to me and mine,
As I drain to thee and thine.
Ashes, though, may suit it best,
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