THE POET-LOVER.
The wild bird shook her joyous wing,
Where close beside the clear, cool spring,
The poet-lover paused to sing,
The pride of old, heroic days.
But from his lyre no sound arose,
Of deathless deeds, and daring foes,
For lyre, like master, sought repose,
In love's serener, softer rays.
Scarcely was heard a single sound,
In all that wide, extended ground,
Yet stern old trees were scattered round,
Lifting their gloomy heads on high;
And on their cold and earthen beds,
The meek-eyed violets drooped their heads,
Stealing through broad-leaved palisades,
Shy glances at the sky.
The poet marked their azure hue,
And thought upon one eye of blue,
And to his bosom gently drew,
One little flower of constancy.
"O token of true love," he cried,
"Thou treasurest in thy heart no pride,
Yet evil may thy life betide,
If left upon the earth to lie."
The poet saw the wild rose bring
Her leafy offering to the spring—
"O passion-leaves," he cried," why fling
Where close beside the clear, cool spring,
The poet-lover paused to sing,
The pride of old, heroic days.
But from his lyre no sound arose,
Of deathless deeds, and daring foes,
For lyre, like master, sought repose,
In love's serener, softer rays.
Scarcely was heard a single sound,
In all that wide, extended ground,
Yet stern old trees were scattered round,
Lifting their gloomy heads on high;
And on their cold and earthen beds,
The meek-eyed violets drooped their heads,
Stealing through broad-leaved palisades,
Shy glances at the sky.
The poet marked their azure hue,
And thought upon one eye of blue,
And to his bosom gently drew,
One little flower of constancy.
"O token of true love," he cried,
"Thou treasurest in thy heart no pride,
Yet evil may thy life betide,
If left upon the earth to lie."
The poet saw the wild rose bring
Her leafy offering to the spring—
"O passion-leaves," he cried," why fling
