No longer in a glittering morn
Their misty meadows flicker nigh,
No singing with the spray is borne,
All that is long gone by.
To-day upon the golden beach
No gold-haired guardian maidens stand,
No apples ripen out of reach,
And none are mad to land.
The merchant-men, 'tis they say so,
That trade across the western seas,
In hurried transit to and fro,
About Hesperides.
But, Reader, not as these thou art,
So, loose thy shallop from its hold,
And, trusting to the ancient chart,
Thou 'It make them as of old.
JENNY DEAD
Like a flower in the frost
Sweet Jenny lies,
With her frail hands calmly crossed,
And close-shut eyes.
Bring a candle, for the room
Is dark and cold,
Antechamber of the tomb--
O grief untold!
Like a snowdrift is her bed,
Dinted the snow,
Faint frozen lines from foot to head,--
She lies below.
Turn from off her shrouded face
The frigid sheet....
Death hath doubled all her grace--
O Jenny, sweet!
MY BOOKS
What are my books?--My friends, my loves,
My church, my tavern, and my only wealth;
My garden: yea, my flowers, my bees, my doves;
My only doctors--and my only health.
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