might be born To string my lute with silver wires; At least in brighter days to come Such men as I would not lie dumb. I saw the Sibyl's finger rest On fate's unturned imagined page, Believed her promise, and was blest With dreams of that heroic age. She sent me, ere my hope was cold, One of the race that she foretold. His fellows time will bring, and they, In manifold affections free, Shall scatter pleasures day by day Like blossoms rained from windy tree. So let that garden bloom; and I, Content with one such flower, will die.
A NEW MICHONNET
The foster-child forgets his nurse: She doth but know what he hath been, Took him for better or for worse, Would pet him, though he be sixteen. He helps to weave the soft quadrille; Ah! leave the parlour door ajar; Those thirsting eyes shall take their fill, And watch her darling from afar. It is her pride to see the hand, Which wont so wantonly to tear Her unblanched curls, control the band, And change the tune, with such an air. And who so good? she thinks, or who So fit for partners rich and tall? Indeed she's looked the ball-room through, And he's the loveliest lad of all. So to her lonesome bed: and there, If any wandering notes she hear, She'll say in pauses of her prayer, "He dancing still, my child! my dear!" His gladness doth on her redound, Though hair be grey, and eyes be dim: At every waif of broken sound She'll wake, and smile, and think of him. So, noblest of the noble, go Through regions echoing thy name; And even on me, thy friend, shall flow Some streamlet from thy river of fame. Thou to the gilded youth be kind; Shed all thy genius-rays on them; An ancient comrade stands behind To touch, unseen, thy mantle's hem. A stranger to thy peers am I, And slighted, like that poor old crone, And yet some clinging memories try To rate thy conquests as mine own. Nay, when at random drops thy praise From lips of happy lookers-on, My tearful eyes I proudly raise, And bid my conscious self be gone.
SAPPHICS
Love, like an island, held a single heart, Waiting for shoreward flutterings of the breeze, So might it waft to him that sat apart Some angel guest from out the clouded seas. Was it mere
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