Sad and sore, sad and sore,
Many a fond heart bleeds at the core,
Cruel dread, to meet no more,
Bitter sorrow, sad and sore.
Many years, many years
At best will they battle with perils and fears;
Cruel pilot for he steers
The exiles away for many years.
For the days that are gone their tears shall flow:
Cruel hour, to tear them so
From all they cherished long ago.
Fare ye well, fare ye well!
To joy and to hope it sounds as a knell :
Cruel tale it were to tell
How the emigrant sighs farewell.
Far away, far away!
Is there indeed no hope to-day?
Cruel and false it were to say
There are no pleasures far away.
Far away, far away
Every night and every day
Kind and wise it were to pray, God be with them far away!
The Assurance of Borace.
HAVE achieved a tower of fame
More durable than gold,
And loftier than the royal frame
Of Pyramids of old,-
Which none inclemencies of clime,
Nor fiercest winds that blow,
Nor endless change, nor lapse of time,
Shall ever overthrow !
I cannot perish utterly:
The brighter part of me
Must live- and live- and never die,
But baffle Death's decree!
For I shall always grow, and spread
My new-blown honor still,
Long as the priest and vestal tread
The Capitolian hill.
I shall be sung, where thy rough waves,
My native river, foam,
And where old Daunus scantly laves
And rules his rustic home;
As chief and first I shall be sung,
Though lowly, great in might
To tune my country's heart and tongue,
And tune them both aright.
Thou then, my soul, assume thy state,
And take thine honors due:
Be proud, as thy deserts are great,
To thine own praise be true!
Thou too, celestial Musc, come down,
And with kind haste prepare
The laurel for a Delphic crown
To weave thy poet's hair.
Now have I done my work! —which not Jove's ire
Can make undone, nor sword, nor time, nor fire.
Whene'er that day, whose only powers extend
Against this body, my brief life shall end,
Still in my better portion evermore
Above the stars undying shall I soar!
My name shall never die: but through all time,
Wherever Rome shall reach a conquered clime,
There, in that people's tongue, shall this my page
Be read and glorified from age to age;-
Yea, if the bodings of my spirit give
True note of inspiration, I shall live!
Post-Letters:
Lottery tickets every day,
And ever drawn a blank!
Yet none the less we pant and pray
For prizes in that bank:
Morn by morn, and week by week,
They cheat us or amuse,
Whilst on we fondly hope, and seek
Some stirring daily news.
The heedless postman on his path
Is scattering joys and woes;
He bears the seed of life and death,
And drops them as he goes!
I never note him trudging near
Upon his common track,
But all my heart is hope, or fear,
With visions bright, or black!
what hope I not? —vague things
Of wondrous possible good;
I dread -as vague imaginings,
A very viper's brood:
Fame's sunshine, fortune's golden dews
May now be hovering o'er, -
Or the pale shadow of ill news
Be cowering at my door!
O Mystery, master-key to life,
Thou spring of every hour,
I love to wrestle in thy strife,
And tempt thy perilous power;
I love to know that none can know
What this day may bring forth,
What bliss for me for me what woe
Is travailing in birth!
See, on my neighbor's threshold stands
Yon careless common man,
Bearing, perchance, in those coarse hands,
My Being's altered plan!
My germs of pleasure, or of pain,
Of trouble, or of peace,
May there lie thick as drops of rain
Distilled from Gideon's fleece !
Who knoweth? may not loves be dead,Or those we loved laid low,
Who knoweth? may not wealth be fled, And all the world my foe?
Or who can tell if Fortune's hour (Which once ou all doth shine)
Alas, we do but act; we are not free;
The presence of another is a chain
My trammeled spirit strives to break, in vain :
How strangely different myself from me!
Thoughtful in solitude, serenely blest,
Crown'd and enthroned in mental majesty,
Equal to all things great, and daring all,
I muse of mysteries, and am at rest;
But, in the midst, some dull intruded guest
Topples me from my heights, holding in thrall
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