Short Poems

C ELIA cannot you afford,
One consolatory Word?
Must I still the Burthen bear,
Ever love, and yet desair?
Never, never Comfort know?
Cruel Celia and my Wo;
Terminate at once my Fate,
And let me hear you say, You Hate.

Come with me my love and wander,
Where the moon is shining bright;
And the stars in beauteous splendor,
Softly shed their silv'ry light.
Where the nightingale is singing,
His soft blithesome melody,
And each breeze sweet perfume bringing,
I'll whisper words of love to thee.

And the winds were drearily moaning,
As if chanting some weird requiem;
And the trees were bending and groaning,
And seemed trembling each stalk and each stem.

Violet, Violet,
Take this rose with dew-drops wet,
Pledge that thee I'll ne'er forget,
Violet, sweet Violet.

IMITATED .

Before thy mystic altar, heavenly Truth,
I kneel in manhood, as I knelt in youth:
Thus let me kneel, till this dull form decay,
And life's last shade be brighten'd by thy ray:
Then shall my soul, now lost in clouds below,
Soar without bound, without consuming glow.

As meadows parch'd, brown groves, and withering flowers,
Imbibe the sparkling dew and genial show'rs;
As chill dark air inhales the morning beam;
As thirsty harts enjoy the gelid stream;
Thus to man's grateful soul from Heaven descend,
The mercies of his Father, Lord, and Friend!

Many sad hearts may you lighten,
And turn sorrow oft to bliss;
Many dark lives may you brighten,
If you'll make your motto this:
" Ever lend a helping hand. "

He by whose charter thousands held their breath,
Lies here, the captive of triumphant death:
If drugs, or matchless skill, could death reclaim,
His life had been immortal as his fame .

Besides , 'twas God's progressive plan
Before we straightened up to Man,
The instincts ruled in place of mind:
And even now, although consigned
The late born reasoning soul to serve,
They obey the Sympathetic Nerve, —
Inherited anatomies still
Ordering our acts against our will.

One day three girls were casting lots in play,
Which first to Acheron should take her way;
Thrice with their sportive hands they threw, and thrice
To the same hand returned the fateful dice;
The maiden laughed when thus her doom was told:
Alas! that moment from the roof she rolled! —
So sure is Fate whene'er it bringeth bale,
While prayers and vows for bliss must ever fail