A JEWEL, BEING A SUN SHINING UPON THE MARIGOLD CLOSED IN A HEART OF GOLD, SENT TO HIS MISTRESS, NAMED MARY

The sun doth make the marigold to flourish,
The sun's departure mades it droop again;
So golden Mary's sight my joys do nourish,
But by her absence all my joys are slain.
The sun the marigold makes live and die,
By her the sun shines brighter, so may I.
Her smiles do glad the sun, and light the air,
Revive my heart, and clear the cloudy sky;
Her frowns the air make dark, the sun to lower,
The marigold to close, my heart to die:

Why check youth's ardour with thy dull advice,
And teach that love is labour thrown away?
Thou shiverst there amid the Winter's ice
And speakst, contemptuous, of Golden May.

Time was when thou didst storm the maidens' charms,—
A hero of the waltzing crowd, forsooth—
Carried a heaven-born burden in thine arms,
And sippedst nectar from the lips of youth.

If at that moment this terrestrial ball
From its accustomed axis had been thrown,
'Tis likely thou wouldst ne'er have heard it fall,
Absorbed in Julia's blandishments alone.

It comes! the joyful day,
When tyranny's proud sway—
Stern as the grave—
Shall to the ground be hurl'd;
And Freedom's flag, unfurl'd,
Shall wave, throughout the world,
O'er ev'ry slave.

Trump of glad Jubilee!
Echo o'er land and sea,
Freedom for all!
Let the glad tidings fly,
And ev'ry tribe reply,
“Glory to God on high!”
At Slavery's fall.

To thee, dear Jane, with joy I send,
The tribute of a bridal Friend.
Of late I'm grown, quite grave and stupid,
A traitor to the laws of Cupid;
Defy his pow'r, and pointed darts,
With which he wounds poor mortals hearts:
So send to thee this magic charm;
Grant that the spell thy fancy warm.
If nine times drawing thro' the ring,
Can any solid comforts bring,
This may afford a pleasing dream,
Compos'd of Love; delightful theme!
Create a Swain sincere and just,
On whom thou may'st with safety trust;
Yet pleasing, lively, witty, smart,

So small a measure are these gifts of mine
To lay upon the altar of the King.
My genius, when all garnered, shall but bring
A scanty measure of the purer wine.
A wisp of music and a lilting line,
A meagre word of beauty from the store
Of language and her multitude; what more
Have I to offer for Thy love divine?
How shall the moon repay her borrowed ray?
Of one blue flower of England count her gain
From that old, upward look at Dorian skies!
Or those white, curving throats on Biscay Bay
Restore their debt, by some august refrain,

Hail in thy youthful beauty,
In Nature's fairest mien!
With flowery baskets laden,
Be welcome on the scene!

What ho! art thou returning,
Who art so blithe and gay?
Then heartily we greet thee,
And meet thee on the way.

Bethink thee of my maiden;
Ah, dear one, dost thou mind?
That maiden loved me dearly,
And still that maid is kind.

Full many a little flower
I begged for her from thee —
Once more I come entreating: —
What will thine answer be?

Hail in thy youthful beauty,
In Nature's fairest mien!

Jehovah comes! — his foes disperse,
Their hosts are put to flight;
Like smoke they flee before his curse,
They perish at his sight.

As melts the wax before the fire,
Oppressors melt away,
Before Jehovah's burning ire,
In God's avenging day.

Then shall th' oppress'd exult and sing,
To see their God appear;
Hark! hear them shout, and hail their King!
Thus they proclaim him near; —

" Sing ye to God in blissful strains,
Sing praises, spread his fame;
Sing how he rides o'er southern plains —

Wake, States of the South! your redemption draws near,
No longer repose in the borders of gloom;
The strength of his chosen in love will appear,
And light shall arise on the verge of the tomb.

The billows that girt you — the wild waves that roar —
The zephyrs that play when the ocean-storms cease —
Shall bear the rich freight to your tempest-toss'd shore,
Shall waft the glad tidings of freedom and peace.

On regions that sit in the darkness of night,
The lands of despair, to oppression a prey,

" Naught in excess," the wise man said;
But I with pride was flown;
" My charms," said I, " have won the maid,
Her heart is all my own."

But she, it seems, was full of guile,
The girl I thought my slave;
No more she wears that humble smile,
Her looks are stern and grave.

And I have had a cruel fall,
Who but now soared so high;
The braggart knight is held in thrall,
His arms defeated lie.

Upon my knees I kiss her dress
And cry as I bend low,
" Forgive my youthful foolishness,
I have learned wisdom now."

My heart goes out to France, the Queen in war,
In carnival and love; the gay, the brave.
To that young blue-eyed Breton who would save
A dance for Death or for his Belle Aurore.
Who keeps so purely in his heart the lore
Of love and honor while the tyrant guns
Spume at his wisp of flesh their flaring tons,
White hot from maddened ages gone before.
The world's barometer is in that lad —
That Breton peasant against whom is hurled
The wild, down-leaping chariot of Mars.
When France is laughing all the Earth is glad.