Semper Avarus Eget.

I.

Cries Gripus, gloating on his Pelf,
O! what a noble Passion!
Since Love of Gain increases more,
The more we get Possession.

II.

Thus M**** N thinks; — such dirty Souls
Are never worth our heeding;
Then fare you well, we give you Joy
Of this your constant Breeding .

All within and all without me
Feel a melancholy thrill;
And the darkness hangs about me,
Oh, how still;
To my feet, the river glideth
Through the shadow, sullen, dark;
On the stream the white moon rideth,
Like a barque—
And the linden leans above me,
Till I think some things there be
In this dreary world that love me,
Even me!

Gentle buds are blooming near me,
Shedding sweetest breath around;
Countless voices rise, to cheer me,
From the ground;
And the lone bird comes—I hear it
In the tall and windy pine

O Thou in all thy might so far,
In all thy love so near,
Beyond the range of sun and star,
And yet beside us here, —

What heart can comprehend thy name,
Or, searching, find thee out,
Who art, within, a quickening Flame,
A Presence round about?

Yet though I know thee but in part,
I ask not, Lord, for more:
Enough for me to know thou art,
To love thee and adore.

O sweeter far than aught besides,
The tender mystery
That like a veil of shadow hides
The Light I may not see!

Oh! my poor Husband! cries the plaintive Wife,
Late the sole Joy and Comfort of my Life!
And art thou gone? Alas! the cruel Day,
Which snatch'd, by far my better Half away!
To me how irksome is this bustling Stage!
" Fie on't! O fie! " no longer I'll engage; —
Betsy, take Care you bury th' dear Soul
With high Respect; — my Sorrows to controul,
I'll post for Bath ; the sprightly Ball may prove,
A sovereign Balm to cure — (and whet her Love)
Well, down she comes, shines forth in lovely Weeds,
And plainly shows her Grief, from Heart proceeds .

Oh thou, the laureate of our western realms,
Singing at will beneath your Cambridge elms,
Charming that sacred mansion where the grand
Paternal Cincinnatus of our land
Dwells, a majestic shadow — more than king;
Who, staidly smiling, hearkens while you sing.
Wouldst thou but build in Rome, we should behold
O'er Nero's ruins rise the enduring house of gold.

But I, a Troubadour born out of time,
From shrine to shrine, pour out my idle rhyme,
Impelled still onward with a love intense,
Singing for love (the only recompense),

Behold yon hills. The one is fresh and fair;
The other rudely great. New-springing green
Mantles the one; and on its top the star
Of love, in all its tenderest light, is seen.
Island of joys! how sweet thy gentle rays
Issue from heaven's blue depths in evening's prime!
But round yon bolder height no softness plays,
Nor flower nor bud adorns its front sublime.
Rude, but in majesty, it mounts in air,
And on its summit Jove in glory burns;
'Mid all the stars that pour their radiant urns,
None with that lordly planet may compare.

Thou glorious spirit of life and love!
There is not a leaf or flower,
That spreads to the sun, when meadow and grove
Awake with the April shower, —
There is not a creature that walks the earth,
And is glad in his liberty,
But feels and knows, from his earliest birth,
How his being is full of thee.

The waters, that fall from the mountain's brow,
Or in verdurous valleys flow;
The waves, that around the gallant prow
In the noon-light flash and glow;
The sea, as it heaves from the line to the pole,
In calm or in tempest — free,

Spiders' spun threads spread through curtains
Sweet grasses' knotted blades choke the pathways
Pink cheeks in mute desire weep her life away
Golden orioles fitful flit, flit past
Old love, though old, once was new.
New love, though new, also must grow old.

She has no heart, but she is fair, —
The rose, the lily, can't outvie her;
She smiles so sweetly, that the air
Seems full of light and beauty nigh her.

She has no heart, but yet her face
So many hues of youth revealing,
With so much liveliness and grace,
That on my soul 't is ever stealing.

She has no heart, she cannot love,
But she can kindle love in mine; —
Strange, that the softness of a dove
Round such a thing of air can twine.

She has no heart, — her eye, though bright,
Has not the brightness of the soul;

Let us love while life is young,
And the vital stream is glowing;
When the heart is newly strung,
And the tide of health is flowing.

Let us pluck the Paphian rose,
When its bud is first unfolding;
Ere its withered petals close,
In the misty darkness moulding.

Pluck it, when the morning dew
Twinkles on the new-blown flower,
And the vernal sky of blue
Opens through the melting shower.

Pluck it, when the air is sweet,
And the winds no more are chilling;
When the loving swallows meet,