A LOAN TO THE MESSENGER.
NO. III.
The following is from a poet of no ordinary talent, whose main fault is indolence. He gave it me for my collection, where I believe it has slumbered until now, since its conception. I think it a very pretty song, and hope it will be a favorite with your readers, to whom I lend it for May.
J. F. O.
TO —— ——.
| Come, fill the bowl,—'twill win a smile To glad once more your drooping brow, Nor scorn the spell that can beguile One thought from all that wrings you now! For who, in worlds so sad as this, Would lose e'en momentary bliss? Come,—touch the harp,—its notes will bring At least a wreck of happier years,— The songs our childhood, used to sing,— Its artless joys,—its simple tears. How blessed, if weeping could restore Those bright glad days that come no more! Then touch the harp! and free and fast The tears I fain would weep shall flow: And fill the bowl! the last, the last! Then back to Life's deceitful show! And waste no more a single tear On Life, whose joys are sold so dear! |
GEORGE LUNT.