THE PATRIARCH’S DEATH.
The birds that twitter in the budding trees
And build their nests in some umbrageous grove,
Through early summer guard the young they love,
And fill the air with tuneful melodies.
Then, as the fledgelings wake from dreamful ease,
Eager throughout the unknown world to rove,
The parents teach them their new strength to prove,
And beat with fearless wings the summer breeze.
And then the nest sways empty on the bough.
The parents, weary, although sweet the task,
Take flight to other haunts, to rest from care.
The fledgelings in the glowing sunbeams bask,
Living their life. So is it everywhere,—
The patriarch dies; he is but resting now.
OH, WERE IT NOT.
Oh, were it not for one fair face,
One angel voice, one loving smile,
The world would be a dreary place,
And life to me not worth the while.
Methinks the sun shines but to show
How wondrous fair the maiden is;
Methinks the warm winds only blow
That they may kiss her draperies.
I know the roses bloom that they
May live an hour upon her breast;
I know that I would willingly
Share their brief life to share their nest.