An aged woman upon her bed,
Worn, and wearied, and poor and old,
Longing to rest with the happy dead.
And thus the story of life is told.
Where is the season of careless glee?
Where is the moment that holds no pain?
Life has its crosses from infancy
Down to the grave; and its hopes are vain.
[LINES FROM "MAURINE."]
I'd rather have my verses win
A place in common peoples' hearts,
Who, toiling through the strife and din
Of life's great thoroughfares, and marts,
May read some line my hand has penned;
Some simple verse, not fine, or grand,
But what their hearts can understand
And hold me henceforth as a friend,--
I'd rather win such quiet fame
Than by some fine thought, polished so
But those of learned minds would know,
Just what the meaning of my song,--
To have the critics sound my name
In high-flown praises, loud and long.
I sing not for the critic's ear,
But for the masses. If they hear,
Despite the turmoil, noise and strife
Some least low note that gladdens life,
I shall be wholly satisfied,
Though critics to the end deride.
[WHEN.]
I dwell in the western inland,
Afar from the sounding sea,
But I seem to hear it sobbing
And calling aloud to me,
And my heart cries out for the ocean
As a child for its mother's breast,
And I long to lie on its waters
And be lulled in its arms to rest.
I can close my eyes and fancy
That I hear its mighty roar,
And I see its blue waves splashing
And plunging against the shore;
And the white foam caps the billow,
And the sea-gulls wheel and cry,
And the cool wild wind is blowing
And the ships go sailing by.