Alas for the South, her books have grown fewer—
She was never much given to literature.
Byron
Oh! thou immortal bard!
Men may condemn the song
That issued from thy heart sublime,
Yet alas! its music sweet
Has left an echo that will sound
Thro' the lone corridors of time.
Thou immortal Byron!
Thy inspired genius
Let no man attempt to smother—
May all that was good within thee
Be attributed to Heaven,
All that was evil—to thy mother.
A Pretty Girl
On her beautiful face there are smiles of grace
That linger in beauty serene,
And there are no pimples encircling her dimples
As ever, as yet, I have seen.
But, father dear, do not be too hard on this bard, or you will come under this ban:
Oh, jealous heart that seeks to belittle my gentle muse,
And blow your damnable bugle in my lonely ears;
You'll lie some day in expressing your recognition
Of this very song you disowned in other years.
Surely you must have sympathy for the person who could write the following stanza, especially when your only child goes tripping with the Tuckers when she ought to be down in the country with her old father:
I feel like some lone deserted lad,
Standing on the shore of life's great ocean,
Casting pebbles in its billows, as if to excite
Some past emotion.