A PORTRAIT
Thoughtful in youth, but not austere in age;
Calm, but not cold, and cheerful though a sage;
Too true to flatter and too kind to sneer,
And only just when seemingly severe;
So gently blending courtesy and art
That wisdom's lips seemed borrowing friendship's heart.
Taught by the sorrows that his age had known
In others' trials to forget his own,
As hour by hour his lengthened day declined,
A sweeter radiance lingered o'er his mind.
Cold were the lips that spoke his early praise,
And hushed the voices of his morning days,
Yet the same accents dwelt on every tongue,
And love renewing kept him ever young.
A SENTIMENT
O Bios Bpaxus,—life is but a song;
H rexvn uakpn,—art is wondrous long;
Yet to the wise her paths are ever fair,
And Patience smiles, though Genius may despair.
Give us but knowledge, though by slow degrees,
And blend our toil with moments bright as these;
Let Friendship's accents cheer our doubtful way,
And Love's pure planet lend its guiding ray,—
Our tardy Art shall wear an angel's wings,
And life shall lengthen with the joy it brings!
A POEM
FOR THE MEETING OF THE AMERICAN MEDICAL ASSOCIATION AT NEW YORK, MAY 5, 1853
I HOLD a letter in my hand,—
A flattering letter, more's the pity,—
By some contriving junto planned,
And signed per order of Committee.
It touches every tenderest spot,—
My patriotic predilections,
My well-known-something—don't ask what,—
My poor old songs, my kind affections.
They make a feast on Thursday next,
And hope to make the feasters merry;
They own they're something more perplexed
For poets than for port and sherry.
They want the men of—(word torn out);
Our friends will come with anxious faces,
(To see our blankets off, no doubt,
And trot us out and show our paces.)
They hint that papers by the score
Are rather musty kind of rations,—
They don't exactly mean a bore,
But only trying to the patience;
That such as—you know who I mean—
Distinguished for their—what d' ye call 'em—
Should bring the dews of Hippocrene
To sprinkle on the faces solemn.
—The same old story: that's the chaff
To catch the birds that sing the ditties;
Upon my soul, it makes me laugh
To read these letters from Committees!
They're all so loving and so fair,—
All for your sake such kind compunction;
'T would save your carriage half its wear
To touch its wheels with such an unction!