Thus let the affluent Soul of Song—
That all with flowers adorns—
Strew life's uneven path along,
And hide its thousand thorns:
Oh, many a sad and weary heart,
That treads a noiseless way apart,
Has blessed the humble poet's name,
For fellowship, refined and free,
In meek wild-flowers of poesy,
That asked no higher fame!
And pleasant as the water-fall
To one by deserts bound—
Making the air all musical
With cool, inviting sound—
Is oft some unpretending strain
Of rural song, to him whose brain
Is fevered in the sordid strife
That Avarice breeds 'twixt man and man,
While moving on, in caravan,
Across the sands of Life.
Yet, not for these alone he sings;
The poet's breast is stirred
As by the spirit that takes wings
And carols in the bird!
He thinks not of a future name,
Nor whence his inspiration came
Nor whither goes his warbled song;
As Joy itself delights in joy—
His soul finds life in its employ,
And grows by utterance strong.
A PARTING.
(AN EXTRACT.)
BY HENRY S. HAGERT.
And now, farewell—and if the warm tear start
Unbidden to your eye, oh! do not blush
To own it, for it speaks the gen'rous heart,
Full to o'erflowing with the fervent gush
Of its sweet waters. Hark! I hear the rush
Of many feet, and dark-browed Mem'ry brings
Her tales of by-gone pleasure but to crush
The reed already bending—now, there sings
The syren voice of Hope—her of the rainbow wings.