I KNOW ’tis late, but let me stay,
For night is tenderer than day;
Sweet love, dear love, I cannot go,
Dear love, sweet love, I love thee so.
The birds in leafy hiding sleep;
Shrill katydids their vigil keep;
The woodbine breathes a fragrance rare
Upon the dewy languid air;
The fireflies twinkle in the vale,
The river looms in moonshine pale,
And look! a meteor’s dreamy light
Streams mystic down the solemn night!
Ah, life glides swift, like that still fire—
How soon our throbbing joys expire;
Who can be sure the present kiss
Is not his last? Make all of this.
I know ’tis late, sweet love, I know,
Dear love, sweet love, I love thee so.
Fantastic mist obscurely fills
The hollows of Kentucky hills;
Heardst thou? I heard or fear I heard
Vague twitters of some wakeful bird;
The wingéd hours are swift indeed!
Why makes the jealous morn such speed?
This rose thou wearst may I not take
For passionate remembrance’ sake?
Press with thy lips its crimson heart;
Yes, blushing rose, we must depart;
A rose cannot return a kiss—
I pay its due with this, and this;
The stars grow faint, they soon will die,
But love faints not nor fails.—Good-bye!
Unhappy joy—delicious pain—
We part in love, we meet again!
Good-bye!—the morning dawns—I go,
Dear love, sweet love, I love thee so.
CLOVER HILL.
ON the brow of Clover Hill
Stands a maiden gazing out
Through the purple twilight still,
Half in rapture, half in doubt;
In the heavens Venus glistens,
While the maiden looks and listens.
On the brow of Clover Hill
Deeper gloaming shadows fall;
Moans the plaintive whippowill;
Lonesome is the cricket’s call;
In the heavens Venus glistens,
Far the maiden looks and listens.
On the brow of Clover Hill
Lingering she fondly sighs;
Anxious fears her bosom fill,
Tears bedew her mournful eyes;
In the heavens Venus glistens,
Still the maiden looks and listens.
Footsteps! hark! On Clover Hill!
Faring nearer and more near!
Hearts ecstatic throb and thrill!
“War is over! He is here!”
In the zenith Venus glistens,
Lovers kiss and Heaven listens.
THE WEDDING DEFERRED.
COMPLAINING flow the waters slow
Along the valley green and low;
The lilies dight in virgin white
Float fragrant in the ardent light,
And to the gossip ripples say,
“It is the Day!—is’t not the Day?
When comes the bridal train this way?”
Yon amethystine hill-top kist
By lingering enamored mist,
Hears in the sky warm zephyrs sigh
To wooing clouds that dally by;
The wandering whispers seem to say,
“Is’t not the Day?—it is the Day!
Why comes no bridal train this way?”
Forlorn of mood, by love pursued,
A youth laments in solitude;
The brown dove’s eyes soft sympathize
With him and to her mate she cries,
“What can the glad espousals stay?
It is the Day!—is’t not the Day?
Yet comes no bridal train this way.”