Thou art the belonging blest
Of the maid I love the best:
Gardened in some tropic grove,
Nurtured by the powers above,
Was thy wood so rich and rare
For her hand so small and fair;
Deftly carved by cunning craft
For her hold thy finished haft;
And thy silken folds so soft,
Where the gentle breezes waft
Fragrance from the clustered vines,
Where the sun so warmly shines,
Where the skies of purest hue
Bend above in deepest blue,
There so soft and fine were wove,
Woven only for my love.
But it is not that thy haft
Carved is by cunning craft
Of a wood so rich and rare,
That thy folds are soft and fair,
Vying only with her hair;
Not for this that I addrest
Thee in song, and called thee blest
But what thou for her hast done:
Shaded from the scorching sun
On the burning summer day
'Neath thy silken canopy;
Sheltered from the falling rain,
Lest her hallowed cheek it stain;
Shielded from the stormy blast,
As it hurried wildly past.
Surely thou art blest for such.—
Oh! that I might do as much!
E'en the fair Orb.
to ———.
E'en the fair orb on which I gaze
Suggests thy radiance by its rays:
That silvery, soft, and dreamy light,
So soft, and yet so beauteous bright,
Falling in glowing tints so faint,—
The hues which artists love to paint;
Around whose sphere the fancies claim
That angels float, and fan the flame:
The lover's choice, it doth belong
To lover's lute and poet's song.
That light, though native to the skies,
Is all reflected in thine eyes.
To Burns.
Suggested on returning home for my holidays by an old portrait of the poet, which hangs in my room.
Old friend!—I always loved thee;
In childhood's early days,
Delighted I would listen
With laughter to thy lays.
And better still I loved thee,
To riper boyhood grown;
Because thou wert the pride of
The land that's part my own.