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TO MARGARET M*****.
Maggie! from thy brow so bright,
Rising, deathless, from the tomb!
David was born a genuine poet;
But the old de'il himself don't know it,
And the young de'il himself can't show it!
Beneath a bower, where poplar branches long,
Of Hermit sage, what time the full moon rode, 'Mid spectre clouds her star-paved streets along, Rose on the listening ear a plaintive song,
Sweet as the harmony of an angel's lyre,
And soft as sweet, breathed heavenward from a choir
Of beauty, hid the encircling shades among.
Which holiest bards have heard and heavenly
'Tis ever thus, as to that sage it seemed,
'Tis beauty makes the dreams of wisdom dear!
Kind nature hath a sympathising tone
For every mood of human joy or pain.
Sad heart from humblest flower may courage
Daring the storm with smiling brow alone.
The brave old oak, around whose head have blown A hundred winters, still maintains his place;
The hoary cliff uprears his storm-scarred face, Though round his base the wrecks of time are
The stars shine on as at their birth they shone;
And see a firm foundation still for Hope!
The world is full of joy. The sweet rose flings
The storm peals out; down comes the dancing rain;
The mountain stream leaps shouting to the plain, And with high glee the echoing valley rings; The wild wind whistles in his desert caves;
The thick clouds ride triumphant down the sky; The old green wood his lusty branches waves;
Huge ocean shakes his foamy crest on high; Earth springs exulting in her fadeless prime, And the glad sun rolls on his course sublime!
I looked on Beauty, when the sudden light
Laughed from beneath her silken lashes fair,
With the soft smile of twilight sweetness rare On Beauty's brow, which thoughts of kindness wear,
When the eye looks more than the tongue may speak.