« PredošláPokračovať »
Like some great conqueror robed complete,
I walk in gold and crimson sheen, Such wreaths resplendent on my feet,
As round immortal brows have been.
Were I a Pope-and who may know
What wonders changeful time shall bearWhat mortal but would kiss a toe,
Robed in a dress so wondrous fair!
WRITTEN FOR THE EXHIBITION OF HARRISBURG ACADEMY,
JULY 20, 1847.*
“ Farewell !” what tongue the full meaning can
tell, That is hid in that haunted word-Farewell! The boy, who hath gone from his father's side To find how cold is the world and wide; The lover, whom fate hath forced to fly, With a kiss, an embrace, and a long good-bye; The bride, who hath lingered, yet chosen to go From her mother's home—for weal and for wo; The exile, whose heart hath sighed its “ adieu” To his native hills o'er the waters blue Ah! these have FELT, what no tongue can tell, The wo that is hid in that word-Farewell !
But not always thus as a parting knell; A note of joy is that word—Farewell.
See Memoir, page 141.
Have ye never seen on what joyful wings,
well? Or the school-boy, whose cheek has grown pale in
the toil Of his lonely task o'er the midnight oil, When vacation has come, with its sports and its
rest, Will he part with his books with a sorrowful breast?
from whose bosoms youth's freshness hath
parted, Ye know not the joys of the young and light
hearted! When the blood flows the freest, the world is the
brightest, The laugh rings the loudest, the footstep is lightest; When the spirit, untamed by experience of evil, Like a bee 'mongst the roses, lives only to revel; And the heart is away where the wild birds are
singing, Where the sunfish are glacing, and the flowers are
When the soul on its path its own brightness is
casting, Oh! then hath life something too sweet to be
Then, bound a captive to his books, The school-boy from his window looks On the sunny fields where the zephyrs play, And longs to wander, free as they. He sees the Old River go merrily by, He hears the song of birds in the sky, And while life is mounting through his veins, He feels like a prisoner loaded with chains. His lessons are dull, and the days glide slow, And the weeks with a lazy motion go, 'Till the term runs out, and he shouts with glee“ Vacation has come, and I am free !"
Vacation has come; and now, boys, will you sigh To say to your books, for a season, good-bye? Ye who with Cæsar have made the campaign, And fought his hard battles all over again, What say you to grant a short truce to his
slaughters, And let him spend August in winter quarters?
And ye who with Virgil so often have sighed,
soldiers of Cyrus, who saw his defeat, And with Xenophon's Ten Thousand made good
your retreat, Like the army you marched with, when safe from
its foes, You may lay down your arms, and on laurels
repose. But the band that is struggling so far in the rear, 'Tis but a short truce that is granted you here; The foe is before you, and many a fight, Long marches by day, and long watches by night.
And ye, who with Livy have stood by the tide,
last, For your toil, like the reign of her terror, is past.