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How dear to me the hour when daylight dies,
And sunbeams melt along the silent sea,
For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.
How dear to my soul is the mild twilight hour!
How the Doctor's brow should smile,
Crown'd with wreaths of camomile.
If with water you fill up your glasses,
You'll never write anything wise;
For wine is the horse of Parnassus,
Which hurries a bard to the skies.
- [Wine and Spirits]
In vain we fondly strive to trace
The soul's reflection in the face;
In vain we dwell on lines and crosses,
Crooked mouths and short probosces;
Boobies have looked as wise and bright
As Plato and the Stagyrite
And many a sage and learned skull
Has peeped through windows dark and dull.
It was an evening bright and still
As ever blush'd on wave or bower;
Smiling from heaven, as if nought ill
Could happen in so sweet an hour.
It was whispered balm, it was sunshine spoken!
Laws could be passed to keep the leader of a government from getting too much power.
Light may come where all looks darkest,
Hope hath life, when life seems o'er.
Like the plants that throw their fragrance from the wounded part, breathe sweetness out of woe.
Lips in whose rosy labyrinth, when she smiled, the soul was lost.
Music!--O! how faint, how weak,
Language fades before thy spell! Why should Feeling ever speak,
When thou can'st breathe her soul so well?
Friendship's balmy words may feign--
Love's are even more false than they;
Oh! 'tis only music's strain
Can sweetly soothe, and not betray.
Music!--O, how faint, how weak, language fades before thy spell!
O woman! whose form and whose soul
Are the spell and the light of each path we pursue;
Whether sunn'd in the tropics, or chill'd at the pole,
If woman be there, there is happiness too.
O! ever thus from childhood's hour,
I've seen my fondest hopes decay;
I never loved a tree or flower,
But 'twas the first to fade away!
Oh! let not tears embalm my tomb,
None but the dews by twilight given!
Oh! let not sighs disturb the gloom.
None but the whispering winds of heaven.
Oh, sweet youth, how soon it fades!
Sweet joys of youth, how fleeting!
Oh, the heart, that has truly loved, never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,
As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turn'd when he rose.
Our hearts, my love, were form'd to be
The genuine twins of sympathy,
They live with one sensation:
In joy or grief, but most in love,
Like chords in unison they move,
And thrill with like vibration.
Playful blushes, that seemed nought
But luminous escapes of thought.
Pleasure's the only noble end
To which all human powers should tend;
And virtue gives her heavenly lore,
But to make pleasure please us more!
Wisdom and she were both design'd
To make the senses more refined,
That man might revel free from cloying,
Then most a sage, when most enjoying!
Prayer moves the hand that moves the universe.
Holy beginning of a holy cause,
When heroes, girt for freedom's combat, pause
Before high Heaven, and, humble in their might,
Call down its blessing on that coming fight.
Round, round, while thus we go round,
The best thing a man can do,
Is to make it at least, a merry-go-round,
By--sending the wine round too.
So closely our whims on our miseries tread,
That the laugh is awak'd ere the tear can be dried.
Some flowers of Eden ye yet inherit,
But the trail of the serpent is over them all.
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