George Pope Morris

Let not a tear be shed! Of grief give not a token, Although the silver thread

In the days that are gone, by this sweet-flowing water, Two lovers reclined in the shade of a tree; She was the mountain-king's rosy-lipped daughter,

On old Long Island's sea-girt shore We caught a cod the other day; He never had been there before,

John was thought both rich and great-- Dick so-so, but comfortable: John lived at a splendid rate--

(Spoken by Mrs. Hilson.) The music's done.    Be quiet, Mr. Durie! Your bell and whistle put me in a fury!

(Spoken by Mrs. Chapman.) Nay, Mr. Simpson!--'Tis not kind--polite-- To shut me out, sir?--I'm in such a fright!--

(Spoken by Mrs. Sharpe) What gay assemblage greets my wondering sight! What scene of splendor--conjured here to-night!

Love left one day his leafy bower, And roamed in sportive vein, Where Vanity had built a tower,

When life looks drear and lonely, love, And pleasant fancies flee, Then will the Muses only, love,

Pull away merrily--over the waters! Bend to your oars for the wood-tangled shore; We're off and afloat with earth's loveliest daughters,

The pride of all our chivalry, The name of Worth will stand, While throbs the pulse of liberty

Come to me in cherry-time, And, as twilight closes, We will have a merry time,

Deliver us from evil, Heavenly Father! It still besets us wheresoe'er we go! Bid the bright rays of revelation gather

First they said it would not do; But, when he got through it, Then they vowed they always knew

'Tis the opinion of the town That Grim's a silly elf: In trying to write Clinton down,

All that's beautiful in woman, All we in her nature love, All that's good in all that's human,

Fare thee well, love!--We must sever! Nor for years, love; but for ever! We must meet no more--or only

*        *        *        *        *        * They come!--Be firm--in silence rally! The long-knives our retreat have found!

"Man dieth and wasteth away, And where is he?"--Hark! from the skies I hear a voice answer and say,

He. What can a man do when a woman's perverse, And determined to have her own way?

I never have been false to thee!-- The heart I gave thee still is thine; Though thou hast been untrue to me,

I love the night when the moon streams bright On flowers that drink the dew-- When cascades shout as the stars peep out,

I'm with you once again, my friends, No more my footsteps roam; Where it began my journey ends,

He died, as he had lived, beloved, Without an enemy on earth; In word and deed he breathed and moved

He was the pulse-beat of true hearts, The love-light of fond eyes: When such a man from earth departs,

She heard the fight was over, And won the wrath of fame! When tidings from her lover,

Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley, At whose call the muses rally; Of all the nine none so divine

Old Cotton is king, boys--aha! With his locks so fleecy and white! He shines among kings like a star!

Lady of England--o'er the seas Thy name was borne on every breeze, Till all this sunset clime became

UP, UP WITH THE SIGNAL!--The land is in sight! We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night! The cold cheerless ocean in safety we've passed,

Ho! brothers--come hither and list to my story-- Merry and brief will the narrative be. Here, like a monarch, I reign in my glory--

How sweet the cadence of his lyre! What melody of words! They strike a pulse within the heart

The knell was tolled--the requiem sung, The solemn burial-service read; And tributes from the heart and tongue

O Love! the mischief thou hast done! Thou god of pleasure and of pain!-- None can escape thee--yes there's one--

When Love in myrtle shades reposed, His bow and darts behind him slung; As dewey twilight round him closed,

Look from thy lattice, love-- Listen to me! The cool, balmy breeze

"Lord of the castle! oh, where goest thou? Why is the triumph of pride on thy brow?" "Pilgrim, my bridal awaits me to-day,

Love thee, dearest?--Hear me.--Never Will my fond vows be forgot! May I perish, and for ever,

Adapted to a Hungarian melody. My heart I gave you with my hand, In brighter days than these,

Thanks for your stanzas, Lucy, My sister dear in song! How many pleasant fancies

When I was in my teens, I loved dear Margaretta: I know not what it means,

One balmy summer night, Mary, Just as the risen moon Had thrown aside her fleecy veil,

Our Order, like the ark of yore, Upon the raging sea was tossed; Secure amid the billow's roar,

The wind-harp has music it moans to the tree, And so has the shell that complains to the sea, The lark that sings merrily over the lea,

My bark is out upon the sea-- The moon's above; Her light a presence seems to me

Suggested by a popular German melody. My lady waits!--'Tis now the hour When morn unbars her gates!--

This book is all that's left me now!-- Tears will unbidden start-- With faltering lip and throbbing brow

Here upon the mountain-side Till now we met together; Here I won my woodland bride,

Freedom spreads her downy wings Over all created things; Glory to the King of kings,

When winter's cold and summer's heat Shall come and go again, A hundred years will be complete

Near the lake where drooped the willow, Long time ago!-- Where the rock threw back the billow

(Address of the carrier of the New-York Mirror, on the first day of the year.) Air--"Songs of Shepherds and Rustical Roundelays." Two years have elapsed since the verse of S. W. [See Notes]

I'm single yet--I'm single yet! And years have flown since I came out! In vain I sigh--in vain I fret--

Some spirit wafts our mountain lay-- Hili ho! boys, hili ho! To distant groves and glens away!

(Music by Balfe.) Twilight. Oh, boatman, haste!--The twilight hour

Oh, think of me, my own beloved, Whatever cares beset thee! And when thou hast the falsehood proved,

Music--"Jess Macfarlane." Oh, this love--this love! I ainse the passion slighted;

Oh, would that she were here, These hills and dales among, Where vocal groves are gayly mocked

After life's eventful mission, In her truthfulness and worth, Like a calm and gentle vision

I know that thou art mine, my love, I know that thou art fair; And lovelier than the orange-flowers

To me the world's an open book Of sweet and pleasant poetry; I read it in the running brook

Two children of the olden time In Flora's primrose season, Were born.    The name of one was Rhyme

I miss thee from my side, beloved, I miss thee from my side; And wearily and drearily

Before the Battle. The clarion call of liberty Rings on the startled gales!

She loved him--but she heeded not-- Her heart had only room for pride: All other feelings were forgot,

Where is now my peace of mind? Gone, alas! for evermore: Turn where'er I may, I find

In the ranks of Marion's band, Through morass and wooded land, Over beach of yellow sand,

Joyous the carol that rings in the mountains, While the cleared vales are refreshed by the fountains-- After the harvest the cheerful notes fall,

I'm the Iron Needle-Woman! Wrought of sterner stuff than clay; And, unlike the drudges human,

In Imitation of the Lays of the Olden Time. "Come, list to the lay of the olden time," A troubadour sang on a moonlit stream:

While before St. Agnes' shrine Knelt a true knight's lady-love, From the wars of Palestine

'Twas night.    Near the murmuring Saone, We met with no witnesses by, But such as resplendently shone

(Written for the lady by whom it was sung.) Air--"Some love to roam." Some love to stroll where the wassail-bowl

Thank God for pleasant weather! Chant it, merry rills! And clap your hands together,

Beside a cottage-door, Sang Ella at her wheel; Ruthven rode o'er the moor,

The moon and all her starry train Were fading from the morning sky, When home the ball-room belle again

I never could find a good reason Why sorrow unbidden should stay, And all the bright joys of life's season

Upon the barren sand A single captive stood; Around him came, with bow and brand,

The Colonel!--Such a creature! I met him at the ball!-- So fair in form and feature,

Hard by I've a cottage that stands near the wood-- A stream glides in peace at the door-- Where all who will tarry, 'tis well understood,

Written at the request of the corporation of the city of New York. Gushing from this living fountain, Music pours a falling strain,

William. The day is now dawning, love, Fled is the night--

Suggested by a scene in the play of the hunchback. Inscribed to James Sheridan Knowles. "Love me!--No.--He never loved me!"

"I suppose she was right in rejecting my suit, But why did she kick me down stairs?" Halleck's "Discarded."

Unseal the city fountains, And let the waters flow In coolness from the mountains

I've had the heart-ache many times, At the mere mention of a name I've never woven in my rhymes,

Love can not be the aloe-tree, Whose bloom but once is seen; Go search the grove--the tree of love

As streams at morn, from seas that glide, Rejoicing on their sparkling way, Will turn again at eventide,

From Cypress and from laurel boughs Are twined, in sorrow and in pride, The leaves that deck the mouldering brows

"A song for our banner?"--The watchword recall Which gave the Republic her station: "United we stand--divided we fall!"--

Upon the couch of death, The champion of the free, Gave, with his parting breath,

A merry life does the hunter lead! He wakes with the dawn of day; He whistles his dog--he mounts his steed,

I glory in the sages Who, in the days of yore, In combat met the foemen,

An Opera in Three Acts. Founded upon historical events in the life of Frederick the Second of Prussia, related by Miss Edgeworth, Zimmermann, Latrobe, and other writers. The Music

[Founded upon a well-known tale from the pen of the late William Leggett, Esq.] Old Ironsides at anchor lay, In the harbor of Mahon;

Written for the freemasons of St. John's Lodge No. 1, New York. Members of an order Ancient as the earth;

Like flights of singing-birds went by The cheerful hours of girlhood's day, When, in my native bowers,

In the upper circles Moves a famous man Who has had no equal

William was holding in his hand The likeness of his wife! Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand,

She left the port in gallant style, With sails and streamers full and free! I watched her course for many a mile

Once in a time old Johnny Bull Flew in a raging fury, And swore that Jonathan should have

An ivy-mantled cottage smiled, Deep-wooded near a streamlet's side, Where dwelt the village-pastor's child,

The shades of evening closed around The boundless prairies of the west, As, grouped in sadness on the ground,

Old Nick, who taught the village-school, Wedded a maid of homespun habit; He was as stubborn as a mule,

A rock in the wilderness welcomed our sires, From bondage far over the dark-rolling sea; On that holy altar they kindled the fires,

The spring-time of love Is both happy and gay, For joy sprinkles blossoms

You remember--don't you, brother-- In our early years, The counsels of our poor, dear mother,

(Written upon the return of General Scott from his brilliant Mexican campaign.) Victorious the hero returns from the wars, His brow bound with laurels that never will fade,

Oh, sing once more those dear, familiar lays, Whose gliding measure every bosom thrills, And takes my heart back to the happy days

The morning is breaking-- The stag is away! The hounds and the hunters

The star of love now shines above, Cool zephyrs crisp the sea; Among the leaves the wind-harp weaves

Wealth sought the bower of Beauty, Dressed like a modern beau: Just then Love, Health, and Duty

Through the streets of New York City, Blithely every morn, I carolled o'er my artless ditty,

The sword of the hero! The staff of the sage! Whose valor and wisdom

I knew a sweet girl, with a bonny blue eye, Who was born in the shade The wild sycamore made,

The heart that owns thy tyrant sway, Whate'er its hopes may be, Is like a bark that drifts away

To meet, and part, as we have met and parted, One moment cherished and the next forgot, To wear a smile when almost broken-hearted,

"The plaint of the wailing Whip-poor-will, Who mourns unseen and ceaseless sings Ever a note of wail and wo,

Thou hast woven the spell that hath bound me, Through all the sad changes of years; And the smiles that I wore when I found thee,

Searcher of Hearts!--from mine erase All thoughts that should not be, And in its deep recesses trace

The fountains serenade the flowers, Upon their silver lute-- And, nestled in their leafy bowers,

Georgie, come home!--Life's tendrils cling about thee, Where'er thou art, by wayward fancy led. We miss thee, love!--Home is not home without thee--

The woods waved welcome in the breeze, When, many years ago, Lured by the songs of birds and bees,

'Twas in the flush of summer-time, Some twenty years or more, When Ernest lost his way, and crossed

This word beyond all others, Makes us love our country most, Makes us feel that we are brothers,

Song and Chorus. Up the Hudson!--Fleetly gliding To our haunts among the trees!

Come, come to me, love! Come, love!--Arise And shame the bright stars

To know a man well, it is said, Walter Gay, On shipboard with him you should be: If this maxim's true, then well I know you,

A monument to Washington? A tablet graven with his name?-- Green be the mound it stands upon,

Fare thee well--we part for ever! All regrets are now in vain! Fate decrees that we must sever,

(Music by Russell.) We were boys together, And never can forget

Wearies my love of my letters? Does she my silence command? Sunders she Love's rosy fetters

My Mary's voice!--It is the hour She promised to be here: Taught by love's mysterious power,

Love comes and goes like a spell! How, no one knows, nor can tell! Now here--now there--then away!

Droop not, brothers! As we go, O'er the mountains,

(Written for Miss Poole, and sung by her in the character of cowslip.) I'm much too young to marry, For I am only seventeen;

When other friends are round thee, And other hearts are thine-- When other bays have crowned thee,

Where Hudson's wave o'er silvery sands Winds through the hills afar, Old Cronest like a monarch stands,

Heigh-ho! for a husband!--Heigh-ho! There's danger in longer delay! Shall I never again have a beau?

I clasp your hand in mine, Willie, And fancy I've the art To see, while gazing in your face,

Ah, woman!--in this world of ours, What boon can be compared to thee?-- How slow would drag life's weary hours,

Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me,

Adapted to a Spanish Melody. My lady hath as soft a hand As any queen in fairy-land;

Near the banks of that lone river, Where the water-lilies grow, Breathed the fairest flower that ever