She wept to think her recreant race "Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall; "Though sunny the Lake of cool Cashmere, "With its plane-tree isle reflected clear,106 "And sweetly the founts of that valley fall; "Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, "And the golden floods that thitherward stray,1 "Yet oh! 'tis only the blest can say 107 "How the waters of heaven outshine them all! "Go, wing thy flight from star to star, "From world to luminous world, as far "As the universe spreads its flaming wall." Robert Rumble. Robert Rumble, a poet of lyric renown, Was invited to dine with a squire out of town, His hounds Just to hunt off the vermin from other men's grounds, With my hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho! The huntsmen that morning had bought an old hack, Hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho! To cut up, as a delicate lunch for the pack, With my hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho! But who can describe Robert Rumble's dismay, When the squire, after dinner, came smirking to say, That instead of the dog-horse, some hard-hearted wag Had cut up, by mistake, Robert Rumble's lean nag, With his hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho! 'But comfort yourself,' said the squire to the bard, Hey, scribble-hy, scribble, ho! There's the dog-horse still standing alive in the yard,' Then they saddled the dog-horse, and homeward he set, Arriv'd safe at home, to his pillow he jogs, And dreams all the night about critics and dogs, His nag seem'd a Pegasus, touch'd in the wind, Who, when press'd for a supper must bite ere they sup, Spirit of joy. Spirit of joy! thy altar lies In youthful hearts, that hope like mine, And 'tis the light of laughing eyes That leads us to thy fairy shrine. There, if we find the sigh, the tear, They are not those to sorrow known, But breath so soft, and drops so clear, That bliss may claim them for her own. Then give me, give me, while I weep, The sanguine hope that brightens wo, And teaches e'en our tears to keep The tinge of rapture while they flow, And teaches e'en our tears to keep The tinge of rapture while they flow. The child who sees the dew of night But wounds his finger with the thorn. Dissolve when touch'd, and turn to pain; The flush they kindle leaves the cheek, The tears they waken long remain. But give me, give me, while I weep, The sanguine hope that brightens wo, And teaches e'en our tears to keep The tinge of rapture while they flow. Says Sammy the tailor to me. Says Sammy, the tailor, to me, Made for folks of high breeding, There's Dick, who sold wine in the lane, But he thought of poor Turkey, he said, sir, The grocer, Will Fig, who so fast Through his ciphers and figures could run ye, By gum! he has nothing, at last, But the ciphers to show for his money. The barber, a scollard, well known Oh Liberty. Though sacred the tie that our country entwineth, Our vision, when absent-our glory when present, Farewell to the land where in childhood I wander'd, In vain is she mighty, in vain is she brave! Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squander'd, And fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave. But hail to thee, Albion! who meets the commotion Of Europe as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam; With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the ocean, Hail Temple of Liberty! thou art my home. |