The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics Part 13

Say only this: A tender bud, That tried to blossom in the snow, Lies withered where the violets blow.

O.W. HOLMES.

Days.

Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, m.u.f.fled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, And marching single in an endless file, Bring diadems and f.a.gots in their hands.

To each they offer gifts after his will, Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.

I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp, Forgot my morning wishes, hastily Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day Turned and departed silent. I, too late, Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.

R.W. EMERSON.

Song.[2]

You know the old Hidalgo (His box is next to ours), Who threw the Prima Donna The wreath of orange-flowers; He owns the half of Aragon, With mines beyond the main; A very ancient n.o.bleman, And gentleman of Spain.

They swear that I must wed him, In spite of yea or nay, Though uglier than the Scaramouch, The spectre in the play; But I will sooner die a maid Than wear a gilded chain, For all the ancient n.o.blemen And gentlemen of Spain!

R.H. STODDARD.

[2] From "The Poems of R.H. Stoddard," copyright, 1880, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

Aladdin.

When I was a beggarly boy, And lived in a cellar damp, I had not a friend nor a toy, But I had Aladdin's lamp; When I could not sleep for cold, I had fire enough in my brain, And builded, with roofs of gold, My beautiful castles in Spain!

Since then I have toiled day and night, I have money and power good store, But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright, For the one that is mine no more; Take, Fortune, whatever you choose,-- You gave, and may s.n.a.t.c.h again; I have nothing 'twould pain me to lose, For I own no more castles in Spain!

J.R. LOWELL.

The Flight of Youth.[3]

There are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain; But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again.

We are stronger, and are better, Under manhood's sterner reign; Still, we feel that something sweet Followed youth, with flying feet, And will never come again.

Something beautiful is vanished, And we sigh for it in vain; We behold it everywhere, On the earth, and in the air, But it never comes again.

R.H. STODDARD.

[3] From "The Poems of R.H. Stoddard," copyright, 1880, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

My Playmate.

The pines were dark on Ramoth hill, Their song was soft and low; The blossoms in the sweet May wind Were falling like the snow.

The blossoms drifted at our feet, The orchard birds sang clear; The sweetest and the saddest day It seemed of all the year.

For, more to me than birds or flowers, My playmate left her home, And took with her the laughing spring, The music and the bloom.

She kissed the lips of kith and kin, She laid her hand in mine: What more could ask the bashful boy Who fed her father's kine?

She left us in the bloom of May: The constant years told o'er Their seasons with as sweet May morns, But she came back no more.

I walk, with noiseless feet, the round Of uneventful years; Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring And reap the autumn ears.

She lives where all the golden year Her summer roses blow; The dusky children of the sun Before her come and go.

There haply with her jewelled hands She smooths her silken gown,-- No more the homespun lap wherein I shook the walnuts down.

The wild grapes wait us by the brook, The brown nuts on the hill, And still the May-day flowers make sweet The woods of Follymill.

The lilies blossom in the pond, The bird builds in the tree, The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill The slow song of the sea.

I wonder if she thinks of them, And how the old time seems, If ever the pines of Ramoth wood Are sounding in her dreams.

I see her face, I hear her voice: Does she remember mine?

And what to her is now the boy Who fed her father's kine?

What cares she that the orioles build For other eyes than ours,-- That other hands with nuts are filled, And other laps with flowers?

O playmate in the golden time!

Our mossy seat is green, Its fringing violets blossom yet, The old trees o'er it lean.

The winds so sweet with birch and fern A sweeter memory blow; And there in spring the veeries sing The song of long ago.