Poems by George Pope Morris Part 13

"And has it kissed you back, my dear?"

"Why--no--my love," said he.

"Then, William, it is very clear 'Tis not at all LIKE ME!"

The Retort.

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

Poor Jane had scarce become a wife, Before her husband sought to make her The pink of country-polished life, And prim and formal as a Quaker.

One day the tutor went abroad, And simple Jenny sadly missed him; When he returned, behind her lord She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him!

The husband's anger rose!--and red And white his face alternate grew!

"Less freedom, ma'am!"--Jane sighed and said, "OH, DEAR! I DIDN'T KNOW 'TWAS YOU!"

Lines On A Poet.

How sweet the cadence of his lyre!

What melody of words!

They strike a pulse within the heart Like songs of forest-birds, Or tinkling of the shepherd's bell Among the mountain-herds.

His mind's a cultured garden, Where Nature's hand has sown The flower-seeds of poesy-- And they have freshly grown, Imbued with beauty and perfume To other plants unknown.

A bright career's before him-- All tongues p.r.o.nounce his praise; All hearts his inspiration feel, And will in after-days; For genius breathes in every line Of his soul-thrilling lays.

A nameless grace is round him-- A something, too refined To be described, yet must be felt By all of human kind-- An emanation of the soul, That can not be defined.

Then blessings on the minstrel-- His faults let others scan: There may be spots upon the sun, Which those may view who can; I see them not--yet know him well A POET AND A MAN.

The Baccha.n.a.l

Beside a cottage-door, Sang Ella at her wheel; Ruthven rode o'er the moor, Down at her feet to kneel: A spotted palfrey gay Came ambling at his side, To bear the maid away As his affianced bride.

A high-born n.o.ble he, Of stately halls secure; A low-born peasant she, Of parentage obscure.

How soft the honeyed words He breathes into her ears!-- The melody of birds!

The music of the spheres!

With love her bosom swells, Which she would fain conceal-- Her eyes, like crystal wells, Its hidden depths reveal.

While liquid diamonds drip From feeling's fountain warm, Flutters her scarlet lip-- A rose-leaf in a storm!

As from an April sky The rain-clouds flit away, So from the maiden's eye Vanished the falling spray, Which lingered but awhile Her dimpled cheek upon-- Then melted in her smile, Like vapor in the sun.

The maid is all his own!

She trusts his plighted word, And, lightly on the roan, She springs beside her lord: She leaves her father's cot, She turns her from the door-- That green and holy spot Which she will see no more!

They hied to distant lands, That lord and peasant-maid: The church ne'er joined their hands, For Ella was betrayed!

Torn from her native bower, That modest rose of May, Drooped, in his stately tower, And pa.s.sed from earth away.

They laid her in the ground, And Ella was forgot-- Dead was her father found In his deserted cot.

But Ruthven--what of him?

He ran the story o'er, And, filling to the brim, He thought of it no more!

Twenty Years Ago

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

I'll ne'er forget his locks of jet, His brow of Alpine snow, His manly grace of form and face, Some twenty years ago.

The hand he asked I freely gave-- Mine was a happy lot, In all my pride to be his bride Within my father's cot.

The faith he spoke he never broke: His faithful heart I know; And well I vow I love him now As twenty years ago.

National Anthem.

Freedom spreads her downy wings Over all created things; Glory to the King of kings, Bend low to Him the knee!

Bring the heart before His throne-- Wors.h.i.+p Him and Him alone!-- He's the only King we own-- And He has made us free!