136
Poems.
I call ye away from grief and care,
The sorrows of earth no longer to bear;
But ye cannot e'er tell where next I aim,
Or when I shall point my arrow again.
And ye coldly look as I onward press,
Though ye find your numbers grow less and less.
Ye try to forget your time may be nigh,
But I will remember, and call by and bye.
The sorrows of earth no longer to bear;
But ye cannot e'er tell where next I aim,
Or when I shall point my arrow again.
And ye coldly look as I onward press,
Though ye find your numbers grow less and less.
Ye try to forget your time may be nigh,
But I will remember, and call by and bye.
A THOUGHT.
It comes to me at morning's hour,
With all its sweet and magic power,
To soothe my heart;
And often through the day I find,
The vision ling'ring in my mind,
With mystic art.
With all its sweet and magic power,
To soothe my heart;
And often through the day I find,
The vision ling'ring in my mind,
With mystic art.
At pensive twilight's lovely shade,
Devoid of all external aid,
It doth arise,—
Bringing before my mental view,
A picture that my fancy drew,
Though dim it lies.
Devoid of all external aid,
It doth arise,—
Bringing before my mental view,
A picture that my fancy drew,
Though dim it lies.
