Poems.
83
The trembling voice, the humid eye,
The firmly grasping hand,
All thrill the soul with agony,
That few can well withstand.
The firmly grasping hand,
All thrill the soul with agony,
That few can well withstand.
I have known, these, and vainly tried
To baffle feeling's sting;
But the choked stream would fain gush forth,
From its deep swelling spring.
To baffle feeling's sting;
But the choked stream would fain gush forth,
From its deep swelling spring.
STANZAS.
There is a little quiet spot,
E'en in this world of care,
Where, all forgetting, soon forgot,
We rest in silence there.
That spot is where the cypress waves,
And where the long grass grows;
'T is sacred to unnumbered graves,
And soothes life's deepest woes.
E'en in this world of care,
Where, all forgetting, soon forgot,
We rest in silence there.
That spot is where the cypress waves,
And where the long grass grows;
'T is sacred to unnumbered graves,
And soothes life's deepest woes.
'T is there that each will lay their head,_
'T is there our limbs will rest,
When every spark of life hath fled,
That animates our breast.
'T is there our limbs will rest,
When every spark of life hath fled,
That animates our breast.
