Poems (Greenwood)/Wanted.—a theme
Appearance
WANTED.—A THEME.
The spring is here again, mother! she bursts upon our sight,
Like a young girl in her bridal dress, all bloom, and love, and light;
The birds from out the sunny South, Heaven-guided, hither come;
And earth is very fair, mother, far round our cottage-home.
The spring is here again, mother! she bursts upon our sight,
Like a young girl in her bridal dress, all bloom, and love, and light;
The birds from out the sunny South, Heaven-guided, hither come;
And earth is very fair, mother, far round our cottage-home.
A spell is on my heart, mother, a deep, mysterious spell;
I feel the mighty tide of song within my spirit swell!
Then find for me a theme, mother, a theme to write upon,
Ere breaks that spell, and ere that tide has ebbed away and gone.
I feel the mighty tide of song within my spirit swell!
Then find for me a theme, mother, a theme to write upon,
Ere breaks that spell, and ere that tide has ebbed away and gone.
I could write of the fields, mother, the dark and waving woods,
The bursting flowers, the clinging vines, the waterfalls and floods;
But then the world would say, mother, although 't were done up neat,
That I was in a beaten track, a-following that Street.
The bursting flowers, the clinging vines, the waterfalls and floods;
But then the world would say, mother, although 't were done up neat,
That I was in a beaten track, a-following that Street.
I might weave lays like rose-wreaths, mother, and fling them left and right;
All odorous with the breath of love, and glowing with its light;
But though 'twere all a sham, mother, wise ones their heads would shake,
And they 'd say I was in love, mother, which were a sad mistake.
All odorous with the breath of love, and glowing with its light;
But though 'twere all a sham, mother, wise ones their heads would shake,
And they 'd say I was in love, mother, which were a sad mistake.
I could write of the West, mother,—tell many a backwoods tale;
But "Mary Clavers" long ago chanced on that happy trail.
And "went it with a rush," mother, as all the world agree,
And made "a powerful sight" of fun, and left no laugh for me.
But "Mary Clavers" long ago chanced on that happy trail.
And "went it with a rush," mother, as all the world agree,
And made "a powerful sight" of fun, and left no laugh for me.
I could write on the wars, mother, the soldier's glorious life,—
I sometimes think it is my forte to sing of scenes of strife;
But I 've avowed "peace principles," and may not call them back,
So I cannot write of war, mother,—I must take another tack.
I sometimes think it is my forte to sing of scenes of strife;
But I 've avowed "peace principles," and may not call them back,
So I cannot write of war, mother,—I must take another tack.
The terrible might do, mother,—some wild, unearthly story;
I might ride, for a Pegasus, a nightmare into glory,
But then that "Raven" there, mother, above that "chamber-door,"
I asked him if 't would be a hit,—quoth the raven, "Never more!"
I might ride, for a Pegasus, a nightmare into glory,
But then that "Raven" there, mother, above that "chamber-door,"
I asked him if 't would be a hit,—quoth the raven, "Never more!"
I might plead for the poor, mother, the wronged and the oppressed,
And give a flash of freedom's fire, deep burning in my breast;
But they 'd say I was a fanatic a-battling with weak straws
Against the mighty Union, and the almighty laws.
And give a flash of freedom's fire, deep burning in my breast;
But they 'd say I was a fanatic a-battling with weak straws
Against the mighty Union, and the almighty laws.
The fooleries of the beau-monde, mother, should I write on as I feel,
The ladies fair would vote me odd, and not at all genteel;
And ah, the lordly sex, mother, their ire would heaviest fall,—
They 'd vow I was a sour old maid,—and that were worse than all!
The ladies fair would vote me odd, and not at all genteel;
And ah, the lordly sex, mother, their ire would heaviest fall,—
They 'd vow I was a sour old maid,—and that were worse than all!
I think I 'll off to bed, mother,—I'm tired, and then it's late;
The horse I rode this afternoon had such a shocking gait!
So do not early break, mother, my deep and soft repose,
For I love a morning doze, mother,—I love a morning doze.
The horse I rode this afternoon had such a shocking gait!
So do not early break, mother, my deep and soft repose,
For I love a morning doze, mother,—I love a morning doze.