THE NEGLECTED BARD. GEORGE SMITH. FROM "THE CITY MUSE," 1853. CHILD of the Lyre, 'tis hard of thee to sing The eyes of soulless men, all calm and cold, Retard his dreamy flight, he back recoils To sordid earth's contaminating toils; A space too narrow, his aspiring mind Would leap the clouds, and grapple with the wind, Mix with the rainbow, revel in the storm, And mould its power to every hue and form : Would chase the moon and stars athwart the night, And then emerging from the dreamy light Of clustering clouds, like snowdrifts tinged with gold, And wake to louder voice the music of his lyre. More cheering, more exalting, and more strong Than e'er was breathed from lowly lyre of mine. Of men who see no beauty in the book Of nature or of poet; men who find More glory in their gold than all the realms of mind. Gloomy incentives to a soul embued With all the poetry of gratitude, That spiritual music of his lyre, Which, but for hope, in silence would expire; Now that lone harp, in many a bitter pang, Wails in its master's woe, where once it sweetly sang. FLORENCE VANE. FROM "FROISSART BALLADS, AND OTHER POEMS," BY PHILIP PENDLETON COKE, OF WINCHESTER, VIRGINIA, I LOVED thee long and dearly My life's bright dream and early I renew in my fond vision My heart's dear pain, My hope and thy derision, The ruin lone and hoary, The ruin old, Where thou didst hark my story At even told,- Of sky and plain I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane. Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime; Thy voice excell'd the closes Of sweetest rhyme; Thy heart was as a river Without a main. Would I had loved thee never, But fairest, coldest wonder, Lieth the green sod under- And it boots not to remember To quicken Love's pale ember, The lilies of the valley By young graves weep; The pansies love to dally Where maidens sleep; May their bloom, in beauty vying, Never wane Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane. THE CONTRAST. FROM LYRA URBANICA; OR THE SOCIAL EFFUSIONS IN London I never know what I'd be at, Enraptured with this, and enchanted with that; But the Country, God help me! sets all matters right, In town if it rain, why it damps not our hope, The eye has her choice, and the fancy her scope; In the country what bliss, when it rains in the fields, |