Written by
George (Lord) Byron |
Sweet girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne'er forget;
And though we ne'er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain.
I would not say, "I love," but still
My senses struggle with my will:
In vain, to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps this is not love, but yet
Our meeting I can ne'er forget.
What though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke.
The toungue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale in never feels;
Deceit the guilty lips impart,
And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul's interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint and scorn disguise.
As thus our glances oft conversed,
And all our bosoms felt, rehearsed,
No spirit, from within, reproved us,
Say rather, "'twas the spirit moved us.
"
Though what they utter'd I repress,
Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess;
For as on thee my memory ponders,
Perchance to me thine also wanders.
This for myself, at least, I'll say,
Thy form appears through night, through day:
Awake, with it my fancy teems;
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
The vision charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora's ray
For breaking slumbers of delight
Which make me wish for endless night:
Since, oh! whate'er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await,
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image I can ne'er forget.
Alas! again no more we meet,
No more former looks repeat;
Then let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom's care:
"May heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
That anguish never can o'ertake her;
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker!
Oh, may the happy mortal, fated
To be by dearest ties related,
For her each hour new joys discover,
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair bosom never know
What 't is to feel the restless woe
Which stings the soul with vain regret,
Of him who never can forget!"
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Written by
Paul Laurence Dunbar |
Men may sing of their Havanas, elevating to the stars
The real or fancied virtues of their foreign-made cigars;[Pg 130]
But I worship Nicotina at a different sort of shrine,
And she sits enthroned in glory in this corn-cob pipe of mine.
It 's as fragrant as the meadows when the clover is in bloom;
It 's as dainty as the essence of the daintiest perfume;
It 's as sweet as are the orchards when the fruit is hanging ripe,
With the sun's warm kiss upon them—is this corn-cob pipe.
Thro' the smoke about it clinging, I delight its form to trace,
Like an oriental beauty with a veil upon her face;
And my room is dim with vapour as a church when censers sway,
As I clasp it to my bosom—in a figurative way.
It consoles me in misfortune and it cheers me in distress,
And it proves a warm partaker of my pleasures in success;
So I hail it as a symbol, friendship's true and worthy type,
And I press my lips devoutly to my corn-cob pipe.
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