Poems by George Pope Morris Part 21

In vain I've endeavored to borrow From friends "some material aid"-- For my landlady views me with sorrow, When she thinks of the bill that's unpaid.

Abroad my acquaintances flout me, The ladies cry, "Bless us, look there!"

And the little boys cl.u.s.ter about me, And sensible citizens stare.

One says, "He's a victim to cupid;"

Another, "His conduct's too bad;"

A third, "He is awfully stupid;"

A fourth, "He is perfectly mad!"-- And then I am watched like a bandit, Mankind with me all are at strife: By heaven no longer I'll stand it, But quick put an end to my life!

I've thought of the means--yet I shudder At dagger or ratsbane or rope; At drawing with lancet my blood, or At razor without any soap!

Suppose I should fall in a duel, And thus leave the stage with ECLAT?

But to die with a bullet is cruel-- Besides 'twould be breaking the law!

Yet one way remains: to the river I'll fly from the goadings of care!-- But drown?--oh, the thought makes me s.h.i.+ver-- A terrible death, I declare!

Ah, no!--I'll once more see my Kitty, And parry her cruel disdain-- Beseech her to take me in pity, And never dismiss me again.

Lord of the Castle.

"Lord of the castle! oh, where goest thou?

Why is the triumph of pride on thy brow?"

"Pilgrim, my bridal awaits me to-day, Over the mountains away and away."

"Flora in beauty and solitude roves, List'ning for thee in the shade of the groves."

"Pilgrim, I hasten her truth to repay, Over the mountains away and away."

"Guided by honor, how brilliant the road Leading from cottage to castle abode!"

"Pilgrim, its dictates I learned to obey, Over the mountains away and away."

The Fallen Brave. [See Notes]

From Cypress and from laurel boughs Are twined, in sorrow and in pride, The leaves that deck the mouldering brows Of those who for their country died: In sorrow, that the sable pall Enfolds the valiant and the brave; In pride that those who n.o.bly fall Win garlands that adorn the grave.

The onset--the pursuit--the roar Of victory o'er the routed foe-- Will startle from their rest no more The fallen brave of Mexico.

To G.o.d alone such spirits yield!

He took them in their strength and bloom, When gathering, on the tented field, The garlands woven for the tomb.

The shrouded flag--the drooping spear-- The m.u.f.fled drum--the solemn bell-- The funeral train--the dirge--the bier-- The mourners' sad and last farewell-- Are fading tributes to the worth Of those whose deeds this homage claim; But Time, who mingles them with earth Keeps green the garlands of their fame.

Song of the Troubadour.

In Imitation of the Lays of the Olden Time.

"Come, list to the lay of the olden time,"

A troubadour sang on a moonlit stream: "The scene is laid in a foreign clime, "A century back--and love is the theme."

Love was the theme of the troubadour's rhyme, Of lady and lord of the olden time

"At an iron-barred turret, a lady fair "Knelt at the close of the vesper-chime: "Her beads she numbered in silent prayer "For one far away, whom to love was her crime.

"Love," sang the troubadour, "love was a crime, "When fathers were stern, in the olden time.

"The warder had spurned from the castle gate "The minstrel who wooed her in flowing rhyme-- "He came back from battle in regal estate-- "The bard was a prince of the olden time.

"Love," sand the troubadour, "listened to rhyme, "And welcomed the bard of the olden time.

"The prince in disguise had the lady sought; "To chapel they hied in their rosy prime: "Thus worth won a jewel that wealth never bought, "A fair lady's heart of the olden time.

"The moral," the troubadour sang, "of my rhyme, "Was well understood in the olden time."

Champions of Liberty. [See Notes]

The pride of all our chivalry, The name of Worth will stand, While throbs the pulse of liberty Within his native land: The wreath his brow was formed to wear, A nation's tears will freshen there.

The young companion of his fame, In war and peace allied, With garlands woven round his name, Reposes at his side: Duncan, whose deeds for evermore Will live amid his cannon's roar.

Gates, in his country's quarrel bold, When she to arms appealed, Sought like the Christian knights of old, His laurels on the field: Where victory rent the welkin-dome, He earned--a sepulchre at home.

The drum-beat of the bannered brave, The requiem and the knell, The volley o'er the soldier's grave, His comrades' last farewell, Are tributes rendered to the dead, And sermons to the living read.

But there's a glory brighter far Than all that earth has given; A beacon, like the index-star, That points the way to heaven: It is a life well spent--its close The cloudless sundown of repose.

That such was theirs for whom we mourn, These obsequies attest; And though in sorrow they are borne Unto their final rest, A guide will their example be To future champions of the free.