Gold's in his clutches, (Buying him crutches!) What can an old man do but die? HYMN TO THE SUN. GIVER of glowing light! Though but a god of other days, The kings and sages Of wiser ages Still live and gladden in thy genial rays! King of the tuneful lyre, Still poets' hymns to thee belong; Though lips are cold Whereon of old Thy beams all turn'd to worshipping and song! Lord of the dreadful bow, But thou dost save From hungry grave The life that hangs upon a summer breath. Father of rosy day, No more thy clouds of incense rise; But waking flow'rs At morning hours, Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies. God of the Delphic fane, No more thou listenest to hymns sublime; But they will leave On winds at eve, A solemn echo to the end of time. TO A COLD BEAUTY. I. LADY, wouldst thou heiress be, Thou dost still lock up thy heart ;- II. Scorn and cold neglect are made III. When the little buds unclose, Red, and white, and pied, and blue, And that virgin flow'r, the rose, Opes her heart to hold the dew, Wilt thou lock thy bosom up With no jewel in its cup? IV. Let not cold December sit Thus in Love's peculiar throne ;— Brooklets are not prison'd now, But crystal frosts are all agone, And that which hangs upon the spray, It is no snow, but flow'r of May! AUTUMN. I. THE Autumn skies are flush'd with gold, And fair and bright the rivers run; These are but streams of winter cold, And painted mists that quench the sun. II. In secret boughs no sweet birds sing, In secret boughs no bird can shroud; These are but leaves that take to wing, And wintry winds that pipe so loud. III. 'Tis not trees' shade, but cloudy glooms That on the cheerless vallies fall, The flowers are in their grassy tombs, And tears of dew are on them all. RUTH. SHE stood breast high amid the corn, On her cheek an autumn flush, Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell, But long lashes veil'd a light, That had else been all too bright. And her hat, with shady brim, Sure, I said, heav'n did not mean, |