There is enough of sadness to invite, If only for the rose that died, - whose doom Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light; Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear, - BALLAD. SPRING it is cheery, Winter is dreary, Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly; Age has no honey, What can an old man do but die? June it was jolly, O for its folly! A dancing leg and a laughing eye; Youth may be silly, Wisdom is chilly, What can an old man do but die? Friends, they are scanty, Beggars are plenty, If he has followers, I know why; 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, None triumph now for Python's death; But thou dost save From hungry grave The life that hangs upon a summer breath. |