"O my love, my fickle lover--
Where to find him shall I stray?"
Up and down the strand she hurried
Singing, singing this sad lay.
In her hand a comb she carried,
All of gold, to comb her hair;
"Tell me, tell me, gentle sailor--
Heaven take thee 'neath it's care--
Hast thou seen my fickle lover,
Hast thou seen him any where?"
STANZAS.
From the Portuguese.
A fool is he who in the lap
Basking of every smiling joy,
Will each and all with fear alloy
Of what some future day may hap.
Let him enjoy his present state;
For he but double make his woes,
Who midst the future's shadows goes
To meet the ills of murky fate.
MY EIGHTEENTH YEAR.
From the French.
Where is my eighteenth year? far back
Upon life's variegated track;
Yet fondly oft I turn my eye,
And for my eighteenth year I sigh.
Each pleasure then I took with zest,
And hope was inmate of my breast--
Enchanting hope, consoling thing,
The plucker out of sorrow's sting.
The sun above shone brighter then,
Fairer were women, kinder men;
If tears I shed, they soon were o'er,
And I was happier than before.
The minstrel-wight of ancient day
Wish'd that the twelve months all were May;
I wish that every year I see
The eighteenth of my life could be.
Pages:
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69