THE ISLET. HITHER, O whither, love, shall we go, For a score of sweet little summers or so?" The sweet little wife of the singer said, On the day that follow'd the day she was wed, "Whither, O whither, love, shall we go?" And the singer shaking his curly head There at his right with a sudden crash, In a shallop of crystal ivory-beak'd, With a satin sail of a ruby glow, To a sweet little Eden on earth that I know, A mountain islet pointed and peak'd; Waves on a diamond shingle dash, Cataract brooks to the ocean run, Fairily-delicate palaces shine Mixt with myrtle and clad with vine, Thither, O thither, love, let us go." For in all that exquisite isle, my dear, There is but one bird with a musical throat, And his compass is but of a single note, That it makes one weary to hear." "Mock me not! mock me not! love, let us go." "No, love, no. For the bud ever breaks into bloom on the tree, And a storm never wakes on the lonely sea, And a worm is there in the lonely wood, That pierces the liver and blackens the blood; And makes it a sorrow to be." THE SPITEFUL LETTER. JERE, it is here, the close of the O little bard, is your lot so hard, If men neglect your pages? I think not much of yours or of mine, I hear the roll of the ages. * Rhymes and rhymes in the range of the times! Are mine for the moment stronger? Yet hate me not, but abide your lot, I last but a moment longer. This faded leaf, our names are as brief; What room is left for a hater? Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener leaf, For it hangs one moment later. Greater than I-is that your cry? And men will live to see it. Well-if it be so-so it is, you know; Brief, brief is a summer leaf, But this is the time of hollies. O hollies and ivies and evergreens, How I hate the spites and the follies! |