« PreviousContinue »
The mountain-oak oft seems most sound,
When yielding to decay
The breast may hide a deadly wound,
Along the crushed and crumbling tower
So laugh and jest in pleasure's bower
Soft summer's leaves are fresh and fair,
The forest-rainbows play.
Fair on the cheek is beauty's blush,
And yet consumption's hectic flush,
"Tis not-'tis not the clam'rous groan
The querulous complaint
The gushing tear
the frequent moan
That speaks the soul's lament.
Sorrow's a proud a lonely thing,
The Spartan's mantle o'er the fang
Tears which are never shed Deep in the soul their fountain sleeps, When hope and joy are fled.
Yet, who would ask the stagnant breast,
Which chills not
Who would not spurn that waveless rest
Then, think not, though the brow is free
The breast is as a summer sea,
And happiness dwells there.
Ah, think not, though the sunny glance
And on the lip the jest may dance,
That grief is far away.