TYING HER BONNET UNDER HER CHIN.
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow.
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel,
Are numbered with the secret things which God will not reveal.
But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest,
Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast.
I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh,
But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy forever fresh.
I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings,
And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's divinest things.
I know that we shall meet our babe, (his mother dear and I,)
Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye.
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease;
Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace.
It may be that the Tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever;
But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours forever.
When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be,
When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery,
When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain,
O, we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again!
TYING HER BONNET UNDER HER CHIN.
TYING her bonnet under her chin,
She tied her raven ringlets in;
But not alone in the silken snare
Did she catch her lovely floating hair,
For, tying her bonnet under her chin,
She tied a young man's heart within.
TYING HER BONNET UNDER HER CHIN.
They were strolling together up the hill,
Where the wind comes blowing merry and chill;
And it blew the curls, a frolicsome race,
All over the happy peach-colored face,
Till, scolding and laughing, she tied them in,
Under her beautiful dimpled chin.
And it blew a color, bright as the bloom
Of the pinkest fuchsia's tossing plume,
TYING HER BONNET UNDER HER CHIN.
All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl
That ever imprisoned a romping curl,
Or, tying her bonnet under her chin,
Tied a young man's heart within.
Steeper and steeper grew the hill;
Madder, merrier, chiller still
The western wind blew down, and played
The wildest tricks with the little maid,
As, tying her bonnet under her chin,
She tied a young man's heart within.
O western wind, do you think it was fair
To play such tricks with her floating hair?
To gladly, gleefully do your best
To blow her against the young man's breast,
Where he as gladly folded her in,
And kissed her mouth and her dimpled chin?
Ah! Ellery Vane, you little thought,
An hour ago, when you besought
This country lass to walk with you
After the sun had dried the dew,
What perilous danger you'd be in,
As she tied her bonnet under her chin.
LOVE in my bosom, like a bee,
Doth suck his sweet;
Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet;
Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast;
And yet he robs me of my rest:
Ah, wanton! will ye?
And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,
And makes his pillow of my knee
The livelong night.
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; He music plays if so I sing;
He lends me every lovely thing;
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
Whist, wanton! still ye!
Else I with roses every day
Will whip you hence,
And bind you when you long to play,
I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in,
I'll make you fast it for your sin,
I'll count your power not worth a pin:
Alas! what hereby shall I win
If he gainsay me?
What if I beat the wanton boy,
With many a rod?
He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.
Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes -I like of thee.
O Cupid, so thou pity me,
Spare not, but play thee!
SWEET day! so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky!
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.
Sweet rose whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave;
|