118
valentines.
"I see a mortal bard, his hand
Across a lyre's strings flinging,
And mortal lips catch up the strains,
Till all the land is ringing!
Across a lyre's strings flinging,
And mortal lips catch up the strains,
Till all the land is ringing!
"About him throng the fair and young,—
They crown him!—I declare,
Fast by him stands my truant boy!—
Apollo, dear, look there!"
They crown him!—I declare,
Fast by him stands my truant boy!—
Apollo, dear, look there!"
The god rose from his cloud-divan:
"Ha! by my thundering sire,
I understand that game of Morris.
There 's the thief that stole my lyre!"
"Ha! by my thundering sire,
I understand that game of Morris.
There 's the thief that stole my lyre!"
TO MISS A. C. L———.
Thy life is like a fountain clear, upspringing
Beside the weary way I 'm treading now;
I love to linger near, and feel it flinging
Its pure baptism on my fevered brow.
Beside the weary way I 'm treading now;
I love to linger near, and feel it flinging
Its pure baptism on my fevered brow.
