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With pleasant musings, such as childhood knows
When basking on some greenwood shady knoll,
And weaving garlands with the drooping boughs.
Or dost thou sing of woman—of the eye
That pierces through the heart, and wrays
Its own fond secrets by a sympathy
That scorns slow words and idle phrase?
Or of the lips that utter wondrous love,
And yet do scarcely move
Their ruby portals to emit a sound,
Or syllable a name, but round and round
Irradiate themselves with pensive smiles?
Or of the bosom, stranger to the wiles
And thoughts of worthless worldlings, which doth swell
With soft emotion underneath its cover,
And speaks unto the keen-eyed conscious lover
Thoughts, feelings, sympathies, tongue ne'er could teft?
Sing'st thou of arms—of glory in the field—
Where patriots meet in death's embrace,
To reap high honours where the clanging shield
And gleaming spear—the swayful ponderous mace,
And the shrill trumpet rings aloud its peal
Of martial music furious and strong;
Where ardent souls together throng
