Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Samuel Kettell, ed. Specimens of American Poetry. 1829.

By Songs

Robert Waln (1794–1824)

TTHE BRIGHT tear of beauty, in sadness, is stealing,—

The gems of the east are less sparkling than these;—

Her cheek is all flush’d with the anguish of feeling,—

Her white bosom carelessly bared to the breeze.

’T is the bride of the Soldier,—and Fancy had flourish’d

In day dreams that circle the phantom of Love,

For the visions of bliss that the maiden had nourish’d,

Her soul, in the warmth of its tenderness, wove.

But hark!—’t is the rush and the roaring of battle

That rolls on the lingering wings of the wind;

The sabres gleam bright; and the cannon’s loud rattle

Speaks death to the maiden, left weeping behind.

The turf is his pillow;—his mantle is heaven;—

The warrior is sleeping the sleep of the brave!

The chains of affection are awfully riven,

And moulder away in the gloom of the grave.

YOU said, dear girl, the other night,

That love was all a fond illusion!—

But why, my dear, with eyes so bright,

And cheeks so blooming with confusion?

And when I gravely own’d the truth,

In prayers that love should ne’er entrance thee.

And blamed the wanton dreams of youth,—

I saw thee frown;—perhaps ’t was fancy.

And as I press’d thy burning hand,

And breathed the vow of never loving,

Why did thy heaving breast expand,

With sighs so sweet,—yet so reproving?

But when I talk’d of friendship, dear,

Of Plato, and his stoic pleasure,

I long’d to kiss the starting tear,

And steal away the pearly treasure.

’T was love that sparkled in thine eye,

And gemm’d thy cheek with wavering flushes

’T was love that breathed the chiding sigh,

And mingled its tear with rosy blushes.

Then call it friendship;—what you will;—

The heart disowns what the lips are naming;

It lives in the joy of the holy thrill,

And the altar of love is brightly flaming.

’T IS the break of day, and cloudless weather,

The eager dogs are all roaming together,

The moor-cock is flitting across the heather,

Up, rouse from your slumbers,

Away!

No vapor encumbers the day;

Wind the echoing horn,

For the waking morn

Peeps forth in its mantle of gray.

The wild-boar is shaking his dewy bristle,

The partridge is sounding his morning whistle,

The red-deer is bounding o’er the thistle,

Up, rouse from your slumbers,

Away!

No vapor encumbers the day

Wind the echoing horn,

For the waking morn

Peeps forth in its mantle of gray.