. The pioneer : a literary and critical magazine . 1. Stands a maiden on the morrow,Musing by the wave-beat strand,Half in hope and half in sorrowTracing words upon the sand. 2. Shall I ever then behold himWho hath been my life so long, —Ever to this sick heart fold him, —Be the spirit of his song 1 THE ROSE. 41 Touch not, sea, the blessed lettersI have traced upon thy shore,Spare his name whose spirit fettersMine with love forevermore ! Swells the tide and overflows it,But, with omen pure and sweet,Brings a little rose and throws itHumbly at the maidens feet. Full of bliss she takes the token
. The pioneer : a literary and critical magazine . 1. Stands a maiden on the morrow,Musing by the wave-beat strand,Half in hope and half in sorrowTracing words upon the sand. 2. Shall I ever then behold himWho hath been my life so long, —Ever to this sick heart fold him, —Be the spirit of his song 1 THE ROSE. 41 Touch not, sea, the blessed lettersI have traced upon thy shore,Spare his name whose spirit fettersMine with love forevermore ! Swells the tide and overflows it,But, with omen pure and sweet,Brings a little rose and throws itHumbly at the maidens feet. Full of bliss she takes the token,And, upon her snowy breast,Soothes the ruffled petals brokenWith the oceans fierce unrest. 6 Love is thine, oh heart, and surelyPeace shall also be thine own,For the heart that trusteth purelyNever long can pine 1. In his tower sits the poet,Blisses new and strange to himFill his heart and overflow itWith a wonder sweet and dim. Up the beach the ocean slidethWith a whisper of delight,And the moon in silence glidethThrough the peaceful blue of night. 3. Rippling oer the poets shoulderFlows a maidens golden hair,Maiden-lips with love grown bolder,Kiss his moonlit forehead bare. 4. Life is joy, and love is power,Death all fetters doth unbind,Strength and wisdom only flowerWhen we toil for all our kind. Hope is truth, — the future givethMore than present takes away,And the soul forever livethNearer God from day to day. 6. Not a word the maiden uttered,Fullest hearts are slow to speak,But a withered roseleaf flutteredDown upon the poets cheek.
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Keywords: ., boo, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1840, booksubjectliteraturemodern
