. The token and Atlantic souvenir. : A Christmas and New Year's Y B. B. THATCHER. Those fountain eyes ! those fountain eyes t I see them in each dreamOf days delight, and every night Renews their sad, sweet gleam; —Fair stars are they for me that ariseIn mournful beauty, — those fountain eyes ! Those fountain eyes ! — I weep to look Low in the dewy deeps,Where midst the tears of other years, The soul of sorrow sleeps,—Yet all the light of thine early glee,Were a far less lovely light to me. Those fountain eyes ! — then let them tell Still, as they oft have told,The tale of him, in hi
. The token and Atlantic souvenir. : A Christmas and New Year's Y B. B. THATCHER. Those fountain eyes ! those fountain eyes t I see them in each dreamOf days delight, and every night Renews their sad, sweet gleam; —Fair stars are they for me that ariseIn mournful beauty, — those fountain eyes ! Those fountain eyes ! — I weep to look Low in the dewy deeps,Where midst the tears of other years, The soul of sorrow sleeps,—Yet all the light of thine early glee,Were a far less lovely light to me. Those fountain eyes ! — then let them tell Still, as they oft have told,The tale of him, in his dwelling dim, Whose noble heart is cold,But whose worth, as a wave-flower, in the sheenOf the fountain eyes floats freshly green. O fountain eyes ! love on, love on ! — • And let not love be vain ; —The grave shall give thy lost, to live, In a holier home, again ; —And oh ! keep pure, — for him, — in the skies —Dear lady, the light of the fountain eyes! * In allusion to the complimentary comparison of a poetically dis-posed but cordial THE PILOTS BOY. Each day he wandered — t was his wontWith fearless foot along the shore,And trod as lightly on the frontOf rocks, above the oceans roar —The surges growling deep beneath —As sea birds waiting for their prey —And loved the tempests breath to breathe,Dashed by the billows glittring is he now, that playful boy,The mothers hope, the fathers pride ? —No more, alas ! their source of joy,He slumbers by the reckless sunset, tho the storm was loud,He came not home — he slept alone —The curling billow for his shroud —His bed, that night, the caverned found him at the early dawn —They wept — but tears could not avail —Why should his spirit back be drawn ?Why should a mother weep and wail ?He loved the deep, and lightly wrought,The Spirit sail was gently driven,Oer that far shoreless sea of thought,Which bears the spotless soul to on a boundle
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Keywords: ., bookauthorhawthornenathaniel18041, bookcentury1800, bookyear1836
