So, when affection yields discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they come; They that are rich in words, must needs discover They are but poor in that which makes a lover. Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart, The merit of true passion; With thinking that he feels no smart That sues for no compassion, For knowing not I sue to serve I rather choose to want relief Silence in love betrays more woe Since, if my plaints were not to ap- Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, prove The conquest of thy beauty, It comes not from defect of love, But fear to exceed my duty. My love for secret passion; He smarteth most who hides his smart And sues for no compassion. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. SHERIDAN'S RIDE. UP from the south at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, The terrible grumble and rumble and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away. And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon's bar; And louder vet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, With Sheridan twenty miles away. But there is a road from Winchester town, A good, broad highway, leading down; What was done, what to do, glance told him both, -a And, striking his spurs with a terri- All sights were mellowed and all ble oath, He dashed down the line mid a storm of huzzas, sounds subdued, The hills seemed further and the stream sang low, And the wave of retreat checked its As in a dream the distant woodman There was no bud, no bloom upon Long, but not loud, the droning wheel Amid all this in this most cheerless At last the thread was snapped; her air, And where the woodbine shed upon the porch Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there Firing the floor with his inverted torch, head was bowed; Life dropt the distaff through his hands serene: And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. Mid little ones who weep or wonder, And bravely speaks the cheering word, What though her heart be rent asunder, Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear The bolts of death around him rattle, Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er Was poured upon the field of battle! The mother who conceals her grief While to her breast her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief, Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, With no one but her secret God To know the pain that weighs upon her, Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod Around me steal Received on Freedom's field of Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. |