The Old Man's Farewell
Farewell, my pilgrim guest, farewell,
A few days since thou wert unknown,
None shall thy future fortunes tell,
But sweetly have the moments flown!
And kindness, like the sun on flowers,
Soon chas'd away thy tender gloom;
New-fledg'd the sable-pinion'd hours,
And wove bright tints in Fancy's loom.
We sought no secrets to divine,
Neither thy name nor lineage knew,
Our hearts alone have question'd thine,
And found that all was just and true.
Pass not with hasty step, I pray,
Across the threshold of my door!
But pause awhile, with kind delay,
We shall behold thy face no more!
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poem by Matilda Betham
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Written In Zimmermanns Solitude.
HAIL, melancholy sage! whose thoughtful eye,
Shrunk from the mere spectator's careless gaze,
And, in retirement sought the social smile,
The heart-endearing aspect, and the voice
Of soothing tenderness, which Friendship breathes,
And which sounds far more grateful to the ear,
Than the soft notes of distant flute at eve,
Stealing across the waters: Zimmermann!
Thou draw'st not Solitude as others do,
With folded arms, with pensive, nun-like air,
And tearful eye, averted from mankind.
No! warm, benign, and cheerful, she appears
The friend of Health, of Piety, and Peace;
The kind Samaritan that heals our woes,
The nurse of Science, and, of future fame
The gentle harbinger: her meek abode
Is that dear home, which still the virtuous heart,
E'en in the witching maze of Pleasure's dance,
In wild Ambition's dream, regards with love,
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poem by Matilda Betham
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Vignette - III
THE ARTISAN.
This twilight gloom. This lone retreat--
This silence to my soul is sweet!
Awhile escap'd from toil and strife,
And all the lesser ills of life,
Here only at the evening's close,
My weary spirit finds repose;
My sinking heart its freedom gains,
Which poverty had bound in chains!
For here unheard the moments fly--
And so secure, so happy I,
That, often at the very last,
I feel not that my dream is past.
The little hour of bliss I spend,
With thee, my chosen, only friend!
That transient hour the heart sustains,
Which poverty has bound in chains!
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poem by Matilda Betham
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