To ---- VII
Upon the sea of life,
Outspread thy spirit's sails; --
Go in thy genius forth, and breast
Its billows and its gales.
Weigh anchor and depart --
Why linger on the shore?
Seize helm and guide thy spirit's bark
These untried waters o'er.
Dread only the dead calm,
Heed not the sky's dark frown;
And if to shipwreck thou art doomed,
Go in the tempest down.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To my friend, on his birthday
Oh, Time! deal gently with my friend,
Who gently deals with all;
And on his loved and honored head
Let blessings only fall
In love to God, and love to man,
His days pass here below;
And so, to reach the home above,
He has not far to go.
But distant be that hapless day
That calls him from our view:
Heaven has so many souls like his,
And Earth, alas! so few
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To ---- VIII
Thou dost not dwell in this dark world of ours,
Where sorrow, want, and crime, and misery reign;
Where famine stalks; where war's dread tempest lowers;
Where stands the scaffold, and where clanks the chain.
But far upon the future's unreached shore,
The promised land to be our heritage;
There thou, in trancéd visions, dost restore
The vanished glories of the Golden Age.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To ---- III
Give me but the energy,
That guides thy dauntless will;
Give me but thy ardent hope,
That no reverse can chill;
Thy buoyant soul, that on life's sea,
No billows can o'erwhelm,
When Faith sits smiling through the clouds,
And Reason holds the helm;
Give me these qualities of thine,
In such a meet alliance,
And I, like thee, upon the fates
Will smile a calm defiance.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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An apology for sadness
When, in the miser's eager gaze,
His countless treasures lie,
Then most his coward spirit sinks,
With dread of poverty.
And when I felt within my grasp,
The treasure of thy love;
The insatiate avarice of the heart
Fierce with my spirit strove.
It troubled the clear fountain where
My thirsting soul had quaffed,
And mingled tears of bitterness
With the delicious draft.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To an astronomer
Upon the Professor we'll waste not a glance,
Since he has no eyes for us poor terrestrials;
With his heart can we have any possible chance,
When he gives us for rivals a host of celestials?
What cares he for eyes, whether hazel or blue,
Or for any slight charms such as we share between us, --
When, his glass in his hand, he can sit the night through,
And ogle at leisure Diana and Venus.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To ---- IX
They may talk of the eloquence famous in story;
Of the names that through ages continue to shine;
There never has fallen more true oratory
From the lips of a mortal, than falleth from thine.
With pathos and passion, oh! not more replete
Is the bard, though at Helicon's fountain he sips;
Nor his accents more glowing, persuasive, and sweet,
Though the bees of Hymettus had fed on his lips.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Evening hymn
On the swift flying hours
Another bright day,
With its tears and its smiles,
Has vanished away.
Thou who dost number
Our days as they flee,
May each that departs
Bear us nearer to thee!
On the wide sea of life
Soon our barks will be tost,
And the sweet ties that bind us
Be broken and lost.
Father in Heaven,
Be our guide to that shore,
Where night never cometh,
Where partings are o'er.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To ---- IV
This life is to thee like a region enchanted,
O'er which thy rich fancy its rose-color throws;
The hours as they pass thee with visions are haunted,
And thou dream'st them away in inglorious repose.
Around thee bold hearts the rude war are waging,
But thou dreamest on still through the roar and the strife;
Around thee, oh sleeper! the conflict is raging,
And they need thy strong arm in the Battle of Life!
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
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La Fayette
The wail of France comes o'er the sea, --
She mourns for thee, departed chief;
And we, the children of the Free,
Re-echo back the notes of grief.
Thy course was like the morning sun,
That lights two worlds, the east and west;
Thy brilliant, glorious race is run,
Thou takest thine eternal rest.
Thy fame shall pass from age to age,
From clime to clime, from sire to son;
And History, on her glowing page,
Shall write thy name with Washington.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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