Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/262

 246 LEWIS F THOMAS. [1830-40. The sun doth dry the springs of earth And withers, fades and dies ; With rays from summer skies, Then seize it in its budding grace, But feeling's fountain knows no dearth, And in thy bosom give it place. Its current never dries. Ere its sweet perfume flies. The rills into the rivers run, The rivers to the sea, Love is the bubble that doth swim Months into years and years into Upon the wine-cup's flowing brim. Life's ocean — Memory. A moment sparkling there ; Then haste thee, dear, its sweets to sip. At noon our little bark sets sail, And let them melt upon thy hp. Hope proudly mans its deck. Or they will waste in air. At eve it drives before the gale A wreck — a very wreck — love ! it is the dew-drop bright Our early youth's untainted soul. That steals upon the flower at night. Our first love's first regret ; And lingers there till morn ; These storm-like over Memory roll — The flower doth droop, when with the day Oh, who would not forget! The sun dissolves the drop away : So love is killed by scorn. And thus do transient tear-drops shine. Bright'ning those soul-lit eyes of thine, LOVE'S ARGUMENT. That beam with soften'd ray ; No gleam of scorn from others' eye ! LIFE is short, and love is brief, Shall make those glitt'ring tear-drops dry — Life ends in woe and love in grief; I'll kiss them, dear, away. Yet both for bliss are given, And wise philosophy will teach love is like the ling'ring spark. Who one enjoys, enjoyeth each. 'Midst fading embers in the dark — And comes most near to heaven. 'Tis brightest as it dies ; But 'tis a Phoenix with swift wings, Now you and I, dear girl, well know And forth from its own ashes springs. All bliss is fleeting here below, And soars for genial skies. As moralists do prove ; Then let us haste, while youth is rife. Then taste love's joys while yet you may, To snatch the fondest joy in life. For they with wint'ry age decay. And only live to love. And coldness will tliem smother ; And if young love should ever find love it is the tender rose, One maiden's heart to prove unkind — That for a little season blows, He soon will seek another.