St. Agnes' Shrine.

While before St. Agnes' shrine
Knelt a true knight's lady-love,
From the wars of Palestine
Came a gentle carrier-dove.
Round his neck a Silken string
Fastened words the warrior writ:
At her call he stooped his wing,
And upon her finger lit.

She, like one enchanted, pored
O'er the contents of the scroll--
For that lady loved her lord
With a pure, devoted soul.
To her heart her dove she drew,
While she traced the burning line;
Then away his minion flew
Back to sainted Palestine.

To and fro, from hand to hand
Came and went a carrier-dove,
Till throughout the Holy Land
War resigned his sword to Love.
Swift her dove, on wings of light,
Brought the news from Palestine,
And the lady her true knight
Wedded at St. Agnes' shrine.

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

Epigram. On Hearing that Morse Did Not "Invent" the Telegraph

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Song of the Troubadour.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Silent Grief.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Rock of the Pilgrims.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

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Lisette.

When Love in myrtle shades reposed,
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Lisette these numbers sung:
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St. Agnes' Eve

Deep on the convent-roof the snows
Are sparkling to the moon:
My breath to heaven like vapour goes;
May my soul follow soon!
The shadows of the convent-towers
Slant down the snowy sward,
Still creeping with the creeping hours
That lead me to my Lord:
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear
As are the frosty skies,
Or this first snowdrop of the year
That in my bosom lies.

As these white robes are soil'd and dark,
To yonder shining ground;
As this pale taper's earthly spark,
To yonder argent round;
So shows my soul before the Lamb,
My spirit before Thee;
So in mine earthly house I am,
To that I hope to be.
Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,
Thro' all yon starlight keen,
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,
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The Pastor's Daughter.

An ivy-mantled cottage smiled,
    Deep-wooded near a streamlet's side,
Where dwelt the village-pastor's child,
    In all her maiden bloom and pride.
Proud suitors paid their court and duty
To this romantic sylvan beauty:
Yet none of all the swains who sought her,
Was worthy of the pastor's daughter.

The town-gallants crossed hill and plain,
    To seek the groves of her retreat;
And many followed in her train,
    To lay their riches at her feet.
But still, for all their arts so wary,
From home they could not lure the fairy.
A maid without a heart they thought her,
And so they left the pastor's daughter.

One balmy eve in dewy spring
    A bard became her father's guest:
He struck his harp, and every string
    To love vibrated in h...

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Starlight Recollections.

'Twas night.    Near the murmuring Saone,
    We met with no witnesses by,
But such as resplendently shone
    In the blue-tinted vault of the sky:
Your head on my bosom was laid,
    As you said you would ever be mine;
And I promised to love, dearest maid,
    And worship alone at your shrine.

Your love on my heart gently fell
    As the dew on the flowers at eve,
Whose blossoms with gratitude swell,
    A blessing to give and receive:
And I knew by the glow on your cheek,
    And the rapture you could not control,
No power had language to speak
    The faith or content of your soul.

I love you as none ever loved--
    As the steel to the star I am true;
And I, dearest maiden, have proved
    That none ever loved me but you.
Ti...

George Pope Morris

The Flower Of Wensleydale

She leaned o'er her latticed casement,
    The Flower of Wensleydale;
'Twas St Agnes Eve at midnight,
    Through the mist the stars burnt pale.

In her hand she held twelve sage-leaves,
    Plucked in her garden at noon;
And over them she had whispered thrice
    The spell of a mystic rune.

For many had come a-wooing
    The maid with the sloe-blue eyes;
Fain would she learn of St Agnes
    To whom should fall the prize.

They said she must drop a sage-leaf
    At each stroke of the midnight hour;
Then should the knight of her father's choice
Obey the summons of her voice,
    And appear 'neath her oriel'd bowwer.

To the holy virgin-martyr
    She lifted her hands in prayer;
Then she watched the rooks that perched asleep

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Venetian Serenade.

Come, come to me, love!
    Come, love!--Arise
And shame the bright stars
    With the light of thine eyes;
Look out from thy lattice--
    Oh, lady-bird, hear!
A swan on the water--
    My gondola's near!

Come, come to me, love!
    Come, love!--My bride!
O'er crystal in moonbeams
    We'll tranquilly glide:
In the dip of the oar
    A melody flows
Sweet as the nightingale
    Sings to the rose.

Come, come to me, love!
    Come, love!--The day
Brings warder and cloister!
    Away, then--away!
Oh, haste to thy lover!
    Not yon star above
Is more true to heaven
    Then he to his love!

George Pope Morris