The Ball-Room Belle. (Music by horn.)

The moon and all her starry train
    Were fading from the morning sky,
When home the ball-room belle again
Returned, with throbbing pulse and brain,
    Flushed cheek and tearful eye.

The plume that danced above her brow,
    The gem that sparkled in her zone,
The scarf of spangled leaf and bough,
Were laid aside--they mocked her now,
    When desolate and lone.

That night how many hearts she won!
    The reigning belle, she could not stir,
But, like the planets round the sun,
Her suitors followed--all but one--
    One all the world to her!

And she had lost him!--Marvel not
    That lady's eyes with tears were wet!
Though love by man is soon forgot,
It never yet was woman's lot
    To love and to forget.

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

Look From Thy Lattice, Love.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Margaretta.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Sycamore Shade.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

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Belle Of The Ball, The

Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams
    Had been of being wise and witty,
Ere I had done with writing themes,
    Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty;
Years, years ago, while all my joy
    Was in my fowling-piece and filly:
In short, while I was yet a boy,
    I fell in love with Laura Lily.

I saw her at the county ball;
    There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle
Gave signal sweet in that old hall
    Of hands across and down the middle,
Hers was the subtlest spell by far
    Of all that set young hearts romancing:
She was our queen, our rose, our star;
    And when she danced, O Heaven, her dancing!

Dark was her hair, her hand was white;
    Her voice was exquisitely tender,
Her eyes were full of liquid light;
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Bessy Bell.

When life looks drear and lonely, love,
    And pleasant fancies flee,
Then will the Muses only, love,
    Bestow a thought on me!
Mine is a harp which Pleasure, love,
    To waken strives in vain;
To Joy's entrancing measure, love,
    It ne'er can thrill again!--
            Why mock me, Bessy Bell?

Oh, do not ask me ever, love,
    For rapture-woven rhymes;
For vain is each endeavor, love,
    To sound Mirth's play-bell chimes!
Yet still believe me, dearest love,
    Though sad my song may be,
This heart still dotes sincerest, love,
    And grateful turns to thee--
            My once fond Bessy Bell!

Those eyes still rest upon me, love!
    I feel their magic spell!
With that same look you won me, love,
    Fair, gentle...

George Pope Morris

To The Evening Star.

The woods waved welcome in the breeze,
    When, many years ago,
Lured by the songs of birds and bees,
    I sought the dell below;
And there, in that secluded spot,
    Where silver streamlets roved,
Twined the green ivy round the cot
    Of her I fondly loved.

In dreams still near that porch I stand
    To listen to her vow!
Still feel the pressure of her hand
    Upon my burning brow!
And here, as in the days gone by,
    With joy I meet her yet,
And mark the love-light of her eyes,
    Fringed with its lash of jet.

O fleeting vision of the past!
    From memory glide away!
Ye were too beautiful to last,
    Too good to longer stay!
But why, attesting evening star,
    This sermon sad recall:
"THAN LOVE AND LOSE 'TI...

George Pope Morris

A Ballad Of The Mist.

"I love the Lady of Merle," he said.
"She is not for thee!" her suitor cried.
And in the valley the lovers fought
By the salt river's tide.

The braver fell on the dewy sward:
The unloved lover returned once more;
In yellow satin the lady came
And met him at the door.

"Hast thou heard, dark Edith," laughed he grim,
"Poor Hugh hath craved thee many a day?
Soon would it have been too late for him
His low-born will to say.

"I struck a blade where lay his heart's love,
And voice for thee have I left him none,
To brag he still seeks thee over the hills
When thou and I are one!"

Fearless across the wide country
Rode the dark Lady Edith of Merle;
She looked at the headlands soft with haze,
And the moor's mists of pearl.

Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

She Loved Him.

She loved him--but she heeded not--
    Her heart had only room for pride:
All other feelings were forgot,
    When she became another's bride.
As from a dream she then awoke,
    To realize her lonely state,
And own it was the vow she broke
    That made her drear and desolate!

She loved him--but the sland'rer came,
    With words of hate that all believed;
A stain thus rested on his name--
    But he was wronged and she deceived;
Ah! rash the act that gave her hand,
    That drove her lover from her side--
Who hied him to a distant land,
    Where, battling for a name, he died!

She loved him--and his memory now
    Was treasured from the world apart:
The calm of thought was on her brow,
    The seeds of death were in her heart.

George Pope Morris

The Bacchanal

Beside a cottage-door,
    Sang Ella at her wheel;
Ruthven rode o'er the moor,
    Down at her feet to kneel:
A spotted palfrey gay
    Came ambling at his side,
To bear the maid away
    As his affianced bride.

A high-born noble he,
    Of stately halls secure;
A low-born peasant she,
    Of parentage obscure.
How soft the honeyed words
    He breathes into her ears!--
The melody of birds!
    The music of the spheres!

With love her bosom swells,
    Which she would fain conceal--
Her eyes, like crystal wells,
    Its hidden depths reveal.
While liquid diamonds drip
    From feeling's fountain warm,
Flutters her scarlet lip--
    A rose-leaf in a storm!

As from an April sky
    The rain-clouds fli...

George Pope Morris