Robert Alves Poems

'Twas in the morn of youthful days,
When Love a thousand various ways
Assaults the heart, in shape of air,
Or graceful ringlets of the Fair;
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PART I.
'Twas the sober hour of closing day,
When night fast-falling wraps the world in shade,
Musing I bent my solitary way,
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Hence, fiend, to where in caverns dun
Thee Envy bore to wan Despair,
When Phoebus check'd his burning throne,
And Chaos rul'd the stormy air;
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To climes that doze in gloom of night,
Lo Phoebus bends his steady rein,
And now he quits the mountain's height,
Now dips into the main:
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I.
Once more I fain would close a joyful year,
But not with joy resounds my lay!
No, no — I sing a time of grief severe,
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Of late I met a damsel lowly born,
Yet trim her gait, and dainty was her air!
With blushing looks so sweet, and cheek so fair,
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When now each light-wing'd hour of joy is fled,
With vernal beauty, vernal love and song;
The muse grieves pensive in the desart shade,
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What grievous ills our daily patience prove!
A prince's frown grieves him that longs for power;
Dry slumbers grieve the swain that prays a shower;
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