Guide Noel, Adieu Thou Courts Delight

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Both have given their highest efforts and the best years of their lives to the support of her interests. General CAZNEAU was one of that ever-faithful band of patriots, whose talents, courage, and personal devotion, sustained me amid the multiform trials which surrounded my path in organizing and systematizing the chaotic materials of government which existed in our new-born republic of the LONE STAR when I was called to the Presidency. To whom, then, among my lady-friends, can I inscribe this collection of kindly reminiscences with more propriety than to the chosen companion of a man endeared to me by years of pleasant associations, and his inflexible adherence to our common principles?

It is my wish and hope that this humble tribute of esteem to one who is so worthy of being the partner of such a man, will be regarded by him as a feeble recognition of his past services and continued affection. IN presenting this volume to the public, the author is actuated mainly by the desire of manifesting to the friends, who have been so long the sunshine of his life, that he still holds them in grateful remembrance. The verses themselves are very unpretending in their character; and are but fragments of thought and feeling, rescued from the turmoil of a life that permitted little leisure for literary recreation.

The style and subjects of the poems indicate very clearly that they were not written for the general public. They are but spontaneous effusions, extorted by the circumstances of the moment, or the solicitations of friendship. As mere literary productions, they are scarcely entitled to consideration; yet it is possible they may find some acceptance, not only with those for whom they were written, but also among congenial minds that are more interested in the feelings of the man than in the genius of the poet. As destitute of intrinsic merit as the author knows them to be, they are, nevertheless, his only fortune.

Whatever else he may have attempted or achieved, has been for the benefit of others; and of the rich vineyard in which he has been so long a volunteer laborer, this little cluster of recollections is almost all he can claim as his own, or bequeath to his only child. That these poems -- which have dropped like wild-flowers along the rugged path of public duty -- may prove hereafter a source of utility and pleasure to the sole offspring of a happy home, is an additional reason for their collection and publication.

The author would wish that his little daughter might acquire from these verses a better knowledge of her father's heart -- or at least of some of its impulses -- than she may be able to derive from the public records of his political and military life; for such records generally can very little more than represent the sterner and less attractive phases of character.

He is not unwilling -- nay, he desires -- to be judged, as a patriot, a soldier, and a statesman, by his documents and his official acts; but at the same time he would have the child of his heart to know that her father, however rigid in the discharge of official duty, was something more than the mere soldier and politician; and that while he was devoted to his country, he was equally so in his private relations, and always less mindful of himself than of others. This she will gather from the present volume better than from history. After all, should these poems -- if it be not a misnomer to dignify them with that name -- possess no other value, they are at least thus far serviceable to the author, in reviving in his heart and keeping alive the recollection of those kindly affections and beautiful associations which gave them birth, and which he would not willingly surrender except with life.

Such are the motives of the author in sending forth his little volume of MEMORIALS; and in these motives he must find his sole recompense for whatever he may lose, in a literary point of view, by their publication.

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BY MRS. ANN S. Page 10 III. Page 12 IV. But fare thee well! Page 20 II. Ungrateful man! Page 27 IX. She is -- but stay!

The day is spent. Page 44 III. Page 48 III. How cold is all glory by Beauty unblest! Page 50 III. Page 52 VIII. Page 54 XIII. Page 58 III. Page 60 VIII. Page 62 III. MILD, blue-eyed queen -- enchanting Spring! Page 64 III. Mild evening star!

Page 66 VIII. And is it thus? Page 68 III. Page 70 III. Page 74 III.


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Page 78 III. Page 79 VI. Page 80 IX. In token of my love. Is there no power the sinking rose to save? Can no one snatch bright genius from the grave? Page 82 XV. When wilt thou print?

Early Poems: Childish Recollections

Page 84 XXI. Page 85 XXIV. Page 87 XXX. Page 92 III. Page 93 VI. Page 94 IX. But, like her sex, she changed. Page 95 XII.

"Noel, Adieu, Thou Court's Delight" Sheet Music by Thomas Weelkes

Page 96 XV. Page 98 XXI. What is my being? How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, And clings to thoughts now better far removed! But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. Then must I plunge again into the crowd, And follow all that Peace disdains to seek?

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Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud, False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak! What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled, And then we parted,—not as now we part, But with a hope.

Once more upon the waters! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar! Since my young days of passion—joy, or pain, Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, And both may jar: it may be, that in vain I would essay as I have sung to sing. Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling, So that it wean me from the weary dream Of selfish grief or gladness—so it fling Forgetfulness around me—it shall seem To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. What am I?

Nothing: but not so art thou, Soul of my thought! Yet am I changed; though still enough the same In strength to bear what time cannot abate, And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate. His had been quaffed too quickly, and he found The dregs were wormwood; but he filled again, And from a purer fount, on holier ground, And deemed its spring perpetual; but in vain!

Still round him clung invisibly a chain Which galled for ever, fettering though unseen, And heavy though it clanked not; worn with pain, Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, Entering with every step he took through many a scene. But who can view the ripened rose, nor seek To wear it? But soon he knew himself the most unfit Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held Little in common; untaught to submit His thoughts to others, though his soul was quelled, In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompelled, He would not yield dominion of his mind To spirits against whom his own rebelled; Proud though in desolation; which could find A life within itself, to breathe without mankind.

Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, Till he had peopled them with beings bright As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars, And human frailties, were forgotten quite: Could he have kept his spirit to that flight, He had been happy; but this clay will sink Its spark immortal, envying it the light To which it mounts, as if to break the link That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink.

Is the spot marked with no colossal bust? Nor column trophied for triumphal show? And is this all the world has gained by thee, Thou first and last of fields! And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo! How in an hour the power which gave annuls Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too! Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit, And foam in fetters, but is Earth more free?