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We meet no more as we have met; Thy heart made music once with mine, Which now is still, and we forget The art that made our youth divine. One glance reaps beauty, nevermore It wears a lustre as at first; We come again the harvest o'er To no new flow'ring can be nursed. N.Y., April 12th, 1846. My dear Friend, I meant to have given you some verses when you were here as you asked, but I forgot it.
From crying blood yet cleansed am not I, Martyrs and others, dying causelessly. How many princely heads on blocks laid down For nought but title to a fading crown! 'Mongst all the crueltyes by great ones done, Of Edward's youths, and Clarence hapless son, O Jane, why didst thou dye in flow'ring prime? Because of royal stem, that was thy crime.
For many, the stage was the port of refuge to which they fled from the lonely habitations of erudition, where they ... sit now immur'd within their private cells, Drinking a long lank watching candle's smoke, Spending the marrow of their flow'ring age In fruitless poring on some worm-eat leaf. Many of these beggar students sought a livelihood by joining the players.
But you, perhaps, would have me ghess it out, What hath some Hengist like that Saxon stout, By fraud or force usurp'd thy flow'ring crown, Or by tempestuous warrs thy fields trod down? Or hath Canutus, that brave valiant Dane, The Regal peacefull Scepter from the tane? Or is't a Norman, whose victorious hand With English blood bedews thy conquered land? Or is't Intestine warrs that thus offend?
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