George Moses Horton: Verses about Passion

'Tis the voice of my sister at home,
Resign'd to the treasures above,
Inviting the strangers to come,
And feast at the banquet of love.

'Tis a spirit cut loose from its chain,
'Tis the voice of a culprit forgiven,
Restored from a prison of pain,
With th' sound of a concert from heaven.

'Tis a beam from the regions of light,
A touch of beatific fire;
A spirit exulting for flight,
With a strong and impatient desire.

'Tis a drop from the ocean of love,
A foretaste of pleasures to come,
Distill'd from the fountain above,
The joy which awaits her at home.

Whilst tracing thy visage I sink in emotion,
For no other damsel so wond'rous I see;
Thy looks are so pleasing, thy charms so amazing,
I think of no other, my true-love, but thee.


With heart-burning rapture I gaze on thy beauty,
And fly like a bird to the boughs of a tree;
Thy looks are so pleasing, thy charms so amazing,
I fancy no other, my true-love, but thee.


Thus oft in the valley I think, and I wonder
Why cannot a maid with her lover agree?
Thy looks are so pleasing, thy charms so amazing,
I pine for no other, my true-love, but thee.


I'd fly from thy frowns with a heart full of sorrow--
Return, pretty damsel, and smile thou on me;
By every endeavor, I'll try thee forever,
And languish until I am fancied by thee.

I know her story-telling eye
Has more expression than her tongue;
And from that heart-extorted sigh,
At once the peal of love is rung.

When that soft eye lets fall a tear
Of doating fondness as we part,
The stream is from a cause sincere,
And issues from a melting heart.

What shall her fluttering pulse restrain,
The life-watch beating from her soul,
When all the power of hate is slain,
And love permits it no control.

When said her tongue, I wish thee well,
Her eye declared it must be true;
And every sentence seem'd to tell
The tale of sorrow told by few.

When low she bow'd and wheel'd aside,
I saw her blushing temples fade;
Her smiles were sunk in sorrow's tide,
But love was in her eye betray'd.

Eternal spring of boundless grace,
It lifts the soul above,
Where God the Son unveils his face,
And shows that Heaven is love.


Love that revolves through endless years--
Love that can never pall;
Love which excludes the gloom of fears,
Love to whom God is all!


Love which can ransom every slave,
And set the pris'ner free;
Gild the dark horrors of the grave,
And still the raging sea.


Let but the partial smile of Heaven
Upon the bosom play,
The mystic sound of sins forgiven,
Can waft the soul away.


The pilgrim's spirits show this love,
They often soar on high;
Languish from this dim earth to move,
And leave the flesh to die.


Sing, oh my soul, rise up and run,
And leave this clay behind;
[illegible] ing thy swift flight beyond the sun,
Nor dwell in tents confined.

It lifts the poor man from his cell
To fortune's bright alcove;
Its mighty sway few, few can tell,
Mid envious foes it conquers ill;
There's nothing half like love.

Ye weary strangers, void of rest,
Who late through life have strove,
Like the late bird which seeks its nest,
If you would hence in truth be blest,
Light on the bough of love.

The vagrant plebeian, void of friends,
Constrain'd through wilds to rove,
On this his safety whole depends,
One faithful smile his trouble ends,
A smile of constant love.

Thus did a captured wretch complain,
Imploring heaven above,
Till one with sympathetic pain,
Flew to his arms and broke the chain,
And grief took flight from love.

Let clouds of danger rise and roar,
And hope's firm pillars move;
With storms behind and death before,
O grant me this, I crave no more,
There's nothing half like love.

When nature wakes soft pity's coo
The hawk deserts the dove,
Compassion melts the creature through,
With palpitations felt by few,
The wrecking throbs of love.

Let surly discord take its flight
From wedlock's peaceful grove,
While union breaks the arm of fight,
With darkness swallow'd up in light,
O what is there like love.

As smoke from a volcano soars in the air,
The soul of man discontent mounts from a sigh,
Exhaled as to heaven in mystical prayer,
Invoking that love which forbids him to die.

Sweet hope, lovely passion, my grief ever chase,
And scatter the gloom which veils pleasure's bright ray,
O lend me thy wings, and assist me to trace
The flight of my fair one when gone far away.

When the dim star of pleasure sets glimmering alone,
The planet of beauty on life's dreary shore,
And th' fair bird of fancy forever is flown,
On pinions of haste to be heard of no more.

Hope, tell me, dear passion, thou wilt not forget,
To flourish still sweetly and blossom as gay,
Expelling like morning the gloom of regret,
When the lark of affection is gone far away.

If hurried into some unchangeable clime,
Where oceans of pleasure continually roll,
Far, far from the limited borders of time,
With a total division of body and soul.

Hope, tell me, dear passion, which must earth survive,
That love will be sweeter when nature is o'er,
And still without pain though eternity live,
In the triumph of pleasure when time is no more.

O love, when the day-light of pleasure shall close,
Let the vesper of death break on life's dusky even;
Let the faint sun of time set in peace as it rose,
And eternity open thy morning in heaven.

Then hope, lovely passion, thy torch shall expire,
Effusing on nature life's last feeble ray;
While the night maid of love sets her taper on fire,
To guard smiling beauty from time far away.