Love left one day his leafy bower, And roamed in sportive vein, Where Vanity had built a tower, For Fashion's sparkling train. The mistress to see he requested, Of one who attended the door: "Not home," said the page, who suggested That he'd leave his card.--"Au Revoir." Love next came to a lowly bower: A maid who knew no guile, Unlike the lady of the tower, Received him with a smile. Since then the cot beams with his brightness Though often at Vanity's door Love calls, merely out of politeness, And just leaves his card.--"Au Revoir." To My Absent Daughter. Georgie, come home!--Life's tendrils cling about thee, Where'er thou art, by wayward fancy led. We miss thee, love!--Home is not home without thee-- The light and glory of the house have fled: The autumn shiver of the linden-tree Is like the pang that thrills my frame for thee! Georgie, come home!--To parents, brother, sister Thy place is vacant in this lonely hall, Where shines the river through the "Jeannie Vista," While twilight shadows lengthen on the wall: Our spirits falter at the close of day, And weary night moves tardily away. Georgie, come home!--The winds and waves are singing The mournful music of their parting song, To soul and sense the sad forboding bringing, Some ill detains thee in the town so long: Oh, that the morn may dissipate the fear, And bring good tidings of my daughter dear! Georgie, come home!--The forest leaves are falling, And dreary visions in thy absence come; The fountain on the hill in vain is calling Thee, my beloved one, to thy woodland home. And I imagine every passing breeze Whispers thy name among the moaning trees! Georgie, come home!--Thy gentle look can banish The gathering gloom round this once cheerful hearth; In thy sweet presence all our care will vanish, And sorrow soften into mellow mirth. Return, my darling, never more to roam: Heart of the Highlands!--Georgie, dear, come home! Song of the Sewing-Machine I'm the Iron Needle-Woman! Wrought of sterner stuff than clay; And, unlike the drudges human, Never weary night or day; Never shedding tears of sorrow, Never mourning friends untrue, Never caring for the morrow, Never begging work to do. Poverty brings no disaster! Merrily I glide along, For no thankless, sordid master, Ever seeks to do me wrong: No extortioners oppress me, No insulting words I dread-- I've no children to distress me With unceasing cries for bread. I'm of hardy form and feature, For endurance framed aright; I'm not pale misfortune's creature, Doomed life's battle here to fight: Mine's a song of cheerful measure, And no under-currents flow To destroy the throb of pleasure Which the poor so seldom know. In the hall I hold my station, With the wealthy ones of earth, Who commend me to the nation For economy and worth, While unpaid the female labor, In the attic-chamber lone, Where the smile of friend or neighbor Never for a moment shone.