THE [BRARY
[HE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
POEMS
MISS ANNIE R. BLOUNT.
AUGUSTA, GA.:
PUBLISHED BY H. D. NORRELL,
NO. 226 BKOAD STREET.
1860.
filtered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by
H. D. NORRELL,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of Georgia.
PS
A/03
DEDICATION.
THIS little volume a humble but sincere tribute of
esteem is dedicated
To one, whose genius and eloquence, whose public worth
and private virtues, have made him the pride and boast of
his native land. "Whose beneficial influence exerted for the
happiness and prosperity of Georgia, who loves to call him
SON, and the entire South that delights to do him honor,
will last when marble has crumbled to decay.
Whose memory in the hearts of all who appreciate
nobility of heart, generosity of soul, integrity of purpose,
and pure patriotism will live long after the seal of death
has closed his lips and hushed the music of his eloquent
voice.
One, who has loved to encourage laudable ambition
delighted to aid struggling genius who has never turned a
deaf ear to the tale of pity, or refused to cheer the despond
ent soul by kind and gentle words.
One, who has carried with him into his retirement from
public life, the kind wishes, the admiration, and the esteem
of political foe as well as friend ; and who stands to-day, the
embodiment of all that is best and noblest in man.
One whom the author is proud to call her friend ; and
feels that she is echoing the sentiments of a nation in saying,
" None know him but to love him,
None name him but to praise "
HON. ALEXANDER H. STEPHENS.
567089
CONTENTS.
THE DYING AETIST
ALICE MAY IT
" I'LL BE THY BE1DE " 20
TO PICCOLOMINI 23
REVENGE 2T
WHAT IS LIFE ? - S3
CARKIE BELL 40
THE DEATH SCENE 42
TELL ME WHY - 4T
LITTLE ANNIE 49
TO MY LITTLE CANARY BIRD 52
IDLE RHYMES - 56
THE COQUETTE 69
A DREAM - 64
A POEM - - - - 69
THE OLD MAN'S SONG TO HIS WIFE .... 76
TO YOU T9
TO MY BROTHER - 80
HUMAN BEAUTY - 84
THE ONE I PRIZE 87
HYMN TO OLD AGE - 89
CASTLES BUILT IN THE COALS 93
THE DESERTED WIFE 100
MY MOTHER 105
LOVE'S LAST REQUEST 109
AN AUTUMN REVERIE 113
THE MORNING LIGHT 119
FORGETFULNESS - 121
TO LITTLE STEVIE 128
HEART ILLUSION 127
MODERN LOVE 129
"I WISH SOMEBODY WOULD COME" - - - 133
AT REST 185
MY MOTHER'S GRAVE 188
HOPE 141
VI CONTENTS.
PAGK
NO MORE
PHANTOMS OF MY SLEEP 146
DEATH AT SEA
THE LOCK OF HAIR - - - 164
FADING SUMMER 166
"LOVED AND LOST"
"GOD BLESS YOU!" 176
ALONE - - - ITS
"LOVE NOT" 180
THE CITY OF THE DEAD - - 187
FAME, PLEASURE, AND RELIGION - - . - - - 189
WOMAN'S LOVE - - - 194
TO A YOUNG POETESS 199
THE GRAVE IN THE HEART 204
THE DYING YOUNG WIFE 206
WHAT THE MOON SHINES ON - - - 213
FAREWELL 218
THE POET'S DREAM ... 221
THE MOTHER'S PRAYER 225
THE BROKEN HEART .... 22S
VERSES 232
" AWEARY " - 233
RETROSPECTION - - 234
MILLER'S GRAVE - 237
THE EVENING STAR - - 240
"THE APPROACHING FOOTSTEP" - - - 241
PARTING - 245
THE PAST - - 250
THE ROSE AND THE LAUREL 252
SUDDEN DEATH - 257
GLITTER 259
A TRIBUTE TO CAPT. HERNDON - 261
THE OLD FARM-HOUSE - - 263
THE GIPSY BRIDE - - 266
UNDER THE LAMPLIGHT 272
TO THE READER.
SOME of these poems if they deserve the name
are fugitive pieces that have floated about in the
papers and magazines of the day, and have been
collected and thrown together in book form. A
number of others are given to the public for the
first time, to receive its approval, its criticism, or its
cool indifference. THE AUTHOR.
AUGUSTA, GA., JAN., 1860.
POEMS
THE DYING ARTIST.
PUT aside his easel softly lay his pencils gently by,
Ope the window-shutters lightly, let him look upon the
sky;
For the stars which shine so brightly, lighting up each
gloomy cave,
When they burn again in beauty will shed lustre o'er
his grave.
Let the soft rich air of Egypt kiss once more his fading
brow,
But, though laden o'er with memories, it cannot charm
him now ;
For the life-light dim is growing in his earnest, thought
ful eye :
And his cheek is growing whiter yes, we know that he
must die !
There, within that temple ancient, 'mid its columns
grand and old,
Where the moonbeams o'er those ruins cast their rays
of paly gold ;
Where the eye could rest enchantedly o'er many an
ancient pile,
And the ear could list in rapture to the music of the
Nile
1 * (9)
10 THE DYING ARTIST.
In that land of memories olden 'mid those ruins bleak
and hoary,
Stately columns mutely telling tales of past Egyptian
glory.
When Egypt's gods were worshipped in the days forever
gone,
And thousands pressed with eager feet to bow before
a stone
There within that grand old temple, reared beneath the
heavens' blue dome,
Our Christian friend was dying, far from friends and
far from home.
Stranger hands must smooth the tresses o'er his fore
head white and cold,
And a stranger hand must wrap him in the shroud of
snowy fold.
Hist ! he listens in the silence to a voice serene and
clear,
Not the fabled voice of Memnon making music on his
ear;
'Tis a voice that must reach us dwell we in whatever
clime,
'Tis the voice of the Eternal calling to the child of Time !
Stranger friend ! bend o'er him softly listen ! catch his
parting breath
Soon those lips will close in stillness, and be hushed
for aye in death ;
THE DYING ARTIST. 11
Soon thine ears will list no murmur but the gentle even
ing breeze
" Oh, bear this message, stranger, to my home beyond
the seas !
" If by chance you meet my mother I was all her joy
and pride
Tell her gently, very gently, how I lived, and how I
died ;
Tell her how I pined and sickened in this distant
stranger land,
To look on one familiar face clasp one familiar hand.
" Tell her how I went in dreamings to that cottage
'neath the hill,
How I listened in my slumbers to that gently rippling
rill
Which goes babbling by her window to the forest's
cooling shade,
Through the woodlands, o'er the meadows, where in
boyhood I have played.
" Tell her how I pined in anguish but to see her face
once more,
But to stand beneath the portal of the old vine-covered
door ;
Up that old familiar pathway nevermore my feet will
roam
Oh, stranger ! it is bitter thus to die from friends and
home.
12 THE DYING ARTIST.
" Could I hear my father's blessing fondly falling on
me now,
Could I feel my mother's kisses gently pressed upon
my brow ;
Even Azriel would be welcomed for I feel it would
be joy
To be buried in the churchyard where I worshipped
when a boy.
" O'er the spot where they will lay me, no loved brother
e'er shall weep,
And no sister's tears shall moisten the lone grave where
I must sleep ;
No loved one will plant a willow that its leaves may
o'er me wave,
And no hand will scatter garlands on the lonely new-
made grave.
" Bend thee lower, friendly stranger ! of a dearer one
I'd speak ;
Even now I feel her kisses on my wan and wasted
cheek ;
Look among my paintings gently, when my soul has
flown above,
And the fairest face you find there is the face of her I
love.
"If by chance you e'er should meet her, seek her side
at twilight's hour,
Break the tidings to her gently, for she is a fragile
flower.
THE DYING ARTIST. 13
Tell her, stranger, howl perished in my manhood's
early prime,
How you laid me when 'twas over in this glorious
Eastern clime.
" Tell her how I toiled and struggled but to carve
myself a name,
How for her I courted fortune how for her I wooed
fame ;
How her picture smiled upon me even labor then was
sweet,
For I thought one day to scatter all these trophies at
her feet.
" But the laurel-wreath is valueless it shades a dying
brow,
And vain the world's applause, for what's ambition to
me now ?
And the pictures which my artist eye so loved to linger
o'er,
Even tliey are vain they will not make my darling
love me more.
" Bend thee lower, friendly stranger ! for my voice is
faint and weak,
Kindly move these golden tresses from my thin and
fevered cheek ;
She hath twined them, stranger, often, with her fingers
white and soft ;
Clip one lock from off the forehead that her lips hath
kissed so oft.
14 THE DYING ARTIST.
" Tell her that the lock was severed from a brow all
white and chill,
That I pressed it ere I gave it to the lips now cold
and still ;
And tell her, when you bear it to my home beyond the
seas,
The threads were fanned all softly by this gentle Eas
tern breeze.
" Tell her how I dreamed last evening I had reached
my home once more
Side by side we two were sitting 'neath the old vine-
covered door ;
Tell her that the angels beckon, and I answer to the call,
Tell her " here his lips closed softly with a smile
and that was all !
All was over Love, ambition, care, anxiety, and strife,
The sweet promises of childhood, and the hopes of later
life.
There his easel where he left it, and the pencils at its side,
On it a half-finished painting of the ruin where he died.
Painting never to be finished ! how you wake an
anguished thrill,
For the hand which moved the pencil lieth wondrous
cold and still.
Ah ! in vain the desert stretches far to East, and far
to West,
For his feet will tread it never he is taking his long
rest.
THE DYING ARTIST. 15
Bitter tears are slowly coursing down his Arab ser
vant's cheek,
As he calls in vain the master whose pale lips may
never speak ;
There are those who'd give a lifetime if with him they
could but stand,
To gaze upon that death-dimmed eye, and kiss that
clay-cold hand.
Then we closed his eyelids softly in the thickly coming
gloom,
Decently those pale hands folded kindly robed him
for the tomb ;
Bitter thoughts our hearts were swelling, as we laid
him down to sleep
In that lonely grave where friend or kindred ne'er
shall come to weep.
In that lovely Eastern valley cherished through all
coming time,
There we laid the stranger artist wanderer from a
distant clime
With no name to tell who sleeps there far from
friends, and far from home,
But the angels bright will find him when the wakening
shall come.
Anxious hearts will wait his coming, and the star of
hope grow dim,
When the evening prayer is offered, and the heart goes
out to him ;
16 THE DYING ARTIST.
The) 7 will listen for a footfall they will listen for a
tone
And she who waited long for him must go through life
alone.
Never more his voice shall greet them evermore his
face shall be
Hid from mortal sight forever, in a grave beyond the
sea;
They will wait, but wait all vainly for his brightly
beaming smile ;
He they loved is sweetly sleeping by the waters of the
Nile.
ALICE MAY.
'NEATH the shadows of an oak,
Sits my Alice May.
Fair-cheeked beauty now is she,
Sitting 'neath the old oak tree,
Golden tresses floating free
With the winds at play.
Eyes of softest, sweetest blue,
Heart that ne'er a sorrow knew,
There she sitteth day by day,
Gentle Alice May.
Soft the streamlet at thy feet
Ripples, Alice May !
Zephyrs low the flow'rets move,
Songsters in the trees above
Chant of love undying love,
All the livelong day ;
And the heart within thy breast,
Throbbing with a vague unrest,
Sings the same sweet summer lay,
Gentle Alice May !
Now the shadows lengthen there,
Blue-eyed Alice May !
Low, sad music of the pines,
Breezes murmuring 'mid the vines,
(17)
18 ALICE MAY
Tell thec that the sun declines,
And 'tis close of day,
Still he conies not ! and thine eye
'Mid the hills can naught descry ;
From thy side he still doth stay,
Gentle Alice May !
Aye, he conies not ! and no more,
Trusting Alice May,
Will he ever seek thy side,
He, thy young heart's joy and pride,
He has won another bride,
Fair as summer's day.
Still the beating of that heart,
Check the rising tears which start :
He no more will come this way,
Gentle Alice May !
Thine is but the common lot,
Loving Alice May !
All of earth its griefs must share,
" Vows are many truth is rare,"
When to thee they seem most fair,
Falser still are they :
While amid the hills you wait,
In yon castle of the great,
Kneeling he doth homage pay
Blue-eyed Alice May !
ALICE MAT. 19
Years have passed ; and 'neath that oak
Sleeps my Alice May.
Fair-haired beauty once was she,
Sitting 'neath the old oak tree ;
Calmly now, and quietly,
All the livelong day,
Sleeps she sweetly 'neath its shade,
In the deep and silent glade,
And the sun his lingering ray
Casts o'er Alice May.
Little moss-grown grave is thine,
Blue-eyed Alice May !
Songsters in the tree o'erhead,
Lonely watchers o'er the dead,
Chant above thy grassy bed,
All the livelong day :
And the streamlet at thy feet
Murmurs music sad and sweet
As it wanders on its way,
Lost, lost Alice May !
"I'LL BE THY BRIDE."
YES ! take my hand my cold and passive hand,
The vow I breathed you was not traced in sand ;
Too well I know 'tis registered above,
And I will be thy bride but ask not love.
The word is but a mockery on my ear
It once was breathed by lips I held too dear
But I forget my place is at thy side
These dreams must pass away I'll be thy bride !
Come, bind the ring about my finger now,
And twine the festive garland o'er my brow ;
Wreathe orange buds amid my shining hair,
A bride they say must e'en look wondrous fair I
And I in yonder gay and brilliant scene,
Will for the moment reign a worshipped queen :
Oh, heart ! within thy cells my secret hide,
For I have breathed the words " I'll be thy bride."
-m
No answering smile thy happy smile doth meet,
I cannot teach my wayward heart deceit ;
My fingers do not tremble in thy clasp,
But fall all lifeless from the eager, grasp.
You come unsought, and unregretted go,
For you my soul no tender throb may know ;
And when thou'rt here, the moments slowly glide,
And heavily ; yet I will be thy bride.
(20)
"I'LL BE THY BEIDE," 21
Once when life's dial had not lost its sun,
My trusting heart was by another won ;
Yet, like a flower that blossoms but a day,
Or worthless gift, my love was cast away.
None knew a blight had fallen on my heart,
None saw the bitter tear in secret start ;
None knew but one alas, for woman's pride f
It makes me promise I will be thy bride.
For 'mid the gay I was the gayest there,
While in my bosom lay this chill despair ;
And when I met him there with her he loved,
My smile was bright my placid brow unmoved.
And when he bowed his head to whisper low
The tender words he breathed me long ago ;
I coiled about my heart the serpent pride,
And murmured in thy ear, " I'll be thy bride. 7 '
She leaned upon the arm once mine, while I,
Unrecognized, was carelessly passed by ;
And yet, I trembled not, the laugh and jest
Well served to hide the aching in my breast.
And now; we meet as strangers, calm and cold,
Forgot of him the halcyon days of old ;
Can I forget, though she is at his side ?
Ah, never never ; yet I'll be thy bride.
Then take my hand, my passive hand in thine,
And as thy bride in Fashion's courts I'll shine ;
But oh ! my wayward heart thou ne'er canst claim,
It dwell with him I must not, dare not name !
22 " I'LL BE THY BRIDE."
This golden band weighs on my brow like lead,
This dress seems like a covering for the dead
It is my bridal robe ! these jewels hide
A broken heart ; yet I will be thy bride !
Why is my heart so lifeless and so cold ?
I'm not the first who sold herself for gold ;
I'm not the first who felt a love divine
In vain then bowed the knee at Mammon's shrine.
My hand goes with my vow but not my Jieart
Oh, haunting dreams, I pray ye now depart !
Away, sweet memories ! here at my side
Come, chosen lover ! I will be thy bride.
'Twill be a bonnie sight when you and I
Stand at yon altar, and I breathe the lie
Which binds me thine through all life's weary years
Right merrily will sound those village cheers.
And he will call me by another name
Than that my childhood knew. I'll smile the same !
For I have cast my love, my truth aside
For tJiee ! and perjured thus PU be thy bride !
TO PIC COLO MINI.
BRIGHT bird of Italia ! sweet empress of song !
Like a gay little fairy thou'rt bounding along
On the stage of the world ; just as sparkling and bright
As the star gems that dance on the bosom of night.
No care hath e'er darkened
Thy life's sunny hours ;
For around thy young pathway
Spring only sweet flowers :
The world, like a lover, bends low at thy feet,
And crowns thee with roses the fair and the sweet.
'Tis bliss to behold thee 'tis rapture to hear
Thy gay notes of gladness, so soft and so clear ;
To watch the sweet dimples which play on thy face.
Thy artless coquetting, thy beauty and grace ;
The bright smiles which play
Round thy mouth " Hide and seek,"
And the flush of gay rapture
That mantles thy cheek.
Oh, the spell of enchantment to thee doth belong,
Thou fair queen of beauty ! and empress of song !
Ah ! well may the world which so worships thee now,
Weave songs to thy genius, and bays for thy brow :
May the laurel which long thou so gayly hast worn,
For the forehead which bears it have never a thorn.
(23)
24 TO PICCOLOMINI.
Wherever thou goest
May Fame meet thee there,
And crown thee with garlands
As fadeless as fair.
May the sweet Piccolomini, artless and gay,
But gather the roses which bloom on her way.
I own thy enchantment I bow to thy worth ;
I hail thee the loveliest flower of earth !
And a poet's glad blessings I bring to thee now,
As a tribute from me as a bud for thy brow.
I hold it the happiest
Hour I have known,
When around me like star gems
Thy smiles sweetly shone :
When I clasped thy soft hand, and gazed deep in thine
eyes,
As bright as thine own clime as clear as its skies.
And then, when at evening I saw thee again,
The queen of the audience enjoying thy reign,
As artless and happy as any glad child,
As bright as a seraph from heaven beguiled
By mortals to linger
Awhile on their shore,
And glad them with rapture
They ne'er felt before,
Oh ! my heart listened spellbound its pulses stood still ;
They but beat at thy pleasure, and throbbed at thy will.
Ah ! fair as the pictures to artist heart given,
And bright as the dream which the bard paints of heaven,
TO PICCOLOMINI. 25
As blushing, as happy as orange-wreathed bride,
Is Italia's song-bird, its joy and its pride.
Oh ! the miser may sigh
For the name wealth bequeaths,
And the statesman delight
In his proud laurel wreaths ;
One smile of the bright Piccolomini's worth
All the plaudits of praise all the fortunes of earth.
The rose of the spring which the honey-bee sips,
Was never so sweet as thy musical lips ;
The clear stars which light up our soft southern skies,
Are shamed by the brightness which beams in thine eyes;
No flower that blooms
In our sunny land now,
Can compare with the beauty
That 'circles thy brow ;
No song-bird that sings in our woodland retreat,
Ever warbled so clearly, so gayly, so sweet.
Then hail, Piccolomini ! beautiful one !
May never a shadow obscure thy bright sun ;
No grief steal the brightness of life's sunny hours.
No thorn ever lurk in thy pathway of flowers :
May thy life be as clear
And undimmed as that star
Which smiled on thy birth
In Italia afar :
May pleasures attend thee, where'er thou may'st roam,
In the land of the stranger, or in thine own home.
26 TO PICCOLOMINI.
Oh ! when thou shalt come glidin 5 back o'er the main,
In love will America greet thee again ;
And oh, Piccolomini ! tarry not long,
We will pine for thy artless young beauty and song.
And pray thy return
Then take my farewell ;
It is sad as the wailing
That breathes in the shell :
" May thy life, like the song thou didst warble this even,"
With warm friends around thee, glide gently to heaven !
K E V E X G E .
AN INDIAN LEGEND.
THE sun was sinking on the shore,
And shadows dark and grim
Crept o'er the earth : one star alone,
With shadowy light, and dim,
Lighted the maiden on her path
Unto the " trysting tree,"
Where oft at eve's soft hour she stole
To list love's gentle plea.
Oh ! lovely was this Indian maid,
By name, The Startled Fawn,
Her ebon hair was black as night,
Her eyes like starlight shone :
A proud chief's promised bride was she,
And yet she steals apart
To meet the pale-faced stranger, who
Had won her trusting heart.
The hours slip by : the moon is down ;
Still sit they side by side ;
And lie has promised soon to make
The Indian girl his bride ;
And, trusting in his love, she goes
The world with him to roam,
And leaves without a sigh the woods
Which made .her childhood's home.
28 REVEXGE.
The light canoe is on the stream ;
The purple wave divides,
And, like a feather, noiselessly
It down the water glides.
She gazes on the loved one's face
With mingled love and pride,
And dreams of blissful hours, when she
Shall be his worshipped bride.
But see ! behind them on the shore
The dark pursuers come !
The light reveals their dusky brows
They cross the whitening foam.
" Swim to the shore !" the maiden cried ;
" They will not harm me fly,
Star of my sky ! light of my life !
For me thou shalt not die !"
One wild embrace, and he is gone ;
The maiden weeps alone ;
She sees him gain the distant shore,
Then paddles slowly on.
For in the distance dark she hears
The chieftain's angry call ;
And she must meet his dreaded frown,
And brave the wrath of all.
Months pass away -long, dreary months ;
The pale face comes no more ;
The roses fade upon her cheeks,
And even hope is o'er.
REVENGE. 29
Her step, once agile as the deer's,
Is not so" lightsome now ;
And melancholy sits upon
The Indian maiden's brow.
They tell her that a pale-faced girl
Doth share his IOVB and lot ;
And she, who braved even death for him,
Has long since been forgot.
Thine is a common history,
Poor, timid Startled Fawn ;
Like all who love too well, thy love
Is back upon thee thrown.
" Unseen Spirit ! hear my cries,"
The Indian maiden said ;
" I fain would be revenged on him,
Then numbered with the dead."
Even while she speaks she hears the shout
Which tells a captive caught ;
And to the wigwam, powerless.
A pale-faced foe is brought.
Alone among that warlike tribe
The captive white man stands :
All downcast is his eagle eye,
And fetters bind his hands :
The dusky chiefs look sternly on.
Their hearts no pity feel ;
He killed the bravest of their tribe,
And scowls his fate reveal.
30 REVENUE.
The Startled Fawn has heard it all,
She knows the once-loved voice ;
'Tis he, the false one, who had been
Her spirit's early choice.
She sees the angry, scowling glance
Her tribe upon her cast,
And fiercely whispers, " It is well ;
I'll be revenged at last."
The night comes on a black, black night ;
No star is seen above ;
The dark-eyed maiden seeketh him
Who won her earliest love.
His arms are pinioned to his side
With fetters strong and fast ;
And bowed in shame that lofty head,
Whose triumph now is past.
He starts looks upward sees her there ;
" Forgive the past," he cried ;
" To-night we'll seek a foreign land
I'll make thee there my bride.
Oh, loose my fetters, for the love
You once to me did bear ;
We'll journey to my distant home,
And I will wed thee there."
She loosed the bonds with seeming love,
Yet on her lips, the while,
There lingered, as in mockery,
A curious, bitter smile ;
REVENGE. 31
With trembling hands, but face all calm,
She set the captive free,
Then whispered softly in his ear,
" Be silent follow me."
And, hand in hand, the silent woods
Their solitary way
They took not looking once behind,
And not a word did say.
The hungry wolf howled round their path
They heard the owlet's scream ;
And not a star of heafen sent forth
A single friendly gleam.
And dismal was the forest dark,
And drear its loneliness ;
And in the tangled beds of grass
They heard the serpent's hiss.
And from its wicked eyes there came
A look of savage hate
On him who with the Indian maid
Thus blindly followed fate.
And threatening clouds now veiled the skies,
The thunder shook high heaven,
The lightning gleamed ; and to their haunts
The fierce wild beasts were driven.
Yet, while the elements thus raged,
The wanderers wandered on.
The pale-face following with fear
His a-uidc The Startled Fawn.
He fancied he could faintly hear
The angry cascade's roar,
Where o'er the stern and beaten rock
The rushing waters pour :
And when he whispered her his fears,
She laughed in silent glee ;
But murmured fondly, as before,
" Fear not, love Follow me 1"
Upon the cascade's verge they stood
The rock so high and steep :
Too late he saw !- she grasped his hand
And took the fatal leap.
Down down they go ! and loudly shrieks
The angry water wraith :
The pale-face and The Startled Fawn
Are joined at last in death !
WHAT IS LIFE?
THE sun was slowly sinking o'er the western Mils
away,
As I saw a little maiden in the forest wilds at play :
The sunbeams kissed her forehead, and kissing lingered
there,
As loving to rest on the brow of one so strangely fair.
She tossed a leaflet on the stream then watched it
glide along,
And murmured plaintively a snatch of some old nurs
ery song ;
Her dark eyes beamed unquietly and the soft, rising
breast
Seemed throbbing high, and beating with a wild and
vague unrest :
Not hers to seek companions with the singing birds,
and flowers ;
In some far dell she passed the long and idly dream
ing hours,
Twining chaplets for her forehead, plucking the sweet-
scented bays,
Holding converse sweet with nature learning of her
all her ways.
The life-blood of the sun welled out the moon, his
lovely queen,
In golden chariot rode the heavens, all calm, and all
serene.
>* (33)
34 \VIIAT IS LIFE V
The child reached forth her arms, and cried : " O
moon, free from all strife,
Be friendly to the mortal born, and tell me, What is
life ? "
The Eastern idol seemed to smile as though the voice
she heard,
But hid her face behind a cloud, and uttered not a
word !
I saw the maiden once again 'twas in the festive
throng ;
'Mid proud and jewelled guests she glided gracefully
along,
And music floated on the breeze ; and in that brilliant
room,
Rare plants from many a foreign clime exhaled a rich
perfume.
Curved, rosy lips are smiling there, and dark eyes
brightly glance,
And white-robed forms are whirling in the gay and
giddy dance
And many lovely ones are there, but none so fair, I
ween,
As she who floats amid the crowd, by nature born a
queen!
She looks out from the window with a long, expectant
gaze,
Unmindful of the murmurs, and the whispered words
of praise.
WHAT IS LIFE? 35
And while sweet notes of music in soft numbers up
ward roll,
And night's queen rose calm and quietly thus spake
the maiden's soul :
"0 moon, once more I greet thee ! I have sought
the giddy throng,
Have mingled in the merry dance, and joined the
festive song,
Smiled with the young and heartless -jested with the
thoughtless old ;
But all around I found deceit, and callous hearts, and
cold :
I've torn the mask from hollow hearts, and viewed the
scene beneath,
Have watched the serpent coiled within the soft and
graceful wreath.
The pen of childhood painted me a picture bright of
bliss
I seek it vainly surely life hath nobler aims than this.
The painted goddess Pleasure, I have seen in colors
true.
And I loathe the giddy siren, and all who her paths
pursue ;
My soul is dark within me ! canst thou quell my
spirit's strife ?
patient moon ! my early friend ! now tell me,
What is life ?"
The breeze among the green-leaved pines sighed forth
a low, sad wail
The moon was silent as before, and made a cloud her
veil.
36 \VHAT IS LIFE?
And years rolled o'er the maiden 'mid the noble ones
of earth,
Her woman's name was numbered, and all owned her
mental worth ;
Fame's scroll, that lure to Genius, waved proudly on
the air,
And bore the gentle maiden's name in flaunting colors
there.
Even those who shunned her side before, chimed loudly
in her praise,
And lofty bards made her the theme of soft and gentle
lays :
Old age, and youth, and knighthood, low unto her did
bow,
While the laurel wreath drooped gracefully upon her
snowy brow.
Oft at the hour of midnight she touched her wayward
lyre,
And breathed on it with spirit touched by true Parnas
sian fire
A low, sad strain of music was caught by echoes
mild,
And Fame the proud smiled sweetly on this her favored
child.
She cast aside the harp alas ! its sad, complaining
strain
Awakened buried longings from their early tombs
again :
She sought the vine-clad lattice on the sleeping city
gazed,
And her proud dark eyes to heaven once more unqui-
etlv were raised :
\VHAT IS LIFE? 37
" moon ! teach me the secret of thy calm and
quiet face,
Thou'rt still the same, though o'er thy brow the swift-
winged shadows chase ;
Thou comest from behind the cloud, still bright, and
still serene,
And smilest on me still the same, thou meek and lovely
queen !
I have roved in scenes of pleasure, till, disgusted with
it all,
My sickened spirit turned away ; and darkness like a
pall
Came o'er my heart once trusting ; then I wildly
wooed proud fame,
Till she stooped to kiss my forehead, and gave me the
deathless name ;
I loathe the hackneyed compliments, all studiedly
rehearsed,
And but a mockery to my ear comes the loud trumpet-
burst.
Fame cannot satisfy my soul, or hush its longing
cry ;
It drinks the life-blood of the heart, and leaves it bare
and dry.
The laurel droops in mocking o'er a pale and withered
brow,
And furrows premature are there ah ! ivhat shall glad
me now ?
moon ! pale, silent watcher in the midnight sky
above !
Fortune and fame alike are vain I die for hn-mcat
Jove."
38 WHAT IS LIFE?
I saw her once again in life 'twas in a shaded bower ;
There bloomed around her pathway many a sweet and
rich-hued flower
And by her side was one she loved : her prayer was
answered now,
And ardent, burning kisses were imprinted on her
brow.
The hours seemed but moments, so swift they danced
along,
The flowers were lovlier ne'er before so sweet seemed
woodland song.
That night she whispered to the moon : " Hushed is my
spirit's strife,
And I will ask of thee no more, pale watcher, what is
life !"
A change came o'er my dreaming he the idol had
departed,
Had cast her trusting love away, and left her broken
hearted ;
And broken now were all the vows once registered
above
He had taught her trusting spirit the deceit of human
love.
And hers was but the common lot too oft the wheels
of pride
Have crushed the tender flower of love until it droop
ed, and died.
Now wild and glassy were the eyes she upward raised
to heaven
" moon ! pale, quiet watcher ! my soul has wildly
striven,
WHAT IS LIFE ? 39
My life has been a failure a bitter mockery,
I cast it off 'tis all a false and glittering pageantry ;
I have found it but a shadow, a false, unreal dream,
Its all of happiness a brief and transitory gleam :
The world is cold and pitiless a scene of endless
strife,
Ah ! well you might be silent when I asked you what
is life!"
And once again I saw her this time I looked my last :
A strange, unreal beauty o'er the pallid brow was cast ;
Death had come a kind releaser, and had given her his
rest
Folded were her pale hands meekly, o'er a still and
pulseless breast.
She had never sought Religion as a balm for aching
pain,
And pleasure, fortune, fame, and love, alike to her
were vain :
With her question still unanswered, life had passed
from her away,
And the moon upon a white-robed corpse sent down a
golden ray.
CARRIE BELL.
HAVE you seen my Carrie Bell ?
Hair of gold, and eyes of blue ;
Heart where evil ne'er might dwell ;
Cheek of soft and roseate hue ;
Light curls floating on the air ;
Voice charmed to banish sadness ;
Brow that never knew a care ;
Lips that ever breathe of gladness ;
Wanderer, now I pray you tell,
Have you seen my Carrie Bell ?
Have you seen her ? quickly tell,
Bird of notes the free and sweet ;
A fair maid called Carrie Bell,
Did you in your wanderings meet ?
Did you lend to her your voice,
Bird that through the heavens soarest ?
And to tint her cheek the choice,
Rose that blossoms in the forest ?
If 'tis so, I pray thee, tell,
For I love this Carrie Bell.
Have you seen her ? Answer well,
For she is a winsome thing ;
And her gay-toned carols swell
Like a bird's of plumaged wing.
(40
CARRIE BELL. 41
In her hand she holds a lyre,
As she wanders 'mid the roses ;
In her eyes, which beam with fire,
Some new charm each day discloses :
Soon, for I am anxious, tell
Have you seen my Carrie Bell ?
Have you seen her ? Ocean's shell
Lent its hue to paint her cheek ;
And with heart of truth I tell,
Fairer one you'd vainly seek.
Well I know some violet
Do not say 'tis idle dreaming
When its leaves with dew were wet,
Gave its hue to eyes so beaming :
And I know the same you'd tell,
Had you seen my Carrie Bell.
In a land a land of flowers
Dwells my winsome Carrie Bell ;
And in twilight's witching hours,
Her sweet wood-notes upward swell.
In her eyes bright dew-drops glisten
When you see you will believe ;
And the angels love to listen
When she strikes her harp at eve.
For your heart, 'twill not be well,
If you see my Carrie Bell.
THE DEATH SCENE.
'TWAS night : a wail swept through the clouded sky,
Swaying the vines the frail, neglected vines
And moaning wildly through deserted halls,
With shrieks as hoarse as those which come from souls
That find no rest on earth.
A few faint stars
Were twinkling in the heavens alas ! their light
Seemed but a mockery and the restless winds
Which onward swept o'er valley, hill, and plain,
Strewing dead leaves, and scattering faded flowers,
Like conqueror proud sounded a funeral dirge
For summer dead, and tttee. The silver moon,
Like a pale weeper, veiled her glorious face,
And kindly drew o'er her resplendent brow
A black, black cloud, lest her bright glance should mock
Thy last repose. A faint and sweet perfume
Rose from those scented violets which were torn
From their wild woodland home where summer birds
I lad wooed them 'neath the green oak's spreading shade.
And in the soft and stilly twilight hour
Told tales of love to deck thy pallid brow
For its last resting-place.
The room was dark ;
Grim shadows nestled in its corners, while
A dim. religions light, with mellowed rays,
(42)
THE DEATH SCENE. 43
Like the soft kisses of a moonbeam, lay
Upon thy snow-white couch. But in my heart
No such sweet light was shed for chill despair
Had wrapped me in its folds, and with stern grasp
("rushed all life's sunlight out. The star of Hope
ihul fallen from its throne the rose of joy
Lay faded, pale, and dead !
I stood alone !
Alone with my deep grief ! I could not brook
An eye save mine should gaze upon thy brow,
So cold, so still in death. Nor could I bear
A hand less gentle than my own to close
Those waxen eyelids o'er thine orbs of blue.
Thy cheek was cold cold to my kisses warm ;
And gave no answering kiss those voiceless lips,
That nevermore may breathe love-words to me.
Thy glorious eyes, where genius sat enthroned,
Were blank, and fixed in death their brightness now
Had no expression : and those lily hands,
That once clasped mine with pressure warm of love,
Lay cold and rigid.
Oh ! how beautiful
Thou wert even then ! Death did not dare to mar
What God had made so gloriously fair ;
He dared not rob from thy cold, silent lips
The crimson tint ; or steal from thy soft cheek
The rose's bloom. A smile still lingered there ;
The smile with which, as some sweet poet sings,
Thy Maker made thee and with love divine
Left on thy face. It hovered still in death
Around thy beauteous mouth, as sunbeams rest
44 THE DEATH SCENE.
With glorious splendor on the mountain-top
Where snow must ever dwell. The summer buds,
White as thy guileless soul an emblem iit
Lay on thy pulseless breast, and round thy brow ;
For they, from one who would have died for thee.
Were love's last gift. And they were frail like thee-
Made for the sunshine, not the shade of life,
And all unfit to battle with the storm.
The first rude touch of winter's icy breath
Withered their beauty. grief, if thou hadst lived,
Had withered thine.
My soul was dark, so dark !
For memory, like a gentle, brooding dove,
Folded her wings about her broken shrine
Where joy lay dead, and sang all mockingly
Of withered hopes, and blighted dreams of love,
When in sweet childhood, fancy painted bright
Deceitful pictures of a future bliss :
Those pictures now are colorless and dark,
For Truth has touched them with his magic wand,
And with a power all-potent turned each hue
To the deep darkness of a starless night !
In vain I clasped my slender hands and prayed :
" Oh ! leave me, memory leave me to my fate :
'Tis mockery to sing of cheerful fires
To one who freezes mockery to tell
Of viands rare to the pale wretch that starves
Mockery to speak in joyous, silvery tones
Of childhood's purer days, to one whose youth
Lies far behind him worse than mockery
To chant of love and happiness to me
Whose heart is crushed !"
THE DEATH SCENE. 45
Pale one ! I envied thee
The calm and quiet sleep that knows no dreams ;
I envied thee thy long, long rest in yonder churchyard:
For oh ! 'tis better far to perish young,
Than live to see each rosy wreath of joy
Fade from thy heart away. 'Tis better far
To lie with folded hands, and pulseless breast,
.\ ud heart that knows no sorrow, than to live
Unloved and friendless through life's weary days ;
With a proud soul that beats against its fetters,
Like some caged song-bird, pining for the woods
It ne'er shall see again ; those boundless skies,
Where once it soared all light and free of wing,
And moved its mate with the sweet, tender songs
That heaven had taught it ; pining for the flowers
'Twill nestle in no more ; and pouring forth
A dirge-like wail in low and mournful voice,
That's destined by stern fate ne'er to ring out
In joyance more.
Ah ! yes : 'tis better far
To die while yet the youthful blood is warm ;
While the young heart is weaving fantasies,
Than live to know them false. 'Tis better far
To die ere the foul breath of calumny
Had poisoned thy soul's peace, than live to be
Like yonder porcelain vase, marred by a breath.
Better to die, ere yet the adder's sting
Had touched thy heart ; or the vile serpent found
Thy Eden-flowers. yes ! I can rejoice
That thou art gone, where sin shall never come,
And sorrow dare not enter. It is well
That sister-angels claimed thee in thy youth ;
46 THE DEATH SCENE.
For oh ! I feel I'd rather mourn thee dead,
Than mourn Ihee living !
Lost one ! would I too
Could sleep beside thee now 0, would I too
Could thus depart from earth, and be at rest ;
Away from all the heart-ache and the pain
'Tis mine to bear. Would that the Father now
Would call me hence, and bid me cast aside
The woes a cruel destiny entailed
On those, the weak and sensitive, for whom
No kindly heart beats with returning throb :
Who feel their souls could know the deepest bliss,
Yet have that bliss denied ; and every cup
Of joy broken ere it pass the lips :
Who, doomed by fate resistless, wander on
Through all the thorns in life's dark pilgrimage,
Unaided and alone. 0, would that I,
As in the restless midnight thus I weep,
Could sleep beside thee in thine early grave,
And waken to life's misery no more !
TELL ME WHY.
WHEREFORE is thy heart thus lonely ?
Wherefore is thine eye thus dim ?
Wherefore lift thine eyelids only
To those things which tell of him ?
Knowest thou not that one. still fairer ,-
One who beauty's gift can claim,
Must forever be the sharer
Of his heart, his home, his name ?
Wherefore look with silent weeping
On the still and solemn night,
Where lone stars, their vigil keeping,
Guide the wanderer aright ?
'Neath their rays he wooes another,
Fairer, lovelier than thou :
Pride thy hopeless love must smother,
For despair is on thee now.
Wherefore press thy hands thus madly
To thy wildly beating heart ?
Wherefore do thy tears thus sadly
From their secret fountains start ?
From that heart his image banish
Take one look it is thy last ;
Every ray of joy must vanish,
For thy wild, sweet dream is past.
(47)
48 TELL ME WHY?
Wherefore madly kiss his letters
Where he still doth call thee dear ?
Wherefore thus embrace thy fetters
With the death-clasp of despair ?
Genius God to thee has given
Fold thy hands in humble prayer ;
Happiness belongs to heaven,
And thou ne'er canst claim it here.
Strange that one so proud and gifted,
Thus should fondly cling to earth,
With its soul in worship lifted
To a thing of mortal birth !
Rouse thee, pale one ! from this power,
From the storm that wars within ;
Give thy clay-god up this hour,
For idolatry is sin.
Love to thee thy fate denieth,
'Tis a blossom from above ;
And in vain thy spirit crieth
For the joys of human love.
All thine wild, mad worship bridle,
And no more thus prostrate bend ;
For thine unsuspecting idol
Claims thee only as a friend !
LITTLE ANNIE.
" There is no flock, however watched and tended.
But one dead lamb is there ;
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But hath one vacant chair."
ONCE more around the social hearth
Will loved ones meet ;
Once more with cheerful tones of mirth
Each other greet :
But oh ! when smiles shall wreathe the face,
There'll fall a tear ;
For there will be one vacant place
She is not here !
We've brightly pictured many a day
This Christmas scene ;
And thought we'd deck the walls so gay
With evergreen :
And she, the dearest loved of all
These joys would share ;
No wonder bitter tear-drops fall,
She is not here I
The little socks we'll fill, with glee,
On Christmas eve ;
But 'mid them one will missing be,
v. Our hearts to grieve.
3 (49)
50 LITTLE AXX1K.
The Christmas bright will shortly come,
Loved ones appear
But what a blight is on our home !
She is not here I
Among the little ones that play
Upon the green ;
One tiny hat with ribbons gay
Will not be seen ;
And, in the joyous laugh and shout
Which fills the air.
One little voice will not ring out
She is not here !
And when around the fireside warm
We crowd at night ;
I know we'll miss one little form
That blessed our sight.
The mother, with her face of woe.
Will breathe a prayer ;
The father's silent tears will flow
She is not here !
And when, with many a skip and bound,
And hearts of glee,
The other children gather round
The Christmas-tree,
A shade of grief will intevene.
And clouds appear ;
The sweetest face will not be seen
She is not here !
LITTLE ANNIE. 51
The little toys the tress of hair
To us bereft
Of what was once so sweet and fair,
Are all that's left :
No more we'll hear those tiny feet
Upon the stair ;
Or turn that loving kiss to meet
She is not here !
To us the Christmas brings no joy :
Of one so fair,
We only see the broken toy
And empty chair !
But up in yonder clime above,
All free from care,
The angels shout in strains of love,
" Your lamb is here !"
TO MY LITTLE CANARY BIRD.
THOU dost not pine for the greenwood, bird,
For a cage was thy home alway ;
Thou hast never been out where the musical fount
Casts upward its delicate spray ;
Thou hast ne'er watched the wild flowers bloom
In their home, the mossy dell :
Thou hast no song for the violet blue,
Nor a tale of the greenwood to tell.
There mingles no wail in thy song, sweet bird,
Of a home by the spoiler's hand
Robbed of its beauty made desolate
Of a scattered, broken band :
Merry and blithe is thy little heart.
Merry and blithe thy song ;
Sweet bird, it would have no music for me,
Had I won it by cruel wrong.
Dost thou ever sigh for liberty, bird ?
Does thy cage a prison seem ?
Dost thou long for a seat on those mossy boughs,
Lit up by the sun's bright beam ?
Dost wish to unfurl thy tiny wing,
And soar with the feathered throng ?
Oh ! say not so, for the sportsman's aim
Might silence thy little song.
TO MY LITTLE CANARY BIRD. 53
Or if thou wert out in the world, sweet bird,
Thou wouldst pine for a gentle mate,
As the deathless soul for that sister-soul
Do birds escape such fate ?
Some little creature with plumaged wing,
That lodged in the bough above,
Thou wouldst hover around at eventide,
And woo with thy song of love.
And perhaps, sweet bird, from thy musical notes
She might coldly turn away ;
For so human beings too often do
Are birds more kind than they ?
Or perhaps she might listen in fond deceit
To thy wildly gushing song,
And win thy heart with an artful lay,
To break it by bitter wrong !
Brother nor sister hast thou, sweet bird,
Brothers and sister have I ;
But one is under the grassy mound,
And some 'neath a distant sky ;
And so, as our fates are something akin,
We will love each other more ;
As two lone mariners cast alike
On a desolate, foreign shore.
Lover nor friend of thy kind hast thou,
Lover and friends have I ;
The one is many a league from me,
The others would speedily fly
54 TO MY LITTLE CANARY BIRD.
If a storm should come ; then oh ! sweet bird,
We will love each other well ;
Thou wilt sing for me and I thy praise
In a flood of rhyme will tell.
I will sing tvith thee, when my heart, bright bin
Like them is gay and glad ;
Thou wilt pour for me thy richest song,
When my lonely soul is sad :
Sweet is the thought to my spirit, when
The sky looks dark above,
That something clings to me in this wide world
With a pure, unselfish love.
I guard thee, bird, with a watchful eye,
I deck thy cage with flowers ;
I sing and talk with thee. lest thou
Shouldst know some weary hour :
Then oh ! be content, nor pine to break
The fetter by which thou art bound ;
A faithful heart in this cold, cold world,
Is very seldom found.
I laugh at those who sigh " Poor bird,"
When they sorrowful pass you by ;
True, thou art barred in a narrow cage,
Yet thou art more free than I.
Never, ah ! never must thou, sweet bird,
Be led by courtly rule,
And practise the measured step and word,
Studied in Fashion's school.
TO MY LITTLE CANARY BIRD 55
Then pine not, bird, for the bright blue sky
The arrow might find thy heart ;
Who would bow to thee there in love ?
Here a monarch thou art.
'Twould be a cruel kindness, bird,
To open thy prison door,
And send thee away to the broad greenwood
So I close it for ever more !
IDLE RHYMES.
"WHO WOULD LITE WITHOUT RECIPROCAL LOVE?
NONE, if we might choose our fate,
Would affection's tendrils crush ;
None that wailing of the heart,
Craving always to be loved,
Would in calmness, coldness hush,
Could we meet,
Be it early, be it late,
Each its own peculiar mate.
But how oft in life's dark path
Lonely wanderers we see,
Whose bright visions never may
Turn to blest reality.
Though they cold and quiet seem,
Pine they still alas ! in vain
For some joy that ne'er can be ;
'Outivard calm,
Yet they may not hope to still
Voiceless longings of the soul.
Think you 'tis from choice we turn,
Some to pleasure, some to fame ?
Could the giddy jest and song,
Could the worship of the throng,
Deathless name,
<56)
IDLE RHYMES. 57
Pay us for the blooms of joy
Lying dead within the heart ?
Longings vain,
Hours of pain,
Hopes that ne'er may shine again?
None would pass through life alone,
Cold, unloving, and unloved,
Could the spirit-mate be found ;
For the heart, a woodbine thing,
Yinelike, ever loves to cling,
Bound on something true and strong :
Failing there,
With a feeling of despair
Draws its tendrils sadly back ;
As the vine,
Rudely wrenched from its support,
Lifeless trails upon the ground.
In this bitter world there are
Souls that, like the fettered bird,
Set apart from all its kind,
Ne'er a song of love have heard ;
Some who le-iru
Oh I at what a bitter cost !
That all hearts may be their own
Save the one they value most.
Some who cast the gems of love
Like a pearl unheeded forth,
Spurned, despise !.
At the careless feet of one who
Never understood its worth.
58 IDLE RHYMES.
Others oh ! God pity them !
Find, alas ! but all too late,
One who might have loved them well,
Made this life a thing of joy,
Had not cruel fate
Placed a deep, wide gulf between,
That to overleap were sin.
Oh 1 'twere better far
To worship always some ideal star,
That coldly shines in midnight sleep,
Than find that dream reality
Than know the heart thine own hadst sought,
Which thou " with sacrifice hadst bought,"
Can never give
The sweet return,
For thee to throb,
For thee to burn,
But must some other pathway bless
Then wake to weep !
None, if we might choose our fate,
Would the bitter lot select ;
None prefer the heart should lie
Withering in a slow neglect.
Yet how gladly would we wait.
With this craving to be loved,
Could we meet,
Nor meet in vain,
Be it early, be it late,
Each its own peculiar mate.
THE COQUETTE.
HER smiles are bright, and diamonds rare
Flash in the braids of her jetty hair ;
Hearts bow under her sparkling glance,
As she gracefully moves in the giddy dance :
Her lips part often
In laugh and jest,
And jewels shine
On her arms and breast :
Beauty and genius in her have met,
And queen of the throng is the fair coquette.
Fame has placed chaplets upon her brow,
And lovers are sighing around her now ;
Some liken her cheek to the rose and her eyes
To the star-gems that beam on our midnight skies :
She is courted and worshipped
At every ffete ;
She is sought by the wealthy,
And proud, and great :
Yet she turns alike from the young and old,
And is " fair as marble, but oh ! as cold."
Poets and orators bow at her feet,
Are victims alike of her art and deceit ;
Brave men, who never were conquered before
Soldiers, who smiled at the cannon's roar
60 THE COQUETTE.
Bow in the dust
To this victor fair,
Lured by the dimples
Her soft cheeks wear :
For few may escape the gilded net
Wove by the hands of the fair coquette.
The artist for her lays his pencil down,
And sinks 'neath the weight of her scornful frown ;
She has robbed the bard of his dream of fame,
But her syren song is still the same :
One and another
Before her fall ;
For her smiles are given
To one and all :
Yet never a word or a sigh of regret
Falls from the lips of the fair coquette.
Little she cares for the inward strife,
The look of despair, and the blighted life ;
No eloquent voice, no pleading tone,
Ever may soften her heart of stone :
Her eyes are as bright,
And her smiles as gay,
Though wreck and ruin
Lie on her way :
Her highest delights are the hidden smart,
The look of anguish, the tortured heart.
And why ? for to her of revenge they speak
The ashy lip, and the paling cheek ;
THE COQUETTE. 61
And she hath vowed that the many should
Repay for her blighted womanhood ;
Repay for her hours
Of sleepless sorrow ;
The long, long night,
And the weary morrow :
For the crime of one loved once loved yet
Hath made her a heartless, vain coquette.
He crossed her path when her life was young,
With burning eloquence on his tongue ;
" His voice was gentle, and never loud
Its very softness awed the crowd ;"
His brow was beauty's throne,
And his eyes
Had borrowed their hue
From the summer skies.
Ah ! never before had such grace been given
To mortal, since angels were lured from heaven.
With softened accents he sought her side,
His eyes spoke love, and her own replied ;
She was guileless then, and her sudden start
Betrayed the love of her youthful heart.
He won her to him
Like a worthless flower
He cast her aside ;
And from that hour
Gone, gone were the dreams of her innocent youth,
Her woman's trust, and her woman's truth !
62 THE COQUETTE.
Not hers to pine like a faded thing ;
She hid her wound with a plumaged wing :
One day of anguish of dark despair,
As black as the night when no star is there
In silence she wept
O'er her bitter wrong
Then away once more
To the festive throng.
Oh ! woe to the woman whose heart believed,
Who loved and trusted an<l was deceived !
Ah ! where is the confidence now of her youth ?
Where the artless eye, once the well of truth ?
The one, with her buried love lies dead ;
The other, deceiving rays doth shed.
In vain fond lovers
May throng her way ;
If he was false-hearted,
Then what are they ?
With a scorn for all in her blighted heart,
She smiles on the ruin her art hath wrought.
Brightest and fairest where all are fair ;
Diamonds flash in her shining hair ;
Queen of beauty and queen of song ;
Worshipped and courted in every throng ;
Brightly she shines
At assembly and ball ;
Bowed to by many,
Admired of all :
THE COQUETTE. 63
Fame and devotion are hers and yet,
Who envies the lot of the fair coquette?
She will smile, she will trifle her young life away,
She will sneer with the heartless laugh with the
gay ;
Singling victims in every tnrong
Luring them on with Circean song ;
And then as a bride
At the altar she'll stand,
Giving no heart
With her jewelled hand,
When a golden fish is caught in the net
Wove by the hands of the fair coquette !
A DREAM.
I DREAMED that thou wert dying ; that thy head
Was pillowed gently on my faithful heart
The heart that loved thee through long, weary years,
When thou wert cold, and, wrapped in chill indifference,
Looked icily upon me, when a face
Far lovelier than my own, a brow of beauty
Draped o'er with sunny curls, first won thy smile
Concealed its blight, and, hiding from the world
The wound which time nor aught couldst ever heal,
Prayed only for thy happiness the constant heart
Which, turning coldly from the proffered love
Of others, beat for thee thee only.
Yet I dreamed
When fell disease had robbed thee of life's charm ;
Had stolen from thy cheek the rose's tint,
And from thine eagle eye its fire and warmth ;
Had ta'en from thy pale lips the kiss of love,
And written on thy brow the seal of death ;
When in thy quivering heart the pulse of life
Was flickering low and still, and earth, with all
Its varied beauties its sweet singing birds,
Its summer blossoms, and its rippling streams.
Its sunset clouds, its soft and mystic eves.
Its starlit nights, and all the loveliness
(64)
A DREAM. 65
Which nature spreads in panoramic view
To glad the artist eye and poet soul
Was fading slowly from thy death-dimmed gaze,
That thou didst come to me like weary child,
And nestled fondly in my sheltering arms,
Which clasped thee closely as the miser clasps
His box of hoarded treasures. Thou didst lean
Thine aching head upon my faithful heart,
And poured into my sympathizing ears
The history of thy grief the bitter blight
Which withered all thy early buds of joy.
And I too glad to have thee there didst pass my
hand
With soft, mesmeric touch o'er thy pale brow,
And parted gently the thick clustering curls
Which half concealed its beauty, printed many a kiss
Of passion and despair upon thy cheeks,
Already whitening for an early grave.
And then I prayed, with agony intense,
That I folding thee thus with many a fond caress
Might die with thee might share thy future fate.
And go with thee adown the deep, cold stream,
Whose widening waters, stretching far away,
Thy feet already touched. I could not bear
That thou shouldst die, and leave me here alone,
Where everything spoke of thee every book
Bore the faint impress of thy pencil touch
Each old song was such as thou liadst loved,
Where all aye, all, when thou wert gone from me.
Would bring thee back with maddening thought again.
Too dark the picture ! what were life to me,
66 A DKEAM.
When thou, the sun which made its brightness all,
Iladst set forever !
Vain was anguished prayer :
Tly cheek grew pale, while mine, alas ! retained
The hue of life ; thy heart's pulsations still
Fainter and fainter grew, with flickering throb,
While mine beat strongly as before : I could not die !
And then, with maddening plea, I prayed that thou
Mightst live aye, live, although thy smiles would bless
Another heart ; live, though thine eyes would beam
No more for me thy hand seek mine no more
With gentle pressure. Vain yes, all in vain !
About my neck I felt thine arms entwine,
As weaker grew thy clasp ; more heavily
Thy head sank back upon its resting-place ;
And wearily thy silken lashes drooped
Above the glorious eyes now veiled in death
Those soft blue eyes, which when they smiled on me
Caused my fond heart to pulsate with the song
Of happiness, and made my life to me
' A thing of joy." They told me thou wert dead ! m
And would have torn thee from my warm embrace ;
But with a maniac clutch I grasped my prize,
Which no rude hand might touch mine only now
And robed thee for the tomb. They found me there,
Beside that table with its sheet of white.
Still pillowing thy head upon my breast,
And with a placid smile singing to thee
As if thou wert asleep, and would awake
With coming dawn ; pressing thy cold stiff hands :
A DEEAM. 67
Parting the silken curls from thy fair brow
With gentle touch, alas ! no need of that
And murmuring to all who would approach,
" Be still he sleeps !"
I started from my dream,
And slowly slumbering consciousness returned.
My slumbers were dispelled. The morning sun
Was shining brightly ; through the casement came
The sweet, rich fragrance of the summer blooms ;
And from the neighboring trees wild mocking-birds
Hummed each his hymn of joy. Sleep fled afar :
Thank God ! 'twas but a dream Ha ! what is that ?
What horror have you there that thus you stand
With pitying eyes, and blanching cheek and lips ?
Speak to me, friends delay is maddening!
Why do you whisper thus among yourselves,
" Break the news gently " ? I like not mystery
My Percy ! what of him ? You breathe his name
With trembling accent, as we sometimes speak
A long-forbidden word half timidly,
As though afraid the very air might catch
The sound. What have you there I may not see ?
What means that letter with its seal of black ?
I see I see it all ! some stranger tells
The news of Percy's death ! My Percy dead !
It seems but yesterday I saw him stand,
The idol of an adulating crowd,
Swaying the multitude with that rich flow
Of earnest eloquence by nature lavish given ;
That soft, persuasive voice, low, like a wind-harp,
68 A DREAM.
Sweet as the tinkle of a silver bell.
It may not cannot be ! I know he lives !
Tell me that he yet loves, and wooes another,
I can bear that but not that he should die ;
Not that the grave, the lonesome grave should win
Him to its dismal depths, its foul embrace,
Its never-ending gloom !
My Percy dead !
Oh ! then, 'twas not a dream ; or a black dream
That day but verified ; a horror sent
To warn me that the earth had swallowed up
All that could make life happiness to me !
0, would that I might die ! I do not fear
An earth-made bed it holds my darling too.
Oh ! welcome chains ! welcome the maniac's cell !
The ravings of insanity ! all, anything,
But this dull consciousness of Percy dead ;
This lethargy, which wraps me like a shroud ;
This icy hand, which will not leave my heart
Will n., i be shaken off : I shall go mad !
Welcome insanity, and dungeon dim !
'Twere better than this nightmare of the soul :
A voice aroused me from my slumber wild,
I woke and lo ! this too was but a dream !
A POEM
IX MEMORY OF THREE FRIENDS WHO BORE THE SAME NAME.
By a hearth of dying embers
I am musing all alone ;
And I'm hearing in the silence
Many a long-forgotten tone ;
Once again my eyes are gazing
On the brows the grave has chilled ;
And I'm listening to the music
Of sweet voices death has stilled.
Darkness resteth on the city,
And the world is all asleep ;
But alas ! I am too wakeful,
For I only wake to weep.
How my memory is busy
With each mournful, bygone scene ;
And my lonely heart is resting
On the days which once have been.
How I love the solemn stillness.
Which now broodeth over all ;
When the earth is robed in darkness
Black as any funeral pall !
I can hear no careless voices
To disturb my sombre mood ;
And my sad soul is communing
With the beautiful the good.
70 A POEM.
I can see no bright star-watcher
Gleaming on the brow of night ;
And no meteor is dancing
E'en the moon has veiled her light.
Oh ! it suits my gloomy spirit
To look out on such a scene ;
Everything is dark around me,
Dark as my young life hath been.
But I must not dare not murmur
At the grief which clouds my brow,
For I knew one blissful summer,
Though 'tis winter with me now.
Once my smile was all the brightest,
And my voice sang out in mirth ;
Once my heart was as the lightest
On this weary, sin-cursed earth.
Once kind friends were gathered round me,
Whom to know was but to love ;
But the fairest ones among them
Angels summoned up above.
And the ones I loved most fondly
Fate has parted from my side ;
And my bark is floating cheerless.
All alone adown life's tide.
But they come in dreams to cheer me,
Dreams the beautiful and bright ;
And my soul is in the presence
Of the loved and lost to-night.
A POEM. 71
As the shell is ever singing
Of the blue the boundless sea ;
So my heart the past retaineth
Wheresoe'er my home may be.
See I now a face whose beauty
Charmed my spirit all too well ;
For I loved it with a passion
That no words may ever tell.
I can see the golden tresses,
And the eyes of azure blue ;
But alas ! in memory only,
Death has hid it from my view.
Said I death ? ah, no ! more cruel
Was the fate which bade us part ;
Better mourn o'er white-robed corpses,
Than a cold and faithless heart.
Oh ! 'tis better to be weeping
O'er a coffin-pillowed head,
Than to know thine idol living
While the love for thee is dead.
Better see the eye grow dimmer,
Than to see it turned away
Weep o'er dust to dust returning,
Than in life to find it clay.
Better far to mourn the losing
Of a heart whose life is o'er ;
Than to weep in restless midnights
For a love which comes no more.
72 A POEM.
But I'm hearing other voices
Bearing music in their flow ;
And I'm seeing other faces
Cherished in the long ago
Hands that now are folded calmly
On some snowy, pulseless breast,
I imagine in my dreaming
In my own are fondly pressed.
Oh ! they come ! they hover near me !
They the loved the early dead !
Who for long years have been sleeping
In some icy earth-made bed.
One I see with waving ringlets,
Kyes that wear the violet's hue ;
Once my friend in early girlhood ;
One I loved when life was new.
Ah ! hers was a brow of beauty
Fair as mortals' e'er hath been,
And she walked the earth as proudly
As some crowned and high-born queen.
Jewels flashed upon her bosom.
Bright gems sparkled in her hair ;
In the grave that face is resting
Ah ! she wears no jewels there !
Loveliest in the crowded ball-room :
Queen of every festal throng ;
Gayest of the gay and mirthful,
Child of beauty and of song !
A POEM. 73
Ne'er a thought of things diviner,
Thought of heaven immortal birth
All the goal that rose before her
Was the praise and fame of earth.
On the eve which should have found her
In her bridal robes arrayed,
She, the peerless, haughty Annie,
In a lowly grave was laid :
Faithful love would fain have saved her,
But in vain she drooped and died ;
In a snowy shroud we robed her,
When she should have been a bride.
Far from mortal gaze we placed her,
By the moonlight pale and dim ;
Funeral lights were gleaming round her,
And a dirge her marriage hymn.
Still a bride in festal garments,
Death, the bridegroom she had wed
Aye, the nuptial couch was waiting,
But the earth was now her bed.
I again with bitter musing,
Look on memory's faithful glass
Other eyes are beaming on me,
Other forms before me pass.
And I single from among them
A sweet face all pure and fair ;
One who died when summer blossoms
Shed their fragrance on the air.
4
74 A POKM.
Lovely as the water-lily
Ere a breath hath o'er it moved,
Or the early rose in spring-time,
Was the Annie that I loved.
Like two buds on one stem resting,
We in love together grew
She had shared my girlish pleasures,
And my childish sorrows, too.
How I mourned when early sorrow
Quenched the love-light in her eye !
How I wept when first they told me
That my gentle one must die !
But 'twas better thus to perish.
Earth her spirit sorely tried ;
Hers the common lot of woman,
For she suffered loved and died !
But the dearest of the many
Earth has pillowed on her breast,
Was the gentle little Annie,
Loved the last and loved the best !
Time has not subdued my sorrow-
In my heart is winter-blight ;
For the holy angels called her
Just one year ago to-night.
In the gloomy, sad October,
When the earth was turning grey.
When the trees and flowers were 1 tearing
Evidence of slow dectiv ;
A POEM. 75
We had gathered summer blossoms
For a brow all pale and chill ;
And the last white buds were strewing
O'er a heart whose pulse was still.
I have called three loved ones Annie,
They, the dearest I have known ;
Three white tombstones now are bearing
That same name, and it my own :
But the visions fade before me,
One by one the forms depart
Ashes on the hearth are lying,
Ashes too are in my heart !
THE OLD MAN'S SONG TO HIS WIFE.
I AM fifty-two to-day, sweet wife,
I am fifty-two to-day ;
The hair which was raven some years ago,
Is rapidly turning grey.
My eyes grow dim, and my step is slow,
Old Time has furrowed my brow ;
And the lover who stole your heart away,
Is only an ' : old man " now.
Say, do you remember the day, sweet wife,
When, a bashful youth of nineteen,
I whispered my love 'neath the broad old oak,
Which towered so high on the green ?
You hung down your head with a timid blush,
And your wealth of curly hair
Fell over your forehead I pushed it away,
And left a sweet kiss there.
And do you remember the day, sweet wife,
When Tom, with his handsome face,
His polished manners, his flattering tongue,
And his air of courtly grace,
Came a-wooing thee with confident air
From his home of wealth and pride ?
But your heart was mine ; and with mortified look
He left, but he carried no bride.
(76)
THE OLD MAN'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. 77
A wreath of jessamine, myrtle, and fern,
I placed on your sunny brow ;
That brow is faded and pale since then,
But is beautiful to me now.
For your eyes, though they sparkle no more, sweet wife ;
With the star-beams of youthful joy ;
Wear still the unchangeable light of love,
That blessed my heart when a boy.
And do you remember the night, sweet wife,
In the time of the leafy June,
When we plighted our vows under holy stars,
And the rays of the summer moon ?
When I asked you to go through life by my side,
And with me never to part ?
Your answer was low but it reached my ear
As I folded you close to my heart.
We have loved and suffered together, sweet wife,
And we love each other still ;
Three little babes we have buried from sight,
In that graveyard under the hill.
But joy or sorrow, whichever we felt,
Ever found us side by side ;
And as fondly now do I love thee, wife,
As I loved the blushing young bride.
On the bark of an oak I carved our names,
In that May-time long ago ;
Alas ! I have seen that sturdy tree
By the woodman's axe laid low :
78 THE OLD MAN'S SONG TO HIS WIPE.
So death will cut us down, sweet wife,
As low as that aged tree ;
I care not I'll welcome even the grave,
So they lay you down by me.
I am fifty-two to-day, sweet wife,
My locks are mingled with grey ;
And you and I from this gladsome earth,
Are rapidly passing away :
But oh ! if your hand clasp mine and your ear
Shall catch my latest breath,
With your kiss on my lips I will sink with a smile
In the cold embrace of death.
TO YOU.
I WOULD I were the simplest flower
That's loved by thee ;
Daisy, or pink, or violet,
I fain would be.
I know 'twould soon be cast aside,
A faded flower ;
And yet 'twere bliss to have thee smile
On me one hour.
I would I were some little bird
That's loved by thee ;"
I'd charm thine ear when thou wert sad,
With melody :
At evening's soft and quiet hour
I'd fold my wing,
To hover round thy window, love,
And sweetly sing.
I cannot be a bird or flower
That's loved by thee ;
Yet must I fade, like passing dream,
From memory ?
Oh ! when to thee the sweet birds sing,
Or flowers are brought ;
Remember her who didst so crave
One gentle thought.
(79)
TO MY BROTHER,
IN RETURN FOR A BUNCH OF EARLY SPRING FLOWERS.
I THANK thee, brother, for thy gift
Of rich, sweet-scented flowers ;
They came like heavenly visitants
To glad life's weary hours ;
No laurel-wreath the world could give,
No chaplet formed of bays,
Were half so prized they made me dream
Of childhood's merry days,
When thou and I together played,
Two happy children we ;
Ah, Willie, times have changed since then,
But thou art left to me.
Though humble was our early home,
'Twas goodly to the view ;
A woodbine clambered o'er the door,
A yellow jasmine too ;
Pinks, roses, and forget-me-nots
Bloomed in profusion there ;
And modest lilacs hid themselves
; Mid dahlias rich and rare ;
And there the tiny snow-drop peeped
A inodest, winning thing ;
And yellow jonquils, which foretold
The quickly coming spring.
180'
TO MY BROTHER. 81
That homestead is deserted now !
Our feet may press no more,
With eager, light, and happy step,
The brightly polished floor :
And those familiar paths at eve
We ne'er may walk again ;
Or run as happy children do,
Adown the shaded lane :
The smiling spring is there once more,
With beauty on her brow ;
And birds are singing from each limb
I do not hear them now.
Yet, from my dusty city home,
Thy flowers sent me back,
With throbbing heart and misty eyes,
To childhood's faded track :
I heard once more the mocking-bird
Which woke me with its song ;
And saw again the wild wood-flowers,
Which bloomed our path along,
When we, upon our way to school.
Where pinks and violets grew,
Would loiter idly on the road,
As children often do.
That early home is dear to me !
And near its quiet shade,
The children of a sister loved
Two little babes are laid.
82 TO MY BROTHER.
We twined above each early bed
Sweet flowers of every hue ;
And, type of their eternal life,
The arbor- vitas too.
But I I will not sing of this,
It fills my heart with pain ;
And I intended that thy flowers
Shouldst wake a gladsome strain.
I thank thee for thy lovely gift,
More precious far to me
Than diamonds from an earthly mine,
Or pearls from yon blue sea.
Full many a glittering gem I count
As keepsakes but thy flowers
Are treasured more, for they recall
My childhood's vanished hours,
When life was clad in rainbow hues,
When I was light and free,
And every little simple thing
Brought happiness to me.
Ah ! then I laughed, when others said,
That grief to life belongs ;
My heart was like my harp, and it
Played only pleasant songs :
But both have caught a sadder strain,
Though few have been my years :
And heart and lute alike have been
Baptized in bitter tears :
TO MY BROTHER. 83
Yet oh ! I would not murmur now,
For God, a Father mild,
Hath blessed me more than I deserved
His wild, rebellious child.
See ! how thy gift has led me back
To childhood's early hours ;
When brothers and a sister loved,
Strewed aU my path with flowers ;
When o'er our faults a faithful one !
A gentle mother wept ;
And weeping, prayed for us, when in
Our little beds we slept.
That circle it is broken now !
A scattered band are we :
Ah, Willie, times have changed since then,
But thou art left to me.
HUMAN BEAUTY.
IT is no sin to worship human beauty
God gave us hearts the beautiful to love ;
We look with joy on summer skies at morning,
And watch with pleas'ure sunset clouds above :
Our souls are filled with bliss at hour of evening,
When heaven has lighted up her train of cars ;
We love to look upon the moon's soft lustre,
And gaze with rapture on the beaming stars.
A bird with plumaged wing the eye delighteth ;
A tiny flower can bring us perfect bliss,
When to the sun it first unfolds its petals,
Or bendeth low beneath the dew-drop's kiss.
An ocean shell doth bring us thoughts of gladness,
Telling of trackless paths no foot hath trod ;
A murmuring brook hath charms to banish sadness
For all these simple things are works of God.
Then why not love the human face diviner,
Fashioned in beauty, and endowed with thought ?-
We dwell with pleasure deep on some fine painting,
The skill of human-artist's hand hath wrought :
The chiselled features formed by mortal sculptor,
With admiration strong and pure we trace ;
The marble brow awakens sweet emotions
Then why not love a lovely human face ?
HUMAN BEAUTY. 85
I love to see soft, waving ringlets, shading
A brow where beauty sits enthroned a queen ;
To gaze on rose-bud mouth, and faultless dimple ;
And eyes which half reveal the heart unseen ;
A cheek which from the ocean shell hath borrowed
That soft pink tint with which no rose can vie ;
And tresses which seem wove of golden moonbeams
Just as they sparkled on the summer sky.
Yet what is numan beauty ? Faultless features
Form not the quiet loveliness I prize ;
Not golden locks, nor cheeks of alabaster
The soul of beauty slumbers in the eyes :
We trace in their all-varying expression
The soul's deep thoughts as written on a chart,
And through those open windows of the spirit,
We look upon the beating, hidden heart.
So, 'tis the heart that gives the face its beauty,
If that be pure, the face is lovely too ;
I care not howsoever plain the features,
If I discern a spirit fond and true.
I own that every simple thing I cherish,
In which a line of beauty I can trace,
From sunset sky, to modest, blooming daisy,
But worship most a lovely human face.
A face where brilliant intellect is breathing,
A brow where genius finds a fitting throne ;
86 HUMAN BEAUTY.
An eye of gentleness, which fondly mirrors
A heart that no impurity hath known.
/ love the beautiful my soul rejoices
In everything that moves with quiet grace ;
But most I love the beauty of the spirit
That beauty sparkling in a human face !
THE ONE I PRIZE.
GIVE me the eye, whate'er its hue,
That has a kindly beam for all,
That ne'er on lowly human form
Doth let a cold expression fall :
An eye which weeps when others weep,
When others smile is smiling too ;
And so it has a gentle glance,
I care not what may be its hue.
Give me the lips that never part
But 'tis to frame some gentle word ;
The lips from which earth's humblest 01 e
No harsh expression e'er hath heard :
I care not for the rose-bud tint,
Nor if the mouth be large or small,
So that it has in every case
A friendly, cheering word for all.
Give me the hand that never moves
But to dispense some blessing there ;
That's e'er engaged in works of love
I care not if 'tis brown, or fair :
The hand that soothes the aching brow,
The hand that e'er to kindness leans,
And whatsoe'er its shape or shade,
I'd rather clasp it than a queen's.
(87.
THE ONK I PRIZE.
Give me the foot that does not scorn
To tread the humblest cottage floor ;
That moves with gentle, noiseless step
About the hovels of the poor :
The foot that would not crush a worm
I care not what may be its size,
That's e'er on deeds of mercy bent,
Oh ! such the foot I fondly prize.
Give me the heart that ever throbs
In pity for earth's erring child,
That loves God's creatures every one
A heart no sin hath e'er denied :
Give me the eye that smiles on all,
The lip that joy doth e'er impart,
The hand that soothes the couch of pain-
The willing foot the cheerful heart.
HYMN TO OLD AGE.
WEEP not, my friend, if age has cast
Its shadow on thy brow ;
Weep not, if every bud of joy
Has left thy pathway now.
Weep not, although thy heart has proved
How false is human love ;
If thou hast watched each star of hope
Fade from thy sky above,
Weep not ! for 'tis the common lot,
To suffer love and be forgot !
Weep not ! although each day thy step
Grows feebler far, and weak ;
And if the rosy hue of health
Hath faded from thy cheek :
If day by day thine eye grows dim,
Once earnest, clear, and bright ;
If thou hast watched life's opening morn
Merge into gloomy night,
Weep not ! but trials meekly bear,
And fold thy hands in humble prayer.
Why should we sigh for youth's delights,
So f i!r, but oh ! so vain ?
Even love, which seems at first so sweet,
Brings less of joy than pain.
(89)
i)() HYMN TO OLD AGE.
Hast thou not found that Falsehood wears
The mask of honest Truth ?
That Friendship is a dream ? Then oh !
Why mourn thy faded youth :
Who that hath felt life's bitter pain,
Would tread its weary paths again ?
Youth is so full of idle dreams.
Which haunt the busy brain ;
It findeth even in little things
So much to give it pain :
Its heart, so fine and sensitive,
By trivial griefs is tried ;
So filled with pinings sad and vain,
Longings unsatisfied,
'Tis restless in its very bliss,
And sighs for future happiness.
Not much of grief and care, I own,
My short young life hath seen ;
And yet, I'd rather far to-night
Be ninety than nineteen.
This restless, vague inquietude
Would then forsake my breast ;
The haunting dreams which wound me now,
Would then be lulled to rest :
Oh ! quickly would I leave youth's page,
And turn to quiet, calm old age.
Not then, as now, my heart would ache
With sudden start and thrill :
HYMN TO OLD AGE. 91
The pulse which throbs so wildly now,
Would then be cool and still :
With Marah's waters, fate unkind
Didst fill for me life's cup ;
Would at a sudden, eager draught
That I could drink it up
And die ? oh ! no but would to-night,
My youth its dreams would leave me quite !
I never see a silvered head,
A furrowed brow, a faded cheek,
A sunken eye grown dim with tears,
But something in my heart doth speak,
/ envy thee for soon the grave
Will win thee to its quiet rest ;
Relieve thy soul of all its weight,
And lay the phantoms of thy breast :
Thy journey nears its setting sun,
While mine, alas ! is just begun.
And I must see, as thou hast seen,
The heart grow cold I fancied true ;
And know that life ere it departs,
Must lose its every rainbow hue ;
Must learn that serpents lie concealed
Beneath each flower that fairest glows ;
That piercing thorns which rudely wound,
Hide underneath the loveliest rose ;
That praise is scorn and empty, fame
Love a deceit friendship a name !
92 HYMN TO OLD AGE.
Oh, weep not for thy faded youth !
Rejoice that it is perished dead ;
Nor sigh because old Time has lain
His wreath of snow upon thy head.
Wouldst thou recall its hollow mirth,
Its fantasies all false and vain ;
Its restlessness its longings vague
Say, wouldst thou live thy life again ?
Oh, say not so ! a sweeter bliss
Than ever yet thy spirit knew,
Awaits thee and a fairer isle
Is springing up before thy view ;
And every morn that glides to even,
But toings thee nearer up to heaven !
CASTLES BUILT IN THE COALS.
DREAMING over the coals of fire !
Dreaming dreams of the olden time ;
Idle hands and a busy heart
Tuning its chords to a plaintive chime.
Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming ever,
What from my soul these dreams shall sever ?
What do J see in the coals, my love ?
What do I see in the coals to-night ?
Visions that haunted me long ago,
Visions that made my childhood bright.
Castles in Spain I build anew,
See what a fabric this brain hath wrought !
Fair in proportions to please the eye
But its timbers were never by silver bought.
How proud ! how grand 1
No lord of the land
Ever dwelt in a castle so fair to view,
With carpets so gorgeous, and rare in hue.
'Twas built in a moment like love it grew
To perfection at once nor toil, nor care
Was needed to build me that castle fair.
My earnest eyes wear a wistful glance,
As I yield my soul to this dreamy trance ;
As I gaze on the work of my active brain,
And my heart forgets its long-fixed pain,
As wisdom sprung from the head of Jove,
As the heart gives birth to a full-grown love ;
(93)
94 CASTLES BUILT IN THE COALS.
I have seen my castle to beauty spring,
Its base, my fancy's folded wing.
But, lo ! some careless voice has spoken
One little word and the spell is broken !
A crash ! a fall ! 'oh ! fabric fair,
Thou hast left but smouldering ashes there !
Dreaming over the coals of fire !
Dreaming dreams of the long ago ;
Like hurrying troops o'er a battle-plain,
The swift-footed figures come and go.
Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming ever,
Dreams that shall haunt my soul forever.
What do I see in the coals, my love ?
What do I see in the coals, to-night ?
A monastery grim and old,
On an ancient hill that is bleak and cold ;
A cowled monk of mournful air,
The only living thing that's there.
Does he sigh for vows that were rashly spoken ?
Does he weep over vows his sin has broken ?
'Tis a quiet eve and the slanting rays
Of the setting sun, so faint and pale,
Fall over those bleak, decaying walls,
And hide their flaws like a silver veil :
They glide o'er that stately figure there,
That living statue of dull despair
But twilight comes with its shadows grey,
And the monk, with the grim old monastery,
Its bleak, bare walls its looks so dreary,
Have faded like the light away.
CASTLES BUILT IN THE COALS. 95
They go, as they came, through my dreamy mind,
They go, like the swift-winged, restless wind,
Away ! and leave no trace behind.
Dreaming over the coals of fire !
Dreaming as idle dreamers do ;
Throwing fancy's gossamer scarf
Over the features of the true.
Dreaming dreams that leave me never,
Dreaming dreams that haunt me ever.
What do I see in the coals, my love ?
What do I see in the coals, to-night ?
A still-faced, classic-featured nun,
With cheeks like her snowy garments white :
The eye has lost its sternness now.
Those rigid lines have left the brow ;
The pale lips part in a placid smile
Does a dream of her youth her heart beguile ?
Those stiffened limbs are smoothed to rest,
The thin hands lie on the quiet breast.
Does she sigh for the world she early left,
For human love that may ne'er be hers ?
Nay, nay ! too calm is her icy cheek,
No wild regret through that bosom stirs.
Whatever her hopes, they are buried now,
Their graves may be seen on her furrowed brow ;
Whatever her joys, they are perished dead
Their corpses lie on her silvered head !
Who may tell of the weary march,
The thorny path those feet have trod ?
One alone hath her sorrow known.
Only one and that one her God !
96 CASTLES BUILT IN THE COALS.
She hath passed away with her still white face,
She hath passed away with her voiceless woes ;
Her heart hath its wild, deep music hushed,
Her limbs are folded to calm repose.
White-robed figures are kneeling there,
A dirge moans forth on the autumn air ;
Those upturned features heed it not
She hath passed away to the land of rest,
Her early life its griefs unguessed !
The moon looks down with her misty beam,
On the things that be, and the things that seem*
And the nun and her death is but a dream.
Dreaming over the coals of fire !
Thousands of maidens have dreamed the same ;
Dreamed not of fortune, pleasure, fame,
But wrought bright visions, which vine-like clung
Around some dear, familiar name.
Dreaming ever of absent lover.
Dreaming the same dream over and over,
Picturing there the meetings fond,
Picturing too the bright beyond !
What do I see in the coals ; my love ?
What do I see in the coals, to-night ?
Many a swiftly shifting scene
A lordly castle and I its queen ;
The idol now of an idle crowd,
Sought by the wealthy, the gay, the proud.
Coldly my dark eyes gleam to-night
On that lover who wooes on bended knee ;
And I steal apart from the festive throng.
To roam o'er the hill-tops, love, with thee.
CASTLES BUILT IN THE COALS. 97
I cast off the fetters which galling bind,
The marble palace is left behind :
We seek again the fairy dell,
That trysting spot that we love so well :
Thy warm breath mingles with mine, and I
Have read my fate in thy love-lit eye.
Close close till it seems of thine a part,
My heart is pressed to thy throbbing heart ;
Our lips have met. in a long, long kiss,
And our souls in a dream of rapturous bliss.
Oh ! transient gleam of an Eden lost !
Oh ! moment brief of happiness fraught !
Our hearts our loving hearts in thee
An age of wondrous joy hath caught !
Thou hast forgotten, and I forgot
Days which we wish to remember not ;
Days when the world was dark and drear,
Days on which thou ivert not here :
Weary years when mountains high
Threw their strong dividing line ;
Years when rivers broad and deep
Rolled between thy heart and mine.
But woe ! for my castle my castle fair 1
It fades ! it falls like all the rest !
This castle, the one my soul loved best
A heap of ashes ! a ruined mass !
And the wreck ah ! the wreck is in my breast !
Dreaming over the coals of fire !
Coals that have burned to ashes now !
What have I seen in the glowing heap ?
5
98 CASTLES [H'lLT IX THK COALS.
What have I read in the misty light ?
What in the shadows that stealthily creep,
Shutting out what was once so bright ?
When the blue smoke lazily curled
Upward, what visions were there unfurled ?
I have read my youth in those coals of iire,
I read its end in their ashes now
And the prophecy, scanned with a wistful glance.
Hath left its shade on my thoughtful brow.
I have opened the book of the past to-night,
Sweet love, and I saw our parting there ;
I touched the pages our future holds,
But the leaves were sealed, and I did not dare
To break the clasp, lest my heart should read
What it dreads to know our love's despair !
I dreamed of the years that have swiftly fled ;
I dreamed of the cold the changed the dead,
And my soul grew heavy with untold fears,
And my eyes bowed down under unshed tears.
But I chased the gloom, and my heart grew light,
As I dreamed o'er the coals of fire to-night ;
For my brain was weaving a pleasant tale,
And I threw o'er the real a mystic veil.
My busy fancy a very child,
Played idly among the trees and flowers ;
Roved through many a forest wild,
Paused at will under leafy bowers.
Sported from mournful scene to gay,
Roamed alternate from laugh to tear ;
And I, the victim of varying mood,
Smiled at the bridal wept o'er the bier !
CASTLES BUILT IN THE COALS. 99
Where have vanished the coals, my love,
The coals where my castles I late beheld ?
They lie in ruins my castles bright
Are in ruins too and its creatures of light,
Unwept, unshrouded, uncoffined, unknelled,
Lie under the wreck and my heart to-night
Is weeping because of that early blight !
They are gone !
The coals, and the wild, mad dreams they brought.
All gone !
The sad and the bright, the dark and the light !
Gone where ?
With the smoke that has vanished o'erhead,
With the ashes that lie on the hearthstone dead.
The coals are Youth !
The smoke, its dreams !
The cold, cold ashes
Truth !
THE DESERTED WIFE.
AH ! tell me why so cold, and so estranged ?
Why in thy heart each fond remembrance smother ?
There loas a time God ! how life has changed
When we were all the world to one another !
A time when from thy smile my spirit caught
Such gleams of bliss, such sweet, delirious madness,
Each hour to me with happiness was fraught,
And danced with feathery feet down paths of gladness.
How changed, how bleak, how desolate this world !
The star-beams fall with mocking lustre o'er me ;
It seems to me their rays in scorn are hurled ;
And, like a dreary desert stretched before me,
Whose arid sands my aching feet must tread,
Knowing no more a calm and sweet reposing,
My future lies ; no light upon it shed
To glad my weary march, or cheer its closing.
The demon of unrest has napped its wings
Above the heart that quiet now is spurning ;
Upon life's cheerless waste no fountain springs
To cool my fevered lips, so parched and burning.
A lonely traveller, I am borne along
The world, to me a bare and blank Sahara ;
No bird of hope to sing its trusting song,
No waters for my lips but those of Marah.
(100)
THE DESERTED WIFE. 101
You stole from me the sunlight of my youth,
And yet not once by word or look I chided ;
You robbed me of my confidence and truth
The wheels went o'er my heart, and it divided !
One cry of silent torture hidden pain
God ! how sharp, how keen its sudden breaking !
Now in my breast a mangled thing 'tis lain,
From which no balm may e'er remove the aching.
Ships have gone down at sea when not a speck
Upon the sky was seen, and so unfearing
Met blindly Fate ; this single human wreck,
A woman's heart upon life's waters steering,
Came just as suddenly ; no startling shriek
Fell from those lips, so icy and so ashen ;
Yet who could look upon that blanching cheek,
Nor feel a tender throb of soft compassion ?
Gone in an hour ! all gone ! her hope, her trust !
She crushed the scorpion tight, nor word was spoken
To tell her torture : he, her idol, dust ;
And she, a warrior-bird whose wings were broken !
I know not what then passed ; in calm despair,
A bitter, mocking smile her pale lips wreathing,
They found her all alone in darkness there,
A still, white corpse but cursed with thought and
breathing.
My life ! my life ! and why do I to-night
Unseal its crisped and blotted leaves again ?
102 THE DESERTED WIPE.
And dwell on what I sneer at, early blight,
And hopeless love ? Oh ! why unlink the chain
That clasped its leaves ? why roll away the stone
That lies before that sepulchre, my heart,
To see the mocking dust of what is gone,
And make those ashes into being start ?
I weep in yonder city of the dead
O'er one who'd check such tears with gentle chiding ;
Then creep back homeward with a weary tread,
To weep above the grave my heart is hiding.
And yet, so little pride remaineth now,
So heavy is this weight of silent pain,
I feel that I could bare my burning brow,
And tell the world that I had loved in vain.
Not that I think the outside world would care
If every tear that wet my face should blister ;
If every hard-wrung drop that trembles there
Should like the maid who dreamed a fiend had
kissed her,
And left with every kiss a burning coal
Leave on my wan and wasted cheek a scar :
No, no ; the world as smoothly on would roll
As rolls in yonder sphere the unpitying star.
A wife and yet no wife ! mocked by a tie
Which binds me still, though all his vows are broken ;
In vain my soul in bitterness may cry,
No still small voice gives to my heart the token
THE DESERTED WIFE. 103
That God has heard, and will avenge my wrong ;
Has heard the piteous wail of one forsaken
Mocked still by recollection's mournful song ;
Oh ! why was memory left when love was taken ?
Oil ! where art thou, thou wronger of my youth ?
cold blue eyes ! on whom art thou now gleaming ?
Art poisoning to-night some woman's truth,
Thou like a very angel in thy seeming ?
Say, does some other fond, confiding heart
Throb under the same fatal spell enchanted ?
Does not my pictured form to being start ?
Oh ! art thou not by icy spectre haunted ?
Oh ! can thy heart the past and me forget,
When other hand than mine thine own is pressing,
When other lips than mine thine own have met,
When one loved dearer yields to thy caressing ?
Do not my eyes with calm, reproachful glance,
The flame within thy faithless bosom smother,
When thou art yielding to the dreamy trance,
When thou art murmuring love-vows to another ?
Nay, nay ! vain hope ! deserted and forgot !
Even this faint solace thou my soul dost rob ;
And I must learn to bear 'tis woman's lot
My fate with gasping groan and stifled sob.
How wildly moan the winter winds to-night !
With quivering fear how nervously I start !
Upon the earth and sky. oh ! what a blight!
But there 's a deeper blight ivithin my heart !
104 THE DESERTED WIFE.
Moan, winter winds ! shriek through the leafless pines !
Wail like the weary, haunted thing thou art !
Go, tear with desolating hand the vines !
Go, rend the heavy oaken boughs apart !
" Whudder away, thou bitter, biting blast !"
As though with demons thou a war wert waging !
Shriek, rave, and scream ! and wreck and ruin cast !
" The tempest in my soul mocks thy weak raging ! "
MY MOTHER.
" Oh 1 spare her. Heaven 1
Thy shining courts are trod
By angels who resembled her
Ere they were called to God.
Their myriads darken land and sea,
But earth has only one for me."
I MARK thy fair cheek, day by day,
Grow paler in its hue ;
Thine eye, they say, is growing dim
Alas ! I mark that too :
Thy step has lost its lightness now,
And silvery locks twine o'er thy brow.
Thy feeble voice, so low and sweet,
Falls sadly on my ear ;
And oft the smile which wreathes my lips
But hides the unshed tear :
My soul is filled with care and gloom,
To see thee faltering towards the tomb.
My mother dear ! with reverence deep
Oh ! let me breathe thy name,
Sweeter that simple word to me,
Than richest meed of fame ;
For angels taught my lips to say
That hallowed name they breathe to-day.
5* (105)
106 MY MOTHER.
Not many years my life lias known,
But grief the dark, the drear,
Has been the only heritage
Bequeathed to me while here :
But one for me didst ever pray,
And taught my feet " the narrow way."
mother ! mother ! can it be
That thou and I must part ?
1 cannot bear to give thee up
I feel 'twould break my heart :
Deny me every earthly bliss,
But, Father, spare, oh ! spare me this !
I hear Death's watch-dog ceaselessly
Bay in thy aching breast,
And know it would be well for thee
To lay thee down and rest,
And wake in heaven, pure, undefiled,
But who would cheer thine orphan child ?
I feel I know the hour must come,
When thou must say good-bye
To all the scenes thou lovest well,
Beneath the sod to lie ;
And in my grief I breathe the prayer
That I may lay beside thee there !
For, mother, thou'rt my oil on earth,
And oh ! when thou art gone,
Thy youngest child thy helpless one
Must tread life's paths alone :
MY MOTHER. _ 107
And there'll be none to cheer my heart,
Or bid its wintry gloom depart.
Whose hand would press my fevered palm ?
Whose heart beat but for me ?
A voice within me whispers, " None ;"
For I have none but thee :
I feel if thou wert called above,
I could not live without thy love.
Though dark my fate to some may seem,
'Twas not all dark to me,
For ever in life's wintry storm
I still could turn to thee :
And when in trouble's hour I came,
Thy dear lips found no word of blame.
How often in the starless night
I knelt me at thy knee,
And heard the gently-whispered words
You breathed in prayer for me :
Oh ! what beneath thos'e realms above
Is holier than a mother's love ?
One eye, in me could see no fault,
Howe'er I might have erred ;
And by one faithful ear, my praise
With joy was ever heard :
One heart doth ever beat with mine,
My angel-moth or, it is thine !
108 MY MOTHER.
The fate which hath denied me much,
Gave me a mother's love ;
I feel it was the richest gift
Sent from yon heaven above :
And oh ! if e'er I gave thee care,
Forgive it for the love I bear !
Then, angels, do not call her yet
To ope the pearly gate,
And leave me orphaned in my youth,
Too bitter were the fate !
Or if her doom be fixed, I pray
I ne'er may live to see that day.
My mother's love is all I have.
Oh ! do not us divide !
But let me, when she sleeps in death,
Sleep peaceful at her side :
For I can never find another
Who'll love me like my sainted mother !
Then spare her, kind and pitying Heaven !
" Thy shining courts are trod
By angels who resembled her
Ere they were called to God.
Their myriads darken land and sea,
But earth has only one for me ! "
LOVE'S LAST REQUEST.
NESTLE closely to me, sister,
Put the curtains gently by ;
Ope the window-shutters softly,
That I may before I die
Look once more upon the star-gems,
With their faint and misty light ;
Watch again the moon in beauty
Shining on the brow of night.
Put your arms around me fondly
While I ope the shutters wide ;
Watch those fleecy clouds, dear sister ,-
See how gracefully they glide
Onward, onward, ever onward,
Always gliding, never still
Now o'er ivy-matted tower,
Now o'er some old ruined mill.
Dost thou ask if I remember
That soft, balmy, starlit night,
When we watched the clouds together
In our childhood's home so bright ;
When I checked your merry laughter,
Which rang joyously and gay,
And first told you of the sorrow
That was eating life away ?
(109)
110 LOVE'S LAST REQUEST.
Needless question needless answer
It is graven on my heart
In characters so fiery
That it never can depart.
I remember, when I told you,
That your face was very white
As the moonbeams fell upon it
On that balmy, starlit night.
In that rosewood box, dear sister,
Resting on the table near,
You will find his cherished letters
Read them so that I may hear.
I have often wept above them,
In the midnight still and cold ;
Let me listen to each sentence
That so thrilled my heart of old.
You will also find his picture
Bring it closer to the light ;
I would look upon each feature
Ere my eyes have failed me quite.
Let me watch those dark eyes beaming
With the tenderness of yore ;
Let me see that sweet lip smiling,
Though it smile for me no more.
Hold the picture for me, darling,
For my hands are very weak
Press the cold glass gently, sister,
To my lips and to my cheek.
LOVES LAST REQUEST.
1 would fancy that his kisses
Fell upon my face again ;
Making youth a thing of sunshine,
Robbing life of half its pain.
Ah ! I cannot read his letters,
I am blinded by my tears
Love, untie that silken ribbon
Which has bound them many years.
Read them all to me, sweet sister,
From the first one to the last ;
I would dream my love-dream over,
I would live again the past !
Read that little sentence over,
Where he said he loved me yet ;
And remembered that sweet ramble
On the eve that first we met.
Brightly beamed his dark eyes, lighting
Up his pale but noble brow
Years have passed since then, dear sister,
But I seem to see him now.
We have loved ! and we are parted !
He, to seek for health afar,
I, to lead a life as rayless
As a night without a star !
For disease as slow as fatal,
Doomed us in our youth to part ;
Made of him a wanderer lonely,
Stole hi? joy and broke my heart.
112 LOVE'S LAST REQUEST.
I have never learned, sweet sister,
That his sufferings are o'er ;
And perchance he still doth linger
On this weary, joyless shore.
Should you ever meet him, darling,
Listen, catch my faintest breath,
Tell him that I loved him always,
And was faithful unto death.
Give me now your hand, my sister,
Mine is very thin and white ;
Kiss my pale and icy forehead,
Breathe to me the last good-night.
Turn to me my sight is failing
Yet once more your gentle face ;
When you wake you'll find me sleeping
In death's stern and cold embrace.
When the last hard struggle 's ended,
And they've robed me for the tomb,
Strew my bier with pale white blossoms
Such as in the autumn bloom.
And that lovely, dark-eyed picture,
And the letters you have read,
Place them with me, dearest sister,
In the coffin when I'm dead !
AN AUTUMN REVERIE.
I AM alone with Nature, and the sun
Is slowly sinking o'er the mountain's height ;
A few white clouds are pacing lazily
The azure skies ; and like a faint far speck
One star is seen a solitary star,
Walking its weary round in lonely pride,
Alone, as thou art now.
The rich bright hues
Of purple and of gold the faithful type
Of royalty across the heavens are thrown,
The shadow of those regal robes which Day
Has worn so proudly ; and the sunset clouds
Are tinged with radiant tints morn never knew.
It is an Autumn evening, and the hush
Which broodeth over Nature's placid face,
Is like the gentle sleep which falls upon
Fair childhood's sinless brow. And in the woods,
Not yet decayed by Winter's frosty breath,
We trace the footprints of the Summer queen ;
A few short weeks, and these, the last fair marks
Her rosy steps have made, will fade away,
As fades the memory of the loved and lost
From careless souls. The last white buds will die
As died Spring's violets ; the wild-wood pink
Will breathe to passing winds its latest sigh,
And, opening its fair petals timidly,
(113)
114 AN AUTUMN REVERIE.
Receive the last warm kiss the sun doth give,
Then fade to nothingness. Yon murmuring stream,
Which glideth swiftly o r er its pebbly bed,
And singeth to the woods a tender lay,
Half sad, half happy, like young love's first dream,
Will hush its song ; and yonder cascade gay,
Which trickles lightly o'er the rock's stern height,
Will find no voice. The yellow, withered leaves,
Which fall with sad and melancholy sound,
As loath to touch the cold, half-frozen earth,
Will form for careless feet a carpet brown ;
Yes ! over all there will be dark and mist,
Below, decay.
And yet how wondrous beautiful
Is the old year even in its dying hour :
The russet garb in which he veils his form
Is fairer than the green-leaved robe of Spring ;
The sombre hues, so richly, darkly brown,
Are lovelier than the gauze-like covering
Fair Summer wore. And I can dream I hear
A voice of sad and deep solemnity,
Which seems to whisper in my weary ear,
" Death is more beautiful than life."
Aye, give to me
The sober Autumn. Spring, though fair to view,
Is too unquiet for a heart like mine :
Its smile is too deceitful, and its rays
Of sunshine only hide the coming frown ;
Its showers are too plentiful its clouds
Come all too quickly when we think them far.
Yes ! Spring to me is like the heart of youth
AN AUTUMN REVERIE. 115
Which knows no rest : now swayed by joyous hope,
And now the victim of a hidden fear.
Ah, yes ! the morn of life which some call bright
Is full of restless longings pining thoughts.
Which scorn reality, and haunting dreams,
That in the realms of the ideal seek
The happiness they cannot and in Truth.
And youth is full of vague inquietude ;
Its very joy is restless ; and 'tis swayed
Forever, like a moving pendulum
1 Between a smile and tear ' and never knows
The peace of quiet. Oh ! my heart would pray :
Leave me, my youth ! pass on pass quickly on !
However swift thy tread, thou'lt not depart
Too rapidly.
I like not Summer's air,
Its hot sirocco-touch comes o'er my cheek
Like the warm breath of passion too impure ;
Its very beauties but do whisper me
Their short-livedness. I never see its flowers
But I must feel they bloom but for a day ;
And when its skies are brightest, then my heart
Is painfully impressed with the sad thought
That glittering pageants are the first to fade,
And loveliest buds can only ope to die.
But Autumn, calmly, coldly beautiful !
Thy quiet wins my soul. There is a peace
Dwells in thy gentle breath ; and in the meek,
Sad look with which thou dost resign thyself
To Winter's cold embrace, I seem to read
Thy lovely patience and thy gentle trust ;
116 AN AUTUMN REVERIE.
And some sweet spirit-voice doth sing to me :
" I perish here, but I shall bloom in heaven."
Yes : thou art like old age that calm old age
I look on with such envy happy age !
Whose worldly aspirations all are dead,
Whose earthly hopes have perished like a dream,
Whose restlessness is swallowed up in meekness.
Whose very sorrow has no bitterness,
Whose joys and griefs have found a tomb so long,
They are but memories, chastened and subdued.
And have for thee no greater bliss nor pain
Than has a brief night vision, which the morn
Doth swiftly chase away. I realize
The life immortal when I gaze upon
A silvered head ; the meekly patient soul
Doth seem to say, " I care not for the seams
Which Time has left upon this whitened cheek,
Nor for the lustre which these eyes have lost.
Nor for the rose-tint which has left my lip ;
For these are mortal things. I know that I
Shall live again, and far beyond the grave
Shall know a youth which never can grow old."
Oh, Autumn ! calm, and beautiful, and grand !
Thou teachest words of wisdom to my heart.
And something in thy mute and still decay
Doth whisper of another, purer life.
thou !
For whom this rambling evening song began
Thou lost one, loved too well ! say, dost thou grieve
That my lone harp hath learned such mournful tone,
So different from the wild, gay songs it breathed
AN AUTUMN REVERIE. 117
When first we met in childhood's cloudless morn ?
Oh ! 'twas thy love that made life beautiful ;
And now that thy sweet presence is withdrawn,
What wonder if my lyre, type of myself,
I lath caught " the trick of grief."
I cannot frame
A happy chant when thou, love, art afar :
The words die out in mockery, and my soul
Shrinks from a tone that seems to breathe of joy.
The whole wide world seems but a burial-ground ;
And all the voices nature tunes at eve
Are sounding dirges. Ah ! my lonely heart
Can chime its chords to joyance never more,
For joy is dead ; and on the broken throne,
Where Hope once sat as proudly as a queen,
Despair is crouched. Sorrow has breathed upon
The sun-bright wreaths young fantasy once wore,
And they are withered garlands. Grief has robbed
Fair Joy of her crown ; and on Tier pallid brow
She wears it mockingly. Yes in my heart,
Deep hidden in its unseen secret cells,
There lie as many perished buds of love
As Autumn hath of pale and withered leaves
And faded wildwood flowers.
Thou art afar !
That one short sentence holdeth more of woe
Than page on page of closely written book.
The wild-waved sea doth roll between thy form
And mine. Thy rose-wreathed lips for others smile ;
Thine eyes gaze on a distant sun at eve ;
High mountains roll between us, and alas !
118 AN AUTUMN REVERIE.
Long, weary miles, aye leagues, do us divide.
Yet my wild love, which claims and knows no bound-
Love, deeper than the ocean's boasted depths
Love, stronger than the mountains high and proud
Leaps over all, and with its spirit-eyes
Doth gaze upon thy face, to mark the flush
Which rises o'er thy forehead ; and to look
With worship deep upon thy soul-lit brow.
Say, does my pictured image ever rise
Before thee ? Does my earnest, tender glance
E'er woo thee to the happy, perished past,
When thou and I saw mirrored in the world
Naught but each other's faces ? Docs the day
Which finds us still apart, seem to thy heart
An endless century ? The weary week
Which still divides us, multiply to thee.
Until it seems a dull eternity ?
And dost thou pray, like me, that when again
The Autumn comes to strew the dusty plain
With withered leaves and flowers, that thou and I,
Unmindful of the fate which parted us,
And of the destiny which bade us love
No more, will meet on earth ? no ! not on earth !
In heaven !
THE MORNING LIGHT.
I COME the first grey light of dawn,
To herald in approaching day,
To rouse thee for the coming work.
And scatter night's dark shades away.
And with the first unfolding beam
Which on the eastern sky doth shine,
I dissipate some pleasant dream
Which round thy heart didst fondly twine.
I cast my ray upon thy cheek
With touch unfeeling, heartless, cold,
And rudely break the gentle sleep
That wraps thce like an ermine fold.
The visions sweet which night doth bring,
Dreams sent through slumber's ivory gate,
I cause to fly on rapid wing
And leave the sick heart desolate.
The wretch who doth awhile forget
Earth's weary burden and its pain,
1 summon without one regret
To life and misery again.
Too soon I bid him walk again
On dull reality's cold shore,
The wretch who, when he closed his eyes,
Had vainly hoped to wake no more.
(119)
120 THE MORNING LIGHT.
The orphan unto whom the night
Had shown a mother's gentle brow
Oh! how she loathes the morning light,
And wildly weeps, " No mother now !"
She feels that mother's loving kiss,
And hears that voice which breathes. " My child
She slumbers in a dream of bliss,
And wakes to anguish deep and wild.
And sleep comes like a dream of heaven,
Soothing away the torturing pain
Of her whose widowed heart is given
To one she ne'er may see again.
She feels once more a loving arm
About her twined her guide her stay ;
Her heart is pressed to one as warm
Oh ! how she loathes the light of day.
But I uncaring how she wept,
Till sleep came on to chase her pain,
And pleasant dreams around her crept
I waken her to life again :
I bid her bear once more the grief
Too dark, too heavy far for youth,
And call her from her slumber brief,
To truth to cold, relentless truth !
F O R G E T F U L N E S S .
GIVE me forgetfulness ! I ask no boon
From heaven, but Lethe's calm and quiet wave ;
And if oblivion is not elsewhere found,
Then give to me the still and peaceful grave.
The fearful fire mounts upward to my brain !
My senses reel and swim ! my heart is wild !
Speak not ! your words are idle worse than vain,
For who can comfort me, the orphan child ?
Away with sympathy with words of love !
Let me forget !
Give me forgetfulness ! let me blot out
The past, with all its madness and its pain :
One draught from cool oblivion's placid pool,
" To lay the phantoms of a fevered brain."
Oh ! shall my anguished prayer be all in vain ?
I ask not honor, fortune, fame, nor yet
The wild deep love for which my soul once longed
Until my heavy eyes with tears were wet ;
Oh, no ! I ask not fading vanities !
Let me forget !
Ha ! what could bring it ? Could my heart forget
The snowy sheet ? the coffin-pillowed head ?
6 (12D
122 FORGETFULNESS.
The pale white lips so icy and so chill ?
Could I forget I have a mother dead ?
God help me ! Lethe 's but a fabled wave
And cannot soothe the maddened spirit's strife
Quiet the hungry soul still the wild heart
No ! memory can only end with life :
Then take, take back the cup scarce tasted yet,
And let me die !
TO LITTLE STEVIE.
THERE'S naught on earth can gladden me
Like childhood's sunny look ;
It teaches holier things to me
Than e'er was gleaned from book :
It seemeth like a glimpse of heaven
To gaze upon a child,
And watch the guileless baby-brow
No sin hath e'er defiled.
It minds me of a joyous time,
When I was light and free ;
When every little simple thing
Brought happiness to me.
And when I see the artless smile
That once my own lip wore,
I feel I'd give my all on earth
To be a child once more.
I saw thee, little cherub one,
For only one short hour ;
Yet oh ! I blessed the God who gave
To earth so fair a flower.
And as I twined thy golden curls,
And kissed thy baby-brow,
I prayed that life might always be
As bright for thee as now.
I'd grieve to think upon thy face
A cloud should ever rest :
(123)
124 TO LITTLE STEVIE.
Or in that merry heart of thine,
Grief e'er should build her nest.
I'd grieve to think thy confidence,
Thy trust, should e'er depart ;
And sorrow, like a serpent, coil
About thy guileless heart.
The time may come when nevermore
A smile thy cheek shall wear ;
When in that bosom, peaceful now,
Shall lay a chill despair.
For oh ! this is a weary world,
And full of grief and pain ;
And childhood's joy, so brief at best,
Can never come again.
Once life for me was bright as thine,
Thou little baby-boy !
And happiness dwelt too for me
In bird, and flower, and toy :
But oh ! how soon that summer-time
Fled from my heart away ;
The flowers died and left the thorns,
And night obscured the day.
Yet this is not a prophecy
Thy lonely stranger friend,
In bitter memory of the past
This little verse hath penned.
And if I feared thy silver voice
Might lose its merry tone ;
Thy heart its trust and joy 'twas but
Remembrance of my own.
TO LITTLE STEVIE. 125
Oh, no ! I'll pray that thy young heart
May never taste of woe ;
Nor realize the bitterness
It is my lot to know :
No ; may the rosy cup of joy
Ne'er from thy lip be turned
Thy heart be taught those lessons sad
That mine so early learned.
I ne'er may see thy face again,
Thou little baby-boy !
Or press thee fondly to my heart,
In deep out-gushing joy.
I ne'er may part the silken curls
From off thy forehead fair,
To gaze within thy deep blue eyes,
And leave a fond kiss there.
Thy artless words of innocence
May never reach my ear ;
The patter of thy tiny feet
I never more may hear :
Yet, little Stevie, darling one !
Although the wide-waved sea
Should rise between thy home and mine,
My heart shall go with thee.
When years have left their impress there.
Upon thy sunny brow,
May the same trust and confidence
Be still thine own as now :
126 TO LITTLE STEVIE.
Thy heart as light and free from care,
Thy soul as undefiled
Oh, yes ! may manhood realize
The promise of the child.
I bless thee, guileless little one !
That I have met thee here ;
And when I say good-bye to thee,
I'll breathe it with a tear ;
For when I heard thine artless speech,
And looked into thine eyes,
It gave me in this weary world
A glimpse of Paradise.
Thou seem'st to me an angel sent
From yon pure heaven above,
To glad the drooping ones of earth
And fill their souls with love.
And oh ! that heaven of which I dream
Seems brighter far to me,
Since I have looked upon thy face
'Tis filled with such as thee 1
Dear little Stevie ! when long years
Above my head have rolled,
My heart shall love the little boy,
The boy of two years old ;
And oh ! when thou hast learned to read
These fancies vague and wild.
Think kindly of the stranger friend
Who blessed thee when a child.
HEART ILLUSION.
" 'Tis not so much a broken heart we mourn as a broken dream."
IK MARVEL
COLD as the winter winds which sigh
Through the giant pines their wailing song ;
Cold, and cruel, and hard, ah me !
Is the heart of the youth I have loved so long !
The priceless treasures, unvalued gems,
With which my impetuous heart did teem,
I threw at his feet with a reckless hand ;
And I mourn, oh ! I mourn my broken dream.
Cold and hard is the marble slab,
Cruel and cold is the wintry blast ;
But more unfeeling, and twice as cold,
Is the idol I loved in the perished past.
But I've torn the god from his sacred shrine ;
No more like a blind idolater bow ;
And the heart that was warm when my life was new.
Is like his own as lifeless now.
It quivers no more with an aching pang ;
It trembles no longer with sudden start :
My pulse was as quiet and calm as his
When I breathed the words which bade us part.
And strange, strange feeling of stranger man !
It was valued most when he knew it lost ;
The love that is dead he would purchase now.
Although his life-blood were the cost.
(127)
128 HEART ILLUSION.
With an ashy cheek and a blanching lip
He breathed in the tenderest tones ray name ;
But in vain he knelt, and in vain he prayed,
Ashes gave back no answering flame.
; Tis said that a worm will turn, when crushed,
On the pitiless heel, and with bitter sting
Inflict one blow in its weak revenge,
Ere it lieth in death a mangled thing :
But not in bitterness, not in scorn
Did I thy proffered love resign ;
The heart that would fain have melted then,
And pitied thy woe, was no longer thine.
Not thine ! not thine ! for neglect had chilled
The love that for thee for years had grown ;
And the heart thy cold indifference spurned
Was, like a Niobe, turned to stone.
I had worshipped a being my brain had made,
With a face like thine, but a heart all true,
That beat like mine with impassioned throb ;
I had worshipped an ideal one not you.
My heart is dead ! it will love no more ;
It was murdered crushed in that bitter strife
Yet it feels no throb of joy to know
That thine thine too is a blighted life.
I can forgive thee the bitter wrong,
For I only loved what thou didst seem ;
And I mourn but not for a broken heart
I mourn I mourn for a broken dream.
MODERN LOVE.
'Tis well to prate in senseless rhyme
Of love that changeth not with time ;
To tell in verse of Cupid's dart,
Of bitter smart, and broken heart.
That last we well know nowadays
Is known but in the Poet's lays ;
For love is but a golden passion,
And broken hearts are out of fashion.
Fair Susan falls in love with Jim,
And vows she dreams of only him ;
She wears his image in her breast,
And he her rose-bud at his vest.
But John steps in with weightier purse,
And sings her praise in sweeter verse ;
Each eve his tap is at the door,
He wears the flowers Jim wore before ;
Of evenings they walk out together,
And sigh, and talk about the weather,
Until one day the word is spoken,
And all her former vows are broken.
" To Guinea " then poor Jim may go,
She jilts him for the richer beau ;
His gifts returned his name forgot ;
So much for love that changeth not !
Soft Araminta sighs beneath the stars,
And dreams of Fred, that gallant son of Mars.
6* (129)
130 MODERN LOVE.
The bitter tears she sheds might serve to float
(If one would save them all) a small-sized boat.
She looks up to the moon, and bids it tell
Some tidings of the one she loves so well.
She asks the breeze, which floats on airy wing,
Some message from the absent one to bring.
In silly accents she implores the flowers
To waft his spirit to their Eden bowers.
She begs the stream to yonder battle run,
And tell her Frederick that she " loves but one."
She looks upon the glossy lock of hair
That clustered o'er the brow she deems so fair ;
She kisses, too, the picture that he gave,
When first he said he was her willing slave.
She strings together many a silly rhyme
Of him who fights beneath a foreign clime ;
She calls him " gallant," and she dubs him " brave ;"
And vows that if he fills a soldier's grave,
She'll wear the " weeds," and to some cave depart,
Till death shall come to ease her breaking heart ;
For what is life without her Fred, its sun ?
Die, then, she must, for she can " love but one /"
Months pass away and mark, oh ! mark the change !
This faithful one, whom naught could e'er estrange,
Grows tired of waiting, kisses Fred less oft,
And then conveys his picture to the loft !
She hears he's lost an eye she sighs " Poor Fred !"
Once what a sea of tears she would have shed !
" A one-eyed lover !" Araminta sighs ;
And thinks of Harry Clare, who has two eyes,
And looks at her with them when down Broad street
She goes but not, of course, that gent to meet.
MODERN LOVE. 131
Then, Hal is handsome, too, and " cuts a dash,"
Rides a fast nag, and sports a black moustache ;
Even Fred, the hero, can't at all compare
With that be whiskered " darling," Harry Clare :
She wonders how she e'er had loved him so ;
And answers " Yes " to Hal, instead of " No."
When Fred returns, a victor of renown,
At her fair feet to lay his trophies down,
He learns that Araminta, faithless fair,
Is wedded to his rival, Harry Clare ! !
" I'll love but thee," the young bride said ;
" I'll love thee even when thou art dead ;
Henceforth there's naught for me but woe
No other love this heart shall know.
I'll strew your grave with sweetest flowers,
And there I'll spend life's weary hours.
My sky is clouded o'er with gloom ;
My heart I'll bury in your tomb.
When thou art in the spirit-land,
Should any other seek my hand,
I'll bring him to your grave, my dear,
And say, ' My love is buried here.'
My life will know no opening ray,
When thou, loved one, hast passed away ;
Oh ! leave me not !" in grief she cried ;
Vain was the prayer, he smiled and died !
She wore her " widow's weeds " awhile,
And was not seen for days to smile ;
And 'neath the folds of crape and lace
Was seen a sad and weary face.
132 MODERN LOVE.
At first that portrait on the wall
Was kissed each day then not at all :
Tom Hanton called on her one day,
And then she had it moved away.
Tom sent her flowers ; an act so kind,
So delicate, and so refined,
"Went to that lonely widow's heart,
And caused it many a throb and start.
Tom drove her out, " that good young man ;"
He tied her glove he held her fan ;
And as he drove, declared the skies
Were not so blue as her bright eyes.
He said her brow was very fair,
And shadows had no business there :
The widow answered with a blush,
" You men do natter so pray hush."
So when the flowers came again
To deck that grave upon the plain,
The widow's-cap was laid aside,
And she went forth once more a bride.
So much for widows broken-hearted,
Who weep about the " dear departed."
Now, poetasters, cease your love-sick lays ;
Unchanging love's a humbug nowadays.
While truth so plainly stares you in the eyes,
How can you chant of love that never dies ?
Devotion passed away in olden time,
Or only lives in your disjointed rhyme ;
Then prate no more of maidens all forlorn,
Othello-like, " your occupation's gone."
"I WISH SOMEBODY WOULD COME."
SHE sat in the gathering twilight
That maiden so wondrous fair
Bright roses were in her bosom.
And roses were in her hair.
The bee on the woodbine near her
Kept up an incessant hum ;
And this was the theme of the maiden's song :
" Oh ! I wish somebody would come !"
The shadows of twilight lengthened,
The lamps, with a flickering light,
Like so many watch-fires twinkled,
And told of the coming night.
Still the maiden sat watching, and hoping,
Sighing, " Wanderer, where do you roam ?"
While her heart was throbbing the same sad words :
" Oh ! I wish somebody would come 1"
The shades nestled deep in the corners,
The clock on the mantel struck eight ;
She sighed, as she threw back her tresses,
" dear ! it is growing so late !"
The stars came forth, sister watchers,
And burned in their mystical home ;
While sadder the voice of the maiden grew :
" Oh ! I wish somebody would come !"
(1831
134 "I WISH SOMEBODY WOULD COME."
Still waited the weary watcher ;
The moon on the lonely hill
Went down, and a solemn night-music
"Was played by the murmuring rill.
No voice disturbeth the silence
'Tis night in her heart and home ;
And the maiden feels that she vainly sung
" Oh ! I wish somebody would come 1"
AT REST.
STILL and cold and pale she lieth,
On her couch of snow ;
Hushed the heart's tumultuous throbbing,
Hushed to earthly woe ;
Nevermore that pulseless bosom
Bitter grief shall know.
While the sun is setting calmly
In yon cloud-capped West,
Fold the lily hands so gently
On the silent breast ;
Tenderly and kindly leave her
To her last sweet rest.
Close the waxen eyelids softly
O'er the midnight eyes ;
From those lips, all cold and voiceless,
Come no sweet replies ;
Love the last fond word has spoken
Still and pale she lies.
Strew the summer blossoms gently
On the shroud's white fold ;
Clip one soft and silken ringlet
From the forehead cold ;
For the graveyard now is claiming
All those threads of gold.
(135)
136 AT REST.
Lilies white and violets purple
Place upon her brow ;
Like them she was fair and fragile
Strew them o'er her now ;
Then beside her couch so snowy,
Lowly, humbly bow.
Bitter was her young life's morning,
But the grief is past ;
And upon the fair pale forehead
Death's dark shade is cast ;
Push aside her ringlets gently,
Take one kiss thy last.
Never more with sigh of anguish
Shall those cold lips part ;
Never more from those closed eyelids
Bitter tear-drops start ;
Never more shall blame or sorrow
Nestle on her heart.
Never more shall arrows piercing,
Reach her bosom fair ;
Nor upon those chiselled features
Linger shades of care ;
On her couch of snow she lieth
Angels guard her there 1
When with tears of bitter weeping
He shall come again,
Tell him his remorseful sorrow
AT REST. 137
Now is all in vain ;
Tell him she is sweetly sleeping,
Free from grief and pain.
Tell him that in death she blessed him,
Though he dealt the blow
Which, in all her youth and beauty,
Laid our darling low
Laid her like a faded blossom
On her couch of snow.
And when in the restless midnight
Memories arise,
And the watchful stars are peeping
From the silent skies,
Well I know he will be haunted
By her earnest eyes.
Ope the window-shutters softly,
Do not wildly weep ;
Let the stars of heaven above her,
Lonely vigils keep ;
Draw the drapery around her,
Let her sweetly sleep.
On the morrow gently bear her
Towards the setting sun ;
And, when all the lamps of evening
Twinkle, one by one,
Lay her in the grand old forest,
For her life is done.
MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.
IN yon graveyard by the river,
Where cold marble tombstones glisten,
They have buried her my mother,
And I listen vainly listen
For the voice that soothed my sorrow,
Telling of a bright to-morrow,
Listen for it in the morning,
Listen for it in the twilight ;
But it comes to me no more I
There the lonely pine-trees beckon ;
There the moonbeams love to linger ;
There the marble pile is pointing
Upward with its icy finger ;
There the willow boughs are sighing,
And the low-voiced wind replying ;
There she resteth from her labors ;
There she sleeps in calm and quiet
Sleeps to wake on earth no more !
Never, in the dreamy twilight,
Never, in the hush of morning,
Will she come in love to chide me,
Come again with gentle warning.
O'er the bosom faultless moulded,
Lie her still white hands cross-folded ;
For her work on earth is ended,
And she comes to me in sorrow
Me, her lonely child no more !
(138)
MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. 139
Bitter is my daily struggle,
Bitter is my midnight weeping ;
But, thank God ! it cannot reach her
In the grave where she is sleeping ;
For my tears would break her quiet,
Could the mound, as I weep by it,
Tell her all life's weary aching,
Tell her how my heart is breaking
That she comes to me no more !
She is resting calmly resting
In that graveyard by the river ;
And she knoweth not my torture,
Nor my heart's convulsive shiver,
When some friend her name is breathing,
Carelessly the sword unsheathing,
That sharp, piercing sword Remembrance,
Which the bleeding wound reopens
Wound that healeth nevermore !
I remember her devotion,
All her love, and her caressing ;
And, thank God ! I too remember
That her last word was a blessing ;
That she checked my bitter crying ;
That she blessed me even in dying ;
Gave to me her last embraces ;
Kissed, and smiled upon me fondly
Me, her poor, heart-broken child !
Oh ! she passed away so gently
With the last white buds of Summer !
140 MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.
Faded with its days of beauty ;
And the Autumn, a new comer,
With its leaves doth thickly cover
All the quiet graveyard over ;
On her grave they too are falling,
With a sound so sad and mournful
That it breaks my heart to hear !
She is gone ! and with her perished
Much of goodness and of beauty,
From the world her presence brightened
With its love and Christian duty.
Oh ! the world holds scarce another
Brave and loving as that mother ;
But the holy angels called her
Called to her, a sister angel,
And she went to come no more !
In the church where oft she worshipped,
When I gravely, sadly listen
To God's word, my heart will wander
Where the marble tombstones glisten,
In that graveyard by the river,
Where she sleeps in peace forever ;
To that heaven, where her spirit
Dwelleth now with Christ, her Saviour ;-
And I pray that I may meet her,
When my work on earth is ended
Meet her there, to part no more !
HOPE.
ONCE, Hope within a human heart
Paused for a while to linger ;
She swept those trembling, hidden chords
With light and airy finger ;
And as the gentle music rose
Like faint, far sounds from heaven,
Hope smiled a moment to admire
The songs herself had given :
But Envy o'er that human heart
Some grains of distrust scattered,
And harmony forgot to flow
Its notes were shattered !
Hope made a garden of that heart,
And planted sweetest flowers ;
These, watered by the dews of Love,
Bloomed for a few short hours :
Hope called these plants by tender names,
And epithets endearing,
And watched them into beauty burst,
Undoubting and unfearing :
Alas ! for Hope ! black Envy came,
Her brow with hatred shaded ;
She breathed one foul, envenomed breath
The flowers lay faded !
Hope gathered up her withered wreaths,
Her soul with sorrow swelling ;
For oh ! her foe, Despair, had vowed
To make that heart his dwelling.
(141)
142 HOPE.
With trembling hand she strove to wake
A song her lute was broken ;
Its music thus was early hushed,
Its sweetest songs unspoken :
Hope looked around with saddened face,
Like traveller benighted,
Then, sighing, left that human heart,
And left it blighted!
She sought a home in fairer clime,
Where discord ne'er can reach her ;
But in her flight still proved herself
A sweet and heavenly teacher.
Despair no more can break her lute,
Nor Envy blight her flowers ;
Her song hath caught a loftier tone
Amid those Eden bowers :
Then look look up ! poor human heart,
From every love-tie riven !
Arouse thee from Despair, and fly
With Hope to heaven !
NO MORE.
THOU achest no more, proud heart !
No more, no more !
Like tired child that wept itself to sleep,
Thou weepest not thou hast no tears to weep
Thy grief is o'er.
And why no more ? Hath all thy pain departed ?
Or hath thy sorrow left thee broken-hearted,
Without the strength to weep ?
Sad eyes ! ye weep no more !
Your tears are spent ;
Some strange new spell has left those eyelids dry ;
A calm Despair has hushed each burning sigh,
Misnamed Content.
With folded hands the maiden sits by day,
And gazes, like one whose thoughts were far away
Oh ! wherefore thus ?
Pale lips ! ye twitch no more !
How calm ye lie !
That quiver of the mouth sent from the breast,
Plainly betokening the heart's unrest,
No more flits by.
Ah ! ivhence this passive stillness ? whence that look
Which seeth not, yet sees that unread book,
Within thine eyes ?
(143)
144 NO MORE.
Thin hands ! ye move no more !
How cold, how still !
That sudden, nervous clasping to the heart, '
As if to ease some bitter, burning smart,
Or hush some thrill,
Is seen no more ; like passive, lifeless things,
And folded like the dead bird's drooping wings,
Ye lay at rest.
Ye tread no more, tired feet !
No more, no more !
With nervous step as though to banish thought
Angry, defiant step, as though ye fought
The polished floor.
Say, whence this change this deep and death-like
calm?
Say, what could change the lion to the lamb,
And thou to this ?
White cheeks ! ye flush no more !
Ah ! nevermore !
Ye turn no more from white to sudden red,
But with that marble look which marks the dead,
Are covered o'er.
No warm, rich blood those veins is coursing through,
No quick, bright fancy sends its roseate hue ;
How white how still !
And tell me why, proud heart !
Thou achest no more ;
And wherefore weep no more, sad eyes ? And why,
pale, pale lips! twitch not in silent cry.
As heretofore ?
NU MORE. 145
And ye, thin hands ! why move not as in pain ?
Tired feet ! why trample not the floor again ?
And white, white cheeks !
Why flush no more with sudden light and shade ?
Oli! whence this deep, deep calm? What ails the
maid ?
Is this Despair ?
Nay : feel her bosom with the lightest touch ;
Fate sent to that young heart too much, too much,
And Death is there !
PHANTOMS OF MY SLEEP.
PHANTOMS ! icy phantoms !
Why do ye pass me by,
In the cold and silent midnight,
When none else are nigh ?
Watch them glide through the open door,
Watch them steal o'er the polished floor !
Phantoms, icy phantoms all,
Grim and cold and wondrous tall.
The very air they bring with them,
Cold, like Death's still river ;
The way their snowy garments float
Makes me shiver shiver !
One has come to my bedside now,
Grim and tall and pale and cold ;
And in deep sepulchral tone,
She speaks : " In days of old,
I wore a human form,
And my heart like thine was warm ;
And mine eyes were bright,
And with liquid light
They told sweet tales of love.
But sorrow came,
And sin and shame ;
And my hopes were gone,
And my joys had flown,
(146)
PHANTOMS OF MY SLEEP. 147
And my heart and my form were turned to stone.
Thou hast seen me oft in the palace hall,
And critics spoke of the sculptor's skill ;
They called me a work of art yea, art
Hath made my lips so cold and still.
But oh ! my chiselled features ne'er
Were moulded under the sculptor's care ;
Though art aye, yes, a cursed art,
Had hushed my lips, and broke my heart !
Once, these marble fingers toyed
With the locks of flowing hair ;
Once thine icy lips were pressed
To a brow than mine less fair ;
Once this marble heart of mine,
Warm, impassioned, like thine own,
Gave to love an answering throb
Now, 'tis turned to stone !
And they placed me here where the sunlight plays,
And artists my faultless features praise
Nor know that I, whom thus they scan,
Am the work of God and not of man.
Phantoms ! icy phantoms !
How hard your eyeballs glare
Away ! my heart is dying
Under your chilling stare.
Ye wear no look of mortals,
Oh ! tell me what ye are,
Grim, and tall, and wearing
Such gaze of stern despair !
148 PHANTOMS OF MY SLEEP.
The very air grows colder,
With those icy phantoms there,
Colder ! colder ! colder !
Oh ! hear my earnest prayer,
Leave me in pity leave me
Alone with my despair !
One by one at my bed they stand,
And place on my heart a chilling hand ;
And one by one, as glad to stay,
With a lingering glance they glide away ;
Each, with a tale of woe to tell,
Each, with a low-breathed, sad farewell.
Some with a piteous story
Of ancient faded glory ;
Some unfolding secret crime,
Of the perished time.
Each with a mournful history,
Full of pain and mystery,
Telling me why
They were turned to marble in days gone by.
Phantoms ! icy phantoms !
Moving over the ground
Without step or sound
What a chilling pageantry !
Thank God ! they are all passed by.
I awake I slept then ! yes :
The moon in her loveliness
Is smiling on broken columns,
PHANTOMS OP MY SLEEP. 149
In the grini old castle, where
I had stolen, with heavy heart,
To forget my dull despair
In the glorious works of art.
And the statues stand where I saw them stand
Ere I entered the portals of strange Dream-land.
Each in its accustomed place,
Each with hard and stony face.
Yet, the winds through the dim old corridors rush,
And I fancy that one, as I pass it by,
With icy finger on icy lip,
Sternty whispers : " Hush !"
I never pass them by,
Those statues grim and cold,
In the castle bleak and old,
But I think of the tales they told
When I fell asleep on the cushioned pile,
And the moon looked down with her mocking smile,
Mocking me that I had prayed,
In the depths of my despair,
That God would give to me
A heart as calm and cold
As the marble statues there.
I wonder if I slept,
If things are what they seem ;
I wonder if they talked to me
In that mysterious dream.
3h ! life hath many phantoms,
The fair, the false, the vain ;
And the world is cold and pitiless,
And full of grief and pain ;
150 PHANTOMS OP MY SLEEP.
And the sorrow told me in my sleep
Was a sad familiar strain.
Oh ! if their tale was truth,
Now in my haunted youth,
Ere heart and form by years made old,
Shall thrill no more with wild, impassioned throb,
Already worn away by gasping sob
Grief, my familiar yea, my other self,
Will turn this warm impetuous heart to stone,
And make of me now every joy has flown
Like those strange phantoms of my restless sleep,
Those things which suffer not, nor longer weep,
A marble statue cold !
DEATH AT SEA.
O'ER the waters, o'er the waters speeds a vessel light
and free ;
Like a thing of life 'tis bounding o'er the dark and
purple sea ;
And it seems some ball-room beauty floating on in
graceful ease,
While its silken sails are wafted by a lightly-pinioned
breeze.
Fast the dim shore is receding from those anxious,
weeping eyes,
Like a dot appears yon spire, towering high beneath
the skies ;
And those watchers loving watchers lost in dis
tance and in shade,
Are discerned alone in visions drawn by fancy's magic
aid.
Yes : the last good-bye is spoken by the fond lips
held so dear,
And the last " God bless you " lingers still in many a
faithful ear ;
Aye, with bitter tears of sorrow, many an anxious eye
is wet,
And the last kiss of affection on the loved lip lingers
yet.
(151)
152 DEATH AT SEA.
O'er the waters, o'er the waters, speeds yon gallant
ship away,
With an air of conscious triumph, born to rule and
not obey.
Now the last dim rock has faded only foaming waves
arise ;
Onward floats the gallant vessel, all alone beneath the
skies.
Floating proudly on the billow, till the land is out of
sight,
Followed in her far-off voyage by the fleecy clouds of
white
Manned by sturdy, gallant sailors, chanting gayly as
they go,
With only heaven's blue dome above the treacherous
deep below.
Ah ! how many a heart's one treasure goeth with that
gallant ship ;
Many a prayer doth hover round her, breathed by
pale and ashen lip ;
Many a brilliant, golden venture, goeth out with her
to sea ;
Many an anxious heart is asking, " Will they e'er come
back to me ?"
But kind Heaven hides in mercy from our eyes the
book of Fate,
Giving to the sick heart only these three words, Hope,
Watch, and Wait ;
DEATH AT SEA. 153
And a syren voice which whispers, taking from the
soul its pain,
From thine ashes, Desolation, roses fair shall bloom
again.
Now the land is far behind her, and the sun has gone
to sleep,
And the moon comes out in splendor to preside above
the deep ;
While the ocean fondly mirrors many a brightly beam
ing star,
Stealing all the gems which sparkle in the night's
triumphal car.
And how proud the ocean lieth in her momentary
rest,
Like a loving mother bearing all her jewels on her
breast ;
And how bright those star-gems twinkle on the bosom
of the deep,
Undisturbed by placid zephyrs which above their
beauty sweep.
On his cabin-couch reclining, rests a youth of beauty
rare,
Golden curls in rich luxuriance cluster round his fea
tures fair ;
And those deep blue eyes, which borrowed from the
violet their hue,
Rest beneath their tear-wet lashes like a flower bathed
in dew.
7*
154 DEATH AT SEA.
On that brow so high and lofty lies the spell of mighty
Thought,
And that lip of wondrous beauty hath the fire of
heaven caught ;
Genius bright, God-given genius, nestles in the
earnest eyes,
On the forehead, white like marble, her twin-sister
Sorrow lies.
Home is left far, far behind him friends have breathed
the last farewell ;
*
He is going, swiftly going, far in distant lands to
dwell ;
For consumption calls him victim faint and feeble is
his breath,
And on his cheek is blooming " a rose whose root is
death."
But in yon far land of beauty, rich in Nature's simple
wealth,
That Circe Hope has whispered, He will gather
strength and health
In that sunny, fair Italia, land of fruit and purple
vines,
Where the sun, grown fond and loving, with redoubled
splendor shines.
And he goes with glorious dreamings from his climate
drear and cold,
Where the orange-boughs are laden with their precious
fruit of gold ;
DEATH AT SEA. 155
Where the breeze in wanton dalliance kisses richly-
tinted flowers,
And the honey-bee sips nectar all the long bright sum
mer hours :
To the land of grape and myrtle land of romance
and of song,
Where the summer lingers fondly, scattering sweets
the whole year long ;
Where Nature comes to mortals in her fairest robes
arrayed,
Where leaves remember not to die, and flowers forget
to fade.
In that land so famed in story loveliest that the
world e'er knew,
Where the sun beams ever brightly, and the skies are
always blue ;
Where the strains of music linger unimprisoned, light
and free,
And the orange groves are breathing with the soul of
Poesy.
\
Ah ! surely health will come again beneath those
glorious skies,
Its clear tint touch his cheek, its lustre sparkle in his
eyes;
For many a prayer goes after him across the dark
blue sea,
And one true heart doth follow him to thee, fair
Italy !
156 DEATH AT SEA.
For a dark-eyed maiden lingers in the " trysting-place "
at eve ;
Oh ! 'tis a bitter sight to see so fair a creature
grieve ;
Her aslnen lip doth murmur many a sad and plaintive
lay,
And her eyes are turned in watching to those billows
far away.
Ask her if yon gallant vessel seemed a goodly sight
to view,
As the purple wave divided, and as sung the merry
crew ;
She will say that ship so stately, sailing on in grace
and pride,
Carried all her joy with it out upon the treacherous
tide.
All life has for her of sunshine goeth with that vessel
fair,
All its romance and its beauty, for her only treasure 's
there ;
The common words of sympathy seem but a mock
ery,
There is but one could whisper peace, and he oh !
where is he ?
" Gentle winds, oh ! bear him softly to that land
beyond the seas,
And kiss his wan cheek lightly with thy softest, sweet
est breeze ;
DEATH AT SEA. 157
And, storm-king, dread and mighty ! in your dismal
caverns sleep,
For all that life holds dear for me is on the treach
erous deep.
" Father ! kind and merciful, go with him o'er the
wave ;
Should dangers dark encompass him, oh ! be Thou
near to save ;
And bring my loved one back to me oh ! bring him
back again,
It is the sick heart's only prayer -just Heaven, shall it
be vain ?"
There was another who, with sad and anxious throb
bing heart,
Had watched the stately vessel from the rock-bound
shore depart ;
Another lip which murmured : " Ship, thou hast my
life's one joy !"
It was the mother's soul which prayed, " God, pro
tect my boy !"
Oh ! there are cheeks will blanch with fear, and turn
of ashy white,
When the storm-cloud gathers o'er the sky in all its
power and might ;
There are ears will list in anguish to the roaring of
the wave,
And shudder as they see for him they love a watery
grave.
158 DEATH AT SEA.
Then gloomy fear will conjure up the dire and dread
ful scene,
The hissing, roaring, angry waves the fragile ship
between ;
While thunder shakes the earth, and all the world in
night seems clothed,
Two watchers madden at the sight the mother and
betrothed !
Oh ! tell me, can ye glory when the storm-king rages
wild,
When upon the face of heaven murky clouds are
thickly piled,
When the lightning gleams and dances, arid the thunder
shakes the shore,
And the maddened ocean startles by its loud and
angry roar ?
Say, hearest thou no minute-gun, that signal of dis
tress ?
Seest thou no loving form engulfed in angry wave's
caress ?
Oh ! if in such drear scenes there can for thee a rap
ture be,
Thy lot is blessed, for oh ! thou hast no wanderer at
sea!
Once more upon the waters ! ah ! how joyful is the
sound
Which flieth on from lip to lip, the magic homeward
bound !
DEATH AT SEA. 159
And as the gallant seamen hum many an ocean
lay,
Their hearts beat high with love and hope for dear
ones far away.
But there was one upon whose soul there lay a chill
despair,
And down whose wan and wasted cheek there coursed
a bitter tear ;
That fading cheek, that sunken eye, all told a mourn
ful tale,
And to his ear the songs of joy seemed but a low
death- wail.
Dying on the dark blue waters ! dying with no lip
to bless,
With no hand to smooth his pillow, and no loved one
to caress ;
With none but careless stranger ears to hear his latest
speech,
With home so near, and yet so far ! for home he ne'er
ivill reach.
And he looks out on the billows with a faint and sick
ening fear,
For he knows, oh ! bitter knowledge ! that his rest
ing-place is here ;
The waves will be his winding-sheet, he hears the hiss
ing surge,
And feels, ere yonder sun has set, that they will sound
his dirge.
160 DEATH AT SEA.
Then lie passed his fingers lightly o'er a soft and silken
tress,
Which had nestled on his bosom with a slight, yet fond
caress ;
For that little curl was given by the hand he loved so
much,
It had twined about the forehead which his lips so
loved to touch.
And her face was smiling near him, miniatured all
clear and bright,
And those eyes were beaming on him, sparkling like
the stars of night ;
Oh ! he pressed that pictured image with fond fervor
to his heart,
Clasped it nearer, nearer, vowing, ' Thou and I shall
never part.'
" Bear me swiftly, bounding billow, oh ! I would not
die at sea,
With none to breathe a blessing, and no eye to weep
for me
Onward, onward, gallant vessel ! fly more swiftly o'er
the main,
And ere my eyes shall close in death, oh 1 bear me
home again !
" I would sleep beneath the willows, near my own, my
boyhood's home,
Where the dark-eyed maid who loves me can at even
ing's hour come ;
DEATH AT SEA. 161
I would have her touch her lyre to those soft and
plaintive lays,
Which we loved and sung together in my earlier, hap
pier days.
" I would have her come at twilight to my latest rest
ing-place,
While from out yon azure heaven I would look upon
her face ;
I would have her twine a rose-vine o'er the tomb which
bears my name,
To prove, though passed away from her, she loved me
still the same.
" Oh, no ! I cannot bear to die upon this bounding
wave,
To sleep beneath these billows say, is there no arm
can save ?
Fate, be kind, and let me lie in some familiar
spot,
Adorned by love which whispers ever, ' Dead, but
unforgot.' "
He was dying, swiftly dying, and his prayer was all
in vain,
The home, the friends he loved so well, he ne'er would
see again ;
On his brow was fearful whiteness, at his heart a chill
despair,
For death had set his signet on that forehead won
drous fair.
162 DEATH AT SEA.
None marked the flickering pulse grow still, the blue
eye fixed in death,
None caught the feeble murmur of that last, that
dying breath ;
While the vessel still was speeding o'er the waters
deep and wide,
Alone upon his cabin-couch he sickened, drooped, and
died!
Those stranger hands have lowered him adown the
vessel's side,
And over him the cherished one hath closed the
dark blue tide ;
Calm was the sea, and passengers all idly paced the
deck,
Nor cowered down in sudden fear 'twas but a human
wreck !
Yes ! all was still, and all serene old Ocean told no
tale,
He breathed no sigh of anguish deep, or plaintive
human wail ;
The sun was sinking o'er the waters of the briny
deep,
And he, the hope of two fond hearts he too had gone
to sleep.
Nevermore on loving bosom will he rest that weary
head,
With its golden curls 'tis pillowed on a cheerless coral
bed
DEATH AT SEA. 163
No tolling bell shall sound a dirge his requiem must
be
The sea-bird's mournful cry, or roar of angry, sound
ing sea.
Passers-by may see a watcher lingering on the rock-
bound shore,
With dark eyes looking anxiously for him who comes
no more ;
Ariadne weeping wildly for a worshipped Theseus
fled
Which was the bitterer fate ? the one was false the
other dead.
Oh! that weary, weary watching for a joy which
comes no more ;
Oh ! that sad and drear existence when the hope of
earth is o'er !
But fate was merciful, she rests within an early
grave
She sleeps beneath the willow-tree, and he beneath
the wave !
THE LOCK OF HAIR.
SHE looked on the tress ! and her heart went back
O'er the vanished scenes in life's Vildcring track,
When her heart was as gay and as free from care,
As the light-winged bird that skims the air ;
And she saw the porch, with its clinging vine
Which her fingers had taught in grace to twine ;
And her tears fell fast, for the humble door
Of her childhood's home might be seen no more.
She looked on the tress ! and her memory flew
To the joys her guileless girlhood knew ;
When a mother's smile was the blessing sought,
And the praises of earth claimed not a thought :
When a chaplet of roses encircled her brow
The wreath of fame drooped over it now !
But oh ! she would gladly have given it up,
For the pleasures that sparkled in childhood's cup.
It was a tress of her mother's hair !
And she saw once more the old arm-chair,
Which had sat in the corner from day to day,
Till the locks once raven were turning grey :
Still there in summer and wintry weather,
While the mother and chair grew old together
And the daughter wept o'er the lock of hair,
For the mother who died in the old arm-chair.
'Twas a silken tress, half brown, half grey
And her heart went back to that weary day,
(164)
THE LOCK OP HAIR. 165
When she clipped the lock from that forehead fair
Now in the grave 'twas mouldering there ;
When the voice was still she loved so much,
And the lips she kissed grew cold to her touch ;
When the hands which her own had fondly pressed,
Were folded over a pulseless breast.
And her soul grew dark, and her tears fell fast.
As she wept o'er the corpse of the untombed past ;
Alas ! no kind hand smoothed her brow,
And she heard no mother's blessing now :
No cheering word, no gentle tone
She must tread life's weary paths alone,
And yet in the drama act a part,
With the leaden weight of a broken heart.
And she had found that the world was cold,
And knew no wealth but the wealth of gold ;
And she had found that the lip could smile.
While the heart was filled with deceit the while.
The Judas kiss, and the broken vow,
Alas ! she knew their meaning now !
But oft in anguish her heart had burned,
Ere she those bitter lessons learned.
And she had wooed proud Fame for what ?
For the smiles of one who loved her not.
The laurel-wreath drooped over her brow,
Its thorns were in her heart e'en now.
The world had ranked her genius high,
But the woman's heart was left to die :
Oh ! she felt as she gazed on that silken tress,
That Fame may be won and emptiness !
FADING SUMMER.
SUMMER fadeth from the hill-tops,
Summer fadeth from the skies ;
And we know she soon will leave us,
From her low and sad replies ;
From the way in which she scatters
Roses late that decked her brow ;
From the way in which her farewell
Through the woods goes sighing now.
Oh ! this glorious Indian Summer,
Meet for Poet's idle dreams !
Oh 1 those days of quiet beauty,
With their soft and hazy gleams !
In my soul there is a wailing,
Like the winds upon the shore :
Go not hence, sweet, dreamy Summer,
Linger with me evermore !
Oh ! the breeze which fans my forehead,
Soft and sweet, like lover's kiss !
Oh ! the sunset clouds ! their grandeur
Fills my soul with rapturous bliss !
Then the dreamy, mystic twilight,
Hour for memory and for tears,
Drops its mantle o'er my spirit,
And awakes departed years.
(166)
FADING SUMMER. 167
What a strange, sweet sense of quiet
Steals upon my restless heart,
As I watch the forms in cloudland,
Till I seem of them a part !
Just as calm, and as contented,
As those great white ships which glide
O'er the blue sky's peaceful bosom,
Sailing on in lonely pride.
Not one hope, and not one sorrow,
Wakes a tumult in my breast ;
What a tempest once this heart was !
Now 'tis strangely lulled to rest :
Silence broodeth in its chambers,
And a calm, unbroken, deep ;
For my stormy, wild emotions
All have raved themselves to sleep.
From my window idly gazing,
Look I on the quiet sky ;
Catch the perfume of the flowers,
As the night wind wafts it by,
Never dreaming of the future,
Never dreaming of the past ;
Oh ! this calm for which I panted,
It has come to me at last !
For the wild, tempestuous conflict,
Where I bravely bore my part,
Weep I not I read my triumph
In Hue. scars upon my heart !
168 FADING SUMMER.
Little think we of the labor
When the task at length is done ;
Little care we for the struggle
" When the battle's lost and won ! "
What to me those weary heart-aches ?
What to me those hours of pain ?
Since their corpses all are buried,
Since they haunt me not again :
What to me those bitter longings ?
Oh ! thank God, they all are past !
What to me those dead repinings ?
I have won Content at last.
Oh ! my foes Suspense, Rebellion
Lashed my heart like angry waves ;
But, thank God, they are asleep now,
All asleep in dusty graves !
With my sweet new trust in Heaven
I can brave misfortune's frown ;
Toilsome was the march, and weary,
Great the cross, but great the crown I
Fading Summer, oh ! I weep not,
Though I buried with your flowers
Many a false, sweet hope that thrilled mo,
Many a dream of future hours.
Fading Summer, oh ! I weep not,
Though I saw my mother die,
When your voice was on the hill-tops,
And your beauty in the sky.
FADING BUMMER. 109
Nay, I weep not as I wept then,
When they laid her 'neath the sod ;
Rave no more in wild rebellion,
/ have learned to trust in God ;
Learned to bless Him that He called her
From the fading things of time,
Where her voice with white-robed angels'
Joins to form a glorious chime.
Fading Summer, oh ! 1 weep not,
Though with every leaf that died
Died some joy that I had nourished
With a secret love and pride :
Though with thy sweet woodland songbirds
Many a bright dream didst depart,
Perished with thy choicest blossoms,
Sweeter blossoms in my heart !
I remember I remember
All that thou didst bring to me ;
And, alas ! I too remember
All that thou must take with thee ;
All that I have thought or uttered
On the path but lately trod,
On thy wings thou now art bearing
Up with thee from me to God.
How improved, or how I've wasted
All those golden hours now fled ;
Whether bore with Christian patience
Storms which swept above my head ;
8
170 FADING .SUMMER.
Whether drank with Christian meekness
Every cup that thou didst till ;
Whether turned aside rebellious,
Or knelt humbly to His will ;
Whether husbanded my hours
With an eye to Him alone,
And performed, while time was fleeting,
All the good I might have done ;
Whether welcomed my afflictions.
As His blessings in disguise ;
Whether mocked the God that loveth,
With my wild, rebellious cries ;
Whether lost in idle dreaming
Opportunities for good ;
Whether angel tones might whisper,
" Oh ! she hath done all she could : "
Ah ! I fear me dark the record,
Summer, floating from earth's sod.
On thy wings thou now art bearing
Up with tliee from me to God.
Yes, I weep I weep, sweet Summer
Summer, dying from my gaze ;
Not for hopes that late have perished.
Faded joys but wasted days :
But I thank the God who gave thee,
That my grief at last is spent ;
That I bear whatever He sends me,
And am with inv fate content.
FADING SUMMER. 171
Summer, dying on the hill-tops i
Summer, dying in the skies !
Thou art fading like a spirit
From before my dreamy eyes.
By the cooling breeze which greets me,
By the pale leaves on the ground,
Soon I know I'll seek thee vainly,
Seek but thou shalt not be found !
I shall trace thee in the meadow
By some leaflet dropped behind,
Leaf which clustered in the garland
That around thy brow was twined :
By the dead leaves on the wayside,
Scattered by thy dimpled hands,
I shall know my queen my darling
Reigneth now in fairer lands.
By some lonely, voiceless fountain,
Which in grief for thee has hushed
All those sweet and thrilling poems
That but late in music gushed ;
By some lately laughing streamlet,
On whose mouth a seal is set,
I shall know that thou art faded,
But art loved and cherished yet.
By the lonely mountain echoes,
Which shall wail, dead maid, for thee ;
By the sad-voiced wind that sigheth
O'er the leafless, blighted tree ;
172 FADING SUMMER.
By the sun's sad gaze at morning ;
By the moon's, so faint and pale ;
I shall know that o'er thy dying,
Earth and heaven alike bewail.
By those stilly creeping shadows,
In the woods late filled with song ;
By the day's strange, fitful glimmer ;
By the nights so drear and long ;
I will know your reign is over,
While my heart in grief shall burn ;
And like maiden for her LOVER,
/ will pine for your return !
"LOVED AND LOST."
'Tis midnight now I cannot sleep,
For busy thoughts o'er heart and soul
Sweep rapidly with torturing pang,
And power resistless of control.
And I, while others sink in dreams
All soft and sweet, from trouble free
My memory driving slumber far,
Am wandering to the past and thee.
I cannot, if I would, forget
That early dream which brightly shed
Such rapture o'er my trusting heart,
But left it withered, cold, and dead !
It haunts me in the festive throng,
When giddy idlers round me are ;
It cometh with the morning's light,
And with the first pale evening star.
I try in vain to cheat my soul
With those stern words, " I must forget ;"
But then some plaintive song recalls
The happy hour when first we met :
No wonder that my face betrays
Such wild emotions, when the strain
Of sweet, sad music greets my ear,
For music brings thee back again.
(173)
174 "LOVED AND LOST."
Then I recall the maddening hour
When at my hated rival's side,
With falling veil, and orange wreath,
I saw thee stand, another's bride !
/sought thee too with cheerful words,
And taught my lip a careless tone ;
And then I touched thy trembling hand
Alas ! 'twas colder than my own.
'Tis vain to love, for sacred vows
Have bound thee to another now ;
And yet within thy downcast eye,
And on thy fair but troubled brow,
I read the bitter secret there,
Thy heart would sooner break than own,
That he who bore thee from my side
Can claim thy hand, and (hat alone.
'Twas gold ah ! yes, 'twas cursed gold
That broke the vow our lips had pealed,
The vow of mutual, honest love,
Which tell-tale eyes before revealed.
With iron will they parted us
By weary miles, and rivers wide ;
And after dreary years had fled,
I saw thee stand a victim bride.
And / have smiled on others too,
As 'mid the crowd I chanced to rove ;
But never could my heart forget
Its first its last it? onlv love.
' LOVED AND LOST." 175
Remembrance would not be crushed out ;
" How could I see a sweet mouth shine "
With radiant, beaming smiles of love
And joy, " and not remember thine ? "
We meet as strangers calmly, cold,
With careless words our lips we wreathe ;
But sudden starts too plainly tell
What it were madness now to breathe ;
Yet when thy hand refuses mine,
Which once it might all fondly press,
Thy paling cheek, thy quivering lip,
The tortures of the heart confess.
'Tis midnight now ; and, sleepless still,
I count time's heart-throbs one by one,
And dream thy soft lips touch mine own,
But these are fancies I must shun ;
Not only vain, but sinful too,
For we are parted far and wide,
I am a lonely wanderer now,
And thou thou art another's bride !
"GOD BLESS YOU!"
THERE are some words with haunting spell,
-That linger fondly round the heart ;
And wheresoe'er on earth we dwell,
Can ne'er from memory depart.
Their music sweet comes o'er the soul,
As soft as evening's gentle sigh ;
Such were thy last fond words to me :
" God bless you always love, good-bye."
I hear them when the morning flower
First wakens to the day-god's light ;
They haunt my soul at twilight hour,
I hoar them in the hush of night ;
And when the gay and proud I meet,
And when the cup of mirth fills high ;
A voice doth whisper low and sweet,
" God bless you always love, good-bye."
Then sweeps a pang through brain and heart,
Then fades away the giddy throng ;
Then from my cheek the smiles depart,
And on my lip dies out the song.
Oh ! then my soul grows dark and drear,
Though friends, the loved, the true, are nigh,
I see them not, I only hear,
" God bless yon always love, good-bye."
"GOD BLESS YOU." 177
Ah I there are many words which bring
A thousand memories to my heart
As soft as angels' whispering
Words breathed when fate bade loved ones part.
They come to me on evening breeze,
I hear them in the wind's low sigh
Yet none so sweet and sad as these :
" God bless you always love, good-bye."
ALONE.
SLOWLY sinks the setting sun ;
Evening jewels one by one
Shine upon the brow of night ;
Soft the moonbeams' gentle light.
Birds on these bright summer eves,
Sweetly chant among the leaves ;
One is singing now to me
Would that he might sing to thee.
Flowers, beautiful and fair,
Scent with perfumes sweet the air ;
Shadows gather in the West,
Nature softly sinks to rest.
All is gloriously bright,
Yet I must be sad to-night ;
For the bird in yonder tree
Whispers to my heart of thee.
Soft and sweet the summer winds
Murmur in the swaying vines,
And the voices of the night
Fill me with a pure delight ;
But a shadow clouds my brow,
And my heart cries, " Where art thou ?"
Joys are not true joys to me,
Unless they be shared with thee.
(178;
ALONE. 179
Brightly beams yon evening star,
But I feel thou art afar ;
And thine eyes so clear and bright
Speak not to mine own to-night :
Long and weary miles divide
Love, each one hath multiplied.
Oh ! if wings were given to me,
Quickly would I be with thee.
Art thou sad ? Then would I chase
Every shadow from thy face.
Art thou joyful ? Then would I
Strive each joy to multiply.
But this may not be apart
Now must throb each aching heart.
Swiftly may the hours flee,
Till they bring thee back to me !
"LOVE N OT."
" LOVE NOT !"
It was a maiden's youthful voice that sung,
In strains of witching beauty, this sad song.
The wild notes floated on the midnight air,
And lingered near me borne on airy breeze.
The night was beautiful a radiant moon
Cast her soft lustre o'er the sleeping world :
The night-bird chanted to his tender mate,
The rose bowed down beneath the dew-drop's kiss.
All earth was bathed in beauty, and my soul
Was filled with dreams of love. I thought of one
Whose earnest eyes, although but seldom seen,
Had met mine own too often / and whose words,
Though chance and usual, had been treasured up
As jewels of the heart. The gentle moonlight
Lends a charm to all its soothing rays
Had softened down the prejudice of old
That bade me trust in none. At that still hour,
With soul attuned to love pulse beating wild,
1 heard that voice, and caught the sad refrain,
" Love not."
It seemed to me a warning sent
From yonder heaven and I closed my eyes,
While dire forebodings shot across my brain,
And some foul demon from another world
Seemed tugging at my heart-strings. Night
Was closing round me like a phantom's wing,
"LOVE NOT." 181
1 The dark was over all." Perchance I slept
And dreamed ; or dare I say it ? on that eve
Spirits of angels came and talked to me.
I saw before me one a gentle girl,
Whom I had loved in childhood's brighter hours.
Well I remembered how her joyous laugh
Had rung in music on the evening breeze.
But oh ! how changed ! The lovely wedding robe
Was shroud-like now ; the graceful bridal veil
Fell o'er a brow as white. The roses fair
That bloomed upon the forehead of the bride
Left naught but thorns. The slender diamond ring,
Transformed in likeness to a serpent's form,
Coiled round the fingers small, and seemed to turn
And sting her. The meek, gentle eyes
Were dim, and thus she spoke :
" Love not ! love not !
By all the memory of our earlier years,
I charge thee write these words upon thy soul.
A fatal legacy is woman's heart ;
A thing to keep confined, imprisoned, chained,
Oli ! fatal hour when first 1 loosed the chain !
'Twas on a moonlight night a harvest moon,
Each little star sat on his golden throne,
The air was sweet with fragrance, and the flowers
Were wet with heavenly dews. / learned to love !
' Suppose that you were sitting in the dark,
With foul things all around you you yourself
Like them, all poor, and blind, and miserable ;'
If then from yon bright heaven there came an angel
Of life and light, all radiant near you side,
182 "LOVE NOT."
Gazing with pity on your meaner self,
Showing how black was that which once seemed bright,
Until your soul with one great, longing cry,
Felt that to be a slave were happiness,
So one might move near this bright, glorious being,
And breathe the air his presence made so pure.
Such was my fate I saw I looked I loved !
I stood at yonder altar, and my hand
Was placed in his ; my heart went with my vow,
But his alas ! stern knowledge learned too late
Was with another. Day by day I marked
His chilling brow his cold, averted eye ;
And his ' poor, common words of courtesy/
How vain they seemed to my sick, pining heart !
There was but one relief the yawning grave ;
I welcomed it I courted its cool shade ;
And as I felt the cords of life untwine,
And knew that soon the curtain of the tomb
Would hide my hated face from him I loved,
I sank in prayer of gratitude to God.
Death won me to his stillness, and I slept
In peace at last. Oh ! hear my parting words 1
By all the dreams which make life beautiful,
By all the hopes of happiness on earth,
Bow not thy soul to anything of clay,
Cast not its hidden pearls unheeded forth,
Throw not its flowers beneath the trampling foot
Of man, who wins it but to scorn. Love not
Love not love not !"
She passed away like mist.
The white robe faded in the distance dim,
"LOVE NOT." 183
The death-white face went from my gaze forever.
The moon grew paler ; and the stare above
Seemed sad-eyed watchers ; and a death-like wail
Came moaning wildly on the midnight air.
It passed ! I heard the rustle of a wing,
And turned in fear to gaze upon a face
That almost touched my own. A maiden's face ;
Yet white, sepulchral fearful to behold.
She, too, was one I loved a child of passion
And of power, reared 'neath a sunny clime, .
A daughter of the South, with heart as warm
As native sunshine face as pure and fair
As her own native flowers. Her midnight eyes,
That beamed in beauty once, shaming the stars
For brightness with their glow, now glared
With all the light of madness.
" Love not I"
Oh ! strange fatality ! these were her words
" Love not ; or, maiden, if thou lovest, be
The wretch / am. I heeded not the song
Which ba.de me keep my heart ; but cast it forth,
A gift uncared frfr valueless. I loved
Love is too cold a word 'twas adoration
Wild, daring, hopeless ! as the lowly flower's
Which, looking upward to the sun, was dazzled,
Until the god of day glanced down in pity
Upon the flower his rays had given life,
Saw loved and lifted it unto his bosom :
And the poor flower would then have been content,
Even tho' his brightness had but scorched and withered
Its leaves to death a blessed and glorious death,
184 " LOVE NOT."
So it had lived one blissful moment there !
I was one cursed with the fatal dower of genius ;
In visions of the beautiful my soul
Was bathed. I loved at eve to gaze upon
The setting sun, and mark his fading splendor ;
My spirit revelled with a strange delight
In midnight storm. The armies of the air,
When met in battle with the thunder's roar,
Made for my ear grand music. Oft I gazed
On scenes like these, and felt my spirit rise
Far, far above the fading things of earth,
To dwell with angels. Then my wayward harp
I wildly touched, and touching, bade it sing
The songs that heaven had taught it. Fame was mine ;
The laurel bloomed upon my maiden brow
Its touch was poison and a world's applause
Rang in my ears. But oh ! my woman's heart
Kept pining for a soft and gentle voice.
Fame could not bring me happiness my soul
Wept wildly for its mate. It came at last
Oh ! fatal love at last it touched my lyre ;
And, casting all the laurels from my brow,
I knelt ah ! yes, like heathen devotee,
Before a god my own weak brain had wrought.
He wooed me not with words, I sought them not
With tender, love-lit glances eyes that seemed
To say, ' I love thee ;' I, blind dupe ! believed,
Nor knew that I, one of the crowned of earth,
Was made to be " b&weddown to honored, worshipped"
Ah ! anything, yes ! " anything but loved ."-
I dreamed a while in happiness and bliss,
" LOVE NOT." 1 85
To wake to anguish, madness, and despair !
" My friend .'" yes, that was att. Sick, fainting heart !
That gave thine own deep, wild devotion forth,
And for the wealth that thou hadst wasted thus,
Received his friendship ! No ; I cursed him not,
Though heart and brain were wild, and reason fled.
I turned in scorn ; and with a woman's pride
Said, " Go ! thou art forgotten !" 'Twas not so
The restless midnight found me weeping still
Over a fallen idol and the cold blue eyes
Haunted me ever ; I could not forget !
Once more I glittered 'mid the mirthful throng,
And bade my laurels bloom for me again ;
All deemed me happy but the heart within
Was dark as rayless night. And yet I smile
With laughing, happy ones, and sneer
With those, the heartless, too ; but my young life
Knows no arising light ; the star that once
Made all things beautiful, has set in gloom.
But I would save thee from a doom like mine ;
Would warn thee in thy youth, while hope is thine,
And earth seems bright, and flowers bloom for thee
If thou wouldst 'scape from woman's usual lot,
To love in vain some idol false as fair
Love not !"
She faded slowly from my gaze,
Leaving behind her darkness darkness all ;
I started as from sleep ; and even then
I heard a footfall, low, familiar, dear,
Not often heard, and yet perchance too oft.
A voice of sweetest music reached my heart,
186 ' LOVE NOT."
A pair of earnest eyes looked in my own,
But lately met on earth yet seen in dreams,
Even from my happy childhood's earliest hour.
The spell was o'er me deep within my heart
A stranger face was imaged ; and I felt
The warning came too lafe ! Too late I learned
That love brings with it only grief and tears.
My lot was on me ; and I could not break
Love's close-wrought fetters. Ah ! 'tis vain to sing
To one whose heart has gone already forth
Unasked, unsought, to meet that other heart,
The song which wisdom teaches to the old
" Love not love not !"
THE CITY OF THE DEAD.
THERE is a beautiful city.
Laid out in walk and square,
Where flowers in rich profusion
Perfume the summer air.
'Tis there the willow waveth,
And the violet lifts its head ;
And they call this lovely city,
The city of the dead.
The breeze in gentle dalliance
From flower to flower roves ;
And the very air seems purer
In those quiet, shaded groves.
No sound disturbs the stillness,
No laughter rude and loud ;
For there's something in that city,
Awes e'en the gayest crowd.
And, side by side there slumber
The rich man and the poor ;
There foes lie down together,
Nor wrong each other more.
There sleep the great, the lowly ;
The same trees o'er them wave ;
For earth's proud and vain distinctions
Are levelled by the grave.
Here some weary, aged warrior
Quietly takes his rest ;
(187)
188 THE CITY OF THE DEAD.
And near him some pale young mother,
With her baby on her breast.
There the wealthy merchant slumbers,
And dreams no more of gain ;
There the widowed one forgetteth
Life's weariness and pain.
There sleep in peace together
Betrayer and betrayed ;
The wron;.' ed Jies down by the wronger,
And feels no more afraid ;
And, afar in some lone corner
Slumbers the suicide,
No marble tablet telling
How he lived, and how he died !
The bride, in her fair young beauty,
With orange buds in her hair,
And the wedding robe around her,
Sleeps calm and peaceful there.
There the orator proud reposes,
A stone at head and feet ;
A nameless one lies near him
Whose rest is just as sweet !
Artist, statesman, and poet,
Wooers alike of fame !
Your haunting dreams have vanished,
And a white slab bears your name.
Ah ! who has not bowed with weeping
Over some coffined head ?
For we all have loved and lost ones
In the city of the dead !
FAME, PLEASURE, AND RELIGION.
A YOUTH of noble mien, and features fair,
With dear, dark eyes, that spoke a fearless soul,
And clustering tresses twining carelessly
Around a brow where rested mighty thought ;
A face whose every lineament expressed
A heart to dare and do in solitude
Stood 7 neath the holy stars. F*ull long he mused
Of earth and all its mysteries, of those pure stars
Which nightly ride the heavens the fair-faced moon,
Pacing in lonely pride her palace home,
Like some bright queen of beauty. Suddenly,
Loud martial music burst upon his ear,
And to his side there came, with step erect,
And midnight eyes that flashed like brilliant gems,
A woman tall, commanding, beautiful.
Thus haughtily she spoke :
" I smiled o'er thy birth
In my bright home afar,
For I marked in thy rising
The dawn of a star.
I singled thee out
In thine infancy's hour,
For I knew that thy heart
Throbbed with genius and power :
But few have resisted
The spell of my song ;
Its wild, gushing music
Wilt lure thee along.
(189)
190 FAME, PLEASURE, AND RELIGION.
Thou wilt come with the rest thou wilt bow at my feet,
And I'll place on thy forehead a wreath for it meet.
Like some pure planet star
That presides o'er the night,
Shall be thy career
As unfading, as bright ;
The proud and the mighty
Shall kneel to thy worth ;
And thy name shall be placed
'Mid the great ones of earth ;
Long, long shalt thou reign-
Nay ! turn not away
Fame offers her chaplet
Of laurel and bay :
Thy wish shall be thine, howe'er lofty and high,
Thou worshipped shalt live, and lamented shalt die !"
With mantling cheek and throbbing heart he heard
It were so sweet to leave a name behind
A nation should adore ! To stand in life
The idol of a crowd who sheaf-like bowed
Before his master-sheaf; to watch the light
Brighten in beauty's eye when he approached.
The rose tint on her cheek grow deeper ; and to hear,
Where'er he turned, amid whatever throng,
" The long, loud peal of popular acclaim."
How bright the picture ! But he lists again :
A Circean song comes stealing on the air.
A maiden, lute in hand, with starry eyes,
And fair rose garlands clustering round her hair,
Trips lightly o'er the leaves that make no stir.
FAME. PLEASURE, AND RELIGION. 191
So light the step, so fairy-like the form,
It seems as though the breeze had taken life.
She placed her hand on his with wanton touch,
And though his soul recoiled, his lips exclaimed,
" How wondrous beautiful !" Touching her lute,
From which a shower of summer roses fell,
She sang this soft refrain :
" Come, come with me, thy home shall be
As fair as e'er was mortal home ;
And when its beauties fail to charm,
Thou at my side shalt idly roam. >
I'll strew thy path with mignonnette,
As through the shady trees we rove ;
And deck thee with the fairest flowers
That ever bloomed in sylvan grove.
I'll bear thee then to yonder throng
List ! hear their music low and sweet ;
There thou shalt hear the gushing song,
There thou shalt kneel at beauty's feet ;
Then come, oh ! come with me !
The crystal cup, that proudly bears
The wine that richest, ruddiest glows,
Shall touch thy lip, and thou'lt forget
What thou hast known of cares and woes ;
It hath a sweet oblivion,
That rich juice of the purple vine ;
Then come fair beauty thou shalt win,
Her jewelled bosom press to thine !
I mark the quick light in thine eyes,
Thy gentle, yielding smile I see ;
192 FAME, PLEASURE, AND RELIGION.
I knew no youth could e'er refuse
A maiden young and fair like me.
They call me Pleasure, well they may,
My life is like a summer day ;
Then come, oh ! come with me."
'Raptured he stood her white and rounded arm
About his neck was thrown. His heart-strings thrilled
With the wild, mad delirium of joy ;
But while her warm, ripe lips were pressed to his,
And her white fingers toyed with his own,
He heard a low, deep voice, and turning saw
That pale, pure maid, Religion. Stern her face,
Like some avenging angel's, but it wore
No trace of anger, only pity.
" No gold and gems I offer thee,
No fadeless wreath of bay ;
Nor do I promise that thy life
Shall be an endless May.
Proud Fame speaks falsely in thine ear,
As thou wilt later learn ;
The fruit she gives will on thy lips
To Sodom apples turn :
And Pleasure soon would pierce thy soul
With rose- wreathed, poisonous dart ;
Her reckless laughter and her mirth
Conceal a ruined heart.
Oh ! let her then entice thee not
To yonder giddy throng",
Where wanton vice is revelling
In wine, and jest, and song.
FAME, PLEASURE, AND RELIGION. 193
But be my own thy path may not
Be strewn with flowers alway ;
Yet much of sunshine thou shalt find
Even in life's little day.
Steep is the path ; and great, perhaps,
May be thy sufferings here ;
But bear thy Cross when Heaven is reached,
A Crown awaits thee there !"
He turned aside, while Fame and Pleasure fled,
With disappointed looks. The angel shout
Of victory reached his ears his triumph told 1
And with Religion's hand clasped in his own,
He walked adown the shaded vale of life.
WOMAN'S LOVE.
Too late comes thy farewell ; to love thee only,
Dream of thee only, now must be my fate ;
By all the memory of thy love-lit glances,
Thy words of warning reach my ear too late !
For I have learned to listen for thy coming,
To count the hours when thou art far from me ;
And memory, faithful one, is ever turning
To thee ! to thee !
In vain to me a farewell thou may'st whisper,
And say that all the past must be forgot ;
In vain thou tellest me of future happiness ;
Would it be happiness where thou wert not ?
I may not give my young heart to another,
'Twill follow thee wherever thou may'st rove.
By the pure stars which burn above me nightly,
By yon fair moon that gilds the sky above,
None else shall win, although by thee forsaken,
My wealth of love.
My young heart cherished dreams before I met thee,
But they were fancies fair, and false, and vain ;
And thou, thou art my first love, and my only,
For none may win its worship wild again.
If thou wouldst but return its native lightness,
Give back the flower the fragrance it has lost,
Then would I say, " Farewell ! go and forget me !"
Though dear the cost !
(194) '
WOMAN'S LOVE. 195
This may not be ; who from the wounded spirit
Can bear away its bitterness and pain ?
Whose hand restore the midnight torch when wasted?
A thousand echoes cry In vain in vain !
Oh ! hadst thou loved me with such fond devotion
As I believed when thou and I first met
When thou didst win me with thy voice of music
It were no easy task to say " forget."
Could I forget thee ? Nay ! some kind remembrance
Would linger yet.
The flower thy love would shade from every evil,
Would die without the sunlight of thy smile ;
Though nursed and cherished by a hand as tender,
'Twould bloom in beauty but a little while.
Thy weight of woe, however dark and heavy,
My heart, grown strong, would gladly, bravely
bear,
And die with thee, than live oh! drear existence!
Without thee here.
Speak not to me of early fault or error,
My voice shall never reach thee to reprove ;
I know how heavily was pressed upon thee
The memory of an early blighted love.
And when some chord, touched roughly by remem
brance,
Awoke the broken music of that chime,
I know thy love thy wrong her chill unkindness,
Hath led thee oft to folly and to crime,
As thou didst strive to drown in midnight revel
The voice of time.
196 WOMAN'S LOVE.
Not mine to meet thee with a cold upbraiding,
Nay, nay : too sorely hath thy heart been wrung ;
I read thy sorrow, and thy bitter struggle,
In the sad music trembling from thy tongue.
Thou may'st have erred, but I how can I chide thee?
I say to thee, as Jesus said before,
In words full of forgiveness and of pity,
" Go, sin no more !"
And tell me not of thy too darkened pathway ;
Thou hast no sorrow that I would not bear,
No grief my fond devotion would not lessen,
No cloud to meet in which I would not share.
And 'twere a cruel kindness to forsake me,
Dreaming that I could thus far happier be ;
Say, what, wert thou no longer smiling on me,
Could bring one moment even of joy to me ?
The very word to life, so black and rayless,
Seems mockery.
Little he knows of woman's strong devotion,
Who fancies she can ever lightly love ;
The deathless dower of her heart, when given,
No cloud, no storm, not even death can move.
As twines the woodbine round the time-worn trellis,
Determined there in life or death to cling,
So woman's heart holds firmly to its treasure,
Defying all the storms that fate may bring :
Alas ! vine-like, too oft 'tis found encircling
" A worthless thing."
WOMAN'S LOVE. 197
Why should I speak of this ? I see no shadow
Dimming the radiance of my star ; ah ! small
Thy errors ; I could almost wish them greater,
So thou rnight'st see that I forgive them all.
Ah ! how could she to whom thy young heart's worship
Went wildly forth, turn cruelly from thee ?
Oh ! bright enough thy many nameless virtues,
To hide a thousand faults, if such might be.
She were, however fair, and good, and lovely,
Scarce worthy thee.
But if thou lovest me not, then leave, oh ! leave me ;
I'd gladly of thy sorrows bear a part,
Yet cannot, even with her, the loved so early,
Consent to share in a divided heart.
True, Love's sweet lute, long, long before I met thee,
Had woke its thrilling music in my breast ;
'Twas but a faint prelude my soul has given
" Thee all the rest."
Take back that cold farewell that word so useless,
That mocking sound, since we we both have loved ;
Thou knowest my heart belongs to thee thee only ;
The test has tried it, and its truth has proved.
Chase from thy brow that dark, unwelcome shadow ;
Come, let thy blue eyes smile on me once more.
I dreamed such bitter things ! oh ! bright awak
ing !
Thank heaven ! the wild mad fever dream is o'er ;
For oh ! my life, without thy cheering presence,
Such blackness wore !
198 WOMAN'S LOVE.
Farewell ! who said farewell ? I trust all gladly
With thine, adown life's stream, my little barque ;
No cloud upon thy pathway glooming, dearest,
Could fright me from thy side, however dark.
I place my hand in thy warm clasp all fearless,
And welcome even storms if shared with thee !
And if it lead to death, so tkou art with me,
'Tis bliss to me.
Farewell! I dare not, cannot, will not say it,
While thou art here, thy blue eyes meeting mine ;
The world may wonder, prophesying sorrow,
Still, fearlessly, I link my fate to thine.
And if thy love is fated, as thou deemest,
To bring its owner only woe and care,
Still I accept thy heart, if I one moment
May smile away its weight of dull despair,
And turn from youth, so gay, so bright, so blooming,
To witJier tliere.
TO A YOUNG POETESS.
THY midnight eyes are beaming with a light
A wild, fierce light of anguish and despair,
As though within the garden of thy heart
Each bud of happiness had perished there :
Upon the roses of life's youthful morn
There seems to lie a hidden winter blight ;
And thy young glorious being now seems merged
Into a weary, rayless, endless night ;
And from thy lute there comes a wailing, weeping,
As if a bitter hand its chords were sweeping.
Say, hast thou watched some noble ship at sea
Go down, when all was quiet and serene ?
And hast thou wandered by some shore at eve,
And watched the wave where late a wreck had
been?
Perchance thou too hast seen at such a time ^
A shapeless mass upon the waters float ;
Some plank, to tell of that proud vessel gone,
Perhaps a " broken torch, or oarless boat ;"
And thou hast said, when all seemed calm and fair,
How much of happiness has perished here !
Say, hast thou watched some sunset sky at eve,
And seen some star die out, quick as a thought ?
And as you marked it fading suddenly,
What flood of musing it to fancy brought !
(199)
200 TO A YOUNG POETESS.
You could not tell the place of its retreat.
You scarcely missed it from the sky o'erhead ;
Its young life was so brief, so quickly o'er,
That ere you saw its beauty it had fled ;
And yet you felt a momentary blight,
To know one star had left the brow of night.
And hast thou wandered through some garden bed,
Where bloomed rare flowers of every kind and hue,
Sweet-scented blossoms, bowing each young head
Beneath the kisses of the morning dew
The dew which glistened on each tender leaf,
Like diamonds in a glittering diadem
Nor turned aside to mark some blighted flower,
Some fragile lily broken at the stem,
Which man's rude hand had brushed in passing by,
And left in loneliness to fade and die?
The ocean may seem calm and quiet now,
Yet wrecks are lying 'neath the treacherous wave ;
And underneath those waters so serene,
Full many a golden venture found a grave.
The sky may seem as bright as e'er before,
Yet one soft light hath left the starry sphere ;
The garden still may bloom with beauty rich,
But yet it has one perished blossom there :
So thou hast watched the star, the flower depart,
And wrecks are lying in thy hidden heart.
These mournful images may best express
My feelings when thy fair young face is seen ;
TO A YOUNG POETESS. 201
Some truant sigh, which steals with thy gay words,
Is like the plank which tells that wreck hath been :
And though thine eyes may sparkle wondrous bright,
And though with smiles thy rose-leaf lips may part.
That sigh, half breathed, doth plainly tell to me
Some ship of joy found wreck within thy heart :
I know some star has lately left the sphere,
Some tender blossom died in beauty there.
Thy songs, fair Poetess, are very sad,
Yet, like the dying swan's, are wondrous sweet ;
They mind me of the wail of some caged bird,
That 'gainst the bar its weary wing doth beat :
Not quietly thy stream of music flows,
But, like some restless river in its moan,
It dashes wildly on, tempestuously,
And ever hath a fierce, despairing tone.
A wail is always on the troubled tide,
Begging for that which destiny denied.
Thy cry for happiness is vain ! To thee
Was given the sweet but fatal gift of song ;
Accept thy destiny, and bear its pangs,
For fame and joy to one can ne'er belong :
The laurel bud of praise, the rose of bliss,
Ne'er bloomed together in an earthly bed ;
The first is thine, and it must be thy lot
To see the other faded, pale, and dead :
Thy doom is on thee, win a deathless name,
Weep not for happiness, but live on fame.
9*
202 TO A YOUNG POETESS.
Go, sweep thy lyre once more, fair child of song !
But few will heed the bitter broken chord
That mars the sweetness of thy gushing lays ;
The world will listen, and the world applaud :
Yet what is fame to woman ? what to her
" The long, loud peal of popular acclaim ?"
Gladly would she resign its emptiness,
To write on one fond, faithful heart her name ;
Nor walk again Ambition's rugged streets.
If she could win of human love its sweets.
If joy might come to her, with noisy fame,
And all its pomp and pride, she'd gladly part ;
And crush the laurel-wreath, if she might wear
The rose of happiness within her heart :
In vain her path is chosen ; nevermore
The flower of hope, with fragrance rich and rare,
May shed its perfume on her lonely heart,
There lieth only withered blossoms there ;
And from the cradle to the chilling tomb,
No rose may 'round her darkened pathway bloom.
Such doom, thou fair young Poetess, is thine
Fate marked thee as a victim from thy birth,
Breathed in thy soul Ambition's proud desire,
And happiness thou ne'er shalt find on earth.
The road thy feet must travel never yet
Gave birth to buds of joy ; and human love
Ne'er cast its starry lustre o'er the path
That leads to Fame's proud, rocky heights above.
TO A YOUNG POETESS. 203
Thy lot is on thee ; suffering and tears
Must be thy portion through life's weary years.
Yet thou wilt sigh for some warm, loving hand
To press thine own some lip to touch thy cheek ;
And thou wilt long for tender, gentle words
No human heart to thee may ever speak ;
When thy young heart, warm as thy native clime
Loves blindly, passionately, and in vain,
And life to thee, as yet so young in years,
Seems but a thing of weariness and pain,
Yet, weep not at the doom which fate has given,
Perhaps thy soul may find its mate in heaven 1
THE GRAVE IN THE HEART.
I AM dreaming, sweetly dreaming,
Of a love my spirit nursed ;
Ere the foul breath of suspicion
Had its child-like trust so cursed.
When my heart wove many chaplets,
Rosy-petalled, sunny-leaved ;
When my soul in all confided,
When I listened and believed.
Shall I whisper, gently whisper,
Of those eyes whose depths of blue
Made for me an earthly heaven,
All the heaven my childhood knew ?
Nay, I sinned, was ever sinning,
Thus to love, and love so well ;
And mayhap thou'lt deem it weakness
Of that early love to tell.
Was he false ? Loved he another ?
Nay ; these things I answer -not ;
Cold he may have been, and heartless
On that soul / saw no blot.
All the world might call him ' trifler/
Still that name I must revere ;
All the world his faults be naming,
Still my heart shall hold him dear.
THE GRAVE IN THE HEART. 205
Lives he still ? I may not answer,
Whether I his death bewailed
In my heart there is a chamber,
Which in crape is always veiled ;
Stranger hand may ne'er unveil it,
Never pierce its mystic gloom
There a skeleton is lying,
And that chamber is his tomb
I may learn to love another,
While the years each other chase ;
But my heart will then be dreaming
Of that fairer, sweeter face.
He may worthy be, and noble,
Just as good, and just as brave ;
Yet, my heart that crape-veiled chamber
Still will keep love's early grave !
THE DYIXG YOUNG WIFE.
THEY tell me, when they gaze upon
My dim and sunken eye,
I'm passing from the earth alas !
I am so young to die !
So young to feel the tide of life
Fast ebbing from my heart ;
To look on those I fondly love,
And feel that we must part.
'Twas but a few short years ago
I stood a happy bride ;
And left my childhood's early home
To test the love untried.
The future seemed so bright to me,
With joy my pulse beat high ;
Life's cup is scarcely tasted yet
They say that I must die.
God ! to know my pulse each day
Is flickering and slow ;
To feel the life-blood of the heart
Grow sluggish in its flow !
And when I struggle to forget,
And smile amid the gay ;
A shadowy hand I seem to see,
That beckons me away.
(206)
THE DYING YOUNG WIPE. 207
I am so young so very young \
Death ! why come to me
Whose life is new? go seize upon
The winter-blighted tree.
Take for thy prey some aged one,
Who's seen each joy pass by,
And scarcely hath a wish to live
1 am too young to die I
They brought to-night my bridal veil,
And twined it o'er my brow ;
I seemed a shrouded nun iny face
Is pale and sunken now.
I forced a piteous, mocking smile,
I tried, but could not speak,
To see my silken bridal robe,
Scarce whiter than my cheek.
The world is bright and beautiful,
The stream glides softly by ;
There's beauty on the sleeping earth,
There's beauty in the sky.
The lamps of heaven so brightly burn,
The flowers so graceful wave
Alas ! to-morrow eve those stars
Will shine upon my grave !
Ah ! when the heart is cold and still,
That once beat high and warm ;
And when a marble seal is pressed
Above my fading form :
208 THE DYING YOUNG WIFE.
And when I slumber calm and still,
In some lone, quiet spot,
I know that I, once loved so iveU,
Will quickly be forgot .
Loved one ! draw closer to me now,
I've something for thine ear ;
Nay : weep not from thy cheek wipe off
That bitter, scalding tear.
I would but pray that when the flowers
Shall bloom my tomb above,
That thou wilt sometimes think of me
With tenderness and love.
I know thy heart is sorely wrung
With grief and anguish now ;
I see the look of wretchedness
That settles on thy brow :
And yet, ere many years have passed,
Ere many moons shall wane,
Thy grief will pass away and thou
Wilt learn to love again.
Back, selfish tears ! down, struggling heart !
I know that it must be ;
Some other life thou'lt bless with that
Fond love thou gavest me.
I know that when the chilling grave
Hath ta'en me from thy side,
Thou'lt fondly woo another one,
And win thy second bride.
THE DYING YOUNG WIFE. 209
She'll press her lips to that warm cheek,
That once mine own have pressed ;
She'll twine her arms around thy neck,
And nestle on thy breast.
And thou wilt murmur love to her
In soft and gentle tone,
While / am slumbering in the grave,
Forgotten, and alone !
Yet, sometimes, when at evening hour
Her hand is clasped in thine,
Thy hand, that in our early love
So tenderly held mine ;
And sometimes, when her low-toned voice
Shall softly sing to thee,
Oh ! let thy memory awake
Some passing dream of me.
'Tis all I ask ; I would not have
Thee mourn my early doom
Too long, nor shroud thy youthful heart
In never-ending gloom :
I would not have thee wildly weep,
When I have left thy side ;
I only ask remembrance kind
Of her thy lost young bride.
And ye, iny children ! motherless
So soon, alas ! to be ;
My little ones, that lovingly
Have nestled on my knee,
210 THE DYING YOUNG WIFE.
Soon must the orphan's fate be thine.
Its anguish deep and wild :
Oh ! God, I would thou now wouldst take
Each little angel child.
For who will soothe your infant woes
When I am gone from sight ?
And who will watch beside your couch,
Throughout the livelong night ?
And who will join your little plays,
And kiss each baby brow ?
Whose heart feel sad when ye shall say,
" I have no mother now "?
To-morrow ye will lift the sheet
That hides my faded face,
And wonder why I don't return
Each timid, warm embrace.
Thou'lt wonder .why my morning kiss
Thou hast so vainly plead ;
And why my lips are cold and still
Nor know thy mother dead !
Thy mother's chair will vacant be ;
Her garments on the wall
Will useless hang, nor will she hear
Thine eager, listening call.
Her voice around the hearth at eve
Will never more be heard :
In time thy mothers name may be
A long forgotten word!
THE DYING YOUNG WIFE. 211
Farewell, my babes ! God grant that she
Who fills my empty place,
May wear, when she shall look on ye,
A gentle, loving face.
God grant her eyes may ne'er be stern,
Her voice grow cold and high
In angry tones alas ! 'tis hard,
"Tis very hard to die !
'Tis hard to leave my helpless ones
Consigned to stranger hand ;
To enter in my early youth
The dim, mysterious land.
Life is so new, so bright to me,
And hath so many a tie
Of human love to bind me here
I'm very young to die !
Draw nearer yet, beloved one !
With that fond love of old ;
Press kisses quickly on my lips,
They fust are growing cold.
Tell me again that you forgive
Each harsh, each thoughtless word ;
Tell me once, more for in the grave,
Thy voice cannot be heard !
If carelessly within thy heart
I ever placed a thorn ;
If e'er I gave thee needless pain,
Forget it when I'm gone.
212 THE DYING YOUNG WIFE.
Some youthful error may have grieved
When I might know it not ;
Think only of my virtues, love,
And be the rest forgot.
If ever thou shouldst miss the voice
That once to thee did sing :
If ever life should seem to thee
A bitter, weary thing :
Come to my quiet, lonely grave,
And kneel in humble prayer ;
And I will steal from heaven above,
To meet and bless thee there I
WHAT THE MOON SHINES ON.
A PRIZE POEM.
FACES of beauty in festive throngs,
Lit up with music, and mirth, and songs ;
Eyes of bewildering, varying hue
Seldom on spirits sincere and true ;
Jewelled bosoms and Parian brow,
Jesting salute and courtly bow ;
There, but alas ! not there alone,
Are some of the scenes that the moon shines on.
Soft falling veil, and a bridal wreath
Hiding a struggling heart beneath ;
Altar prepared, and a victim-bride,
Sacrificed for some kinsman's pride ;
Falsely vowing to love and obey.
While her truant heart is away, away ;
Her jewelled hand clasped in one more warm,
While close at her side stands an unseen form 1
Hark ! 'tis a spirit-voice she hears,
While her lashes conceal the coming tears ;
Is it the one which blessed her youth.
Ere gold had purchased her woman's truth ?
Xay ! 'twas only a moonbeam spoke
Words to a heart that was well-nigh broke :
Sad are the scenes I'm doomed to see,
Maiden, T weep while I gaze on thee.
(213)
214 WHAT THE MOON SHINES ON.
A bower of roses a youthful pair
Learning their first love-lesson there ;
Soft hands clasped, and eyes cast down
To hide a blush, not a gathering frown.
Ah ! the moon would smile if she did not know
That human love so oft brings woe ;
That those who listen, and most believe,
Must learn that the fondest ones deceive.
A coffin black and a young bride there,
With the white flowers still in her shining hair ;
Her hands clasped over a bosom chill,
Where the diamond glitters proudly still.
Smiles on the lips, where the kiss of love
Is lingering yet, though they ne'er may move
God ! how they pray for a tone, a breath,
From the pale lips closed with the seal of death.
A pallet of rags in a corner lying
Catching the breath of the faint and dying ;
No pillow to ease the aching head
A pitcher of water a crust of bread.
Curtains of rags of various hue,
Where the keen north wind comes whistling through
No watcher to tell when life's sands run out
Only the moon on her midnight route.
No sounds of music, no tone of mirth ;
A cold, bare room, and a clean, bare hearth ;~
A handful of ashes, and children's despair,
Crying because no warmth is there ;
WHAT THE MOON SHINES ON. 215
Uncombed hair, and small naked feet
That have paced all day the snow-clad street ;
Nursed by hunger, and want, and pain
Asking alms, but alas ! in vain.
A sickly light an uncarpeted room
Shrouded in poverty's darkening gloom ;
No picture to brighten the naked wall,
Or gladden when tears unheeded fall.
A weary woman in want and dirt,
Singing again the ' song of the shirt ;'
Wearily toiling for life for bread,
While the cold night lamps die out overhead.
A single candle of sickly beam
Dreary abode for a poet's dream !
A fair young maiden with struggling soul,
Breathing her life in a glowing scroll ;
Fashioning thoughts that have filled her brain
With beauty that made her forget life's pain ;
Imparting to paper a music sweet,
While her hands glide over the snowy sheet.
Dreaming that lie may read her song,
And sigh because of her early wrong ;
Catching in momentary pause.
A far, faint sound of the world's applause.
But the hectic spot blooms on her cheek,
And the hacking cough is low and weak ;
Yes ; fame will come when the willoivs wave
Their graceful boughs o'er a nameless grave.
'216 WHAT THE MOON SHINES ON.
Hush ! 'tis the dice-box oh ! no, not there !
See the ghastly face, and the wild despair !
The greedy clutch of the winning one,
The maniac glance of the wretch undone :
Think of the weeping sister and mother,
Mourning the crimes of a son and brother ;
Fortune, and truth, and honor gone,
Are some of the scenes the moon shines on.
Hark ! 'tis the sound of wild revelry,
The wine-cup sparkles and floweth free,
Wreathed with roses but bearing beneath
A hideous serpent whose name is Death !
Hear the ribald jest, and the laughter loud,
And the boisterous mirth of a reckless crowd ;
The moon smiles never on such a spot :
Nor Virtue her very name 's forgot.
Not there ! not there ! 'tis the gilded hall,
Where Satan gloats over our race's fall
Sin hides under that polished floor,
And faces are there that blush no more :
The painted cheek and lip are there,
Striving to hide the soul's despair.
Oh ! the laugh which rings on the listening ear,
Is mirth from the whited sepulchre !
Stars of the heaven ! I would not be ye,
Too dark are the scenes that you often see ;
Moon ! I envy you not your light,
It falleth too often on woo and blight.
WHAT THE MOON SHINES ON. 217
Perjured soul, and a broken vow,
Crushed heart hid by a smiling brow ;
Sin-cursed soul and an oily tongue
Gloating o'er tears from beauty wrung
Virtue crushed down by iron heel
Fortune with ever turning wheel
Raising proud vice to an earthly throne,
While the honest poor weep and die alone.
Secret crimes reached not by law,
Hearts where the canker-worms always gnaw-
Bridal favors and funeral pall
Watched by the God who loves us all :
These and the tale is not yet done
Are some of the scenes that the moon shines on.
10
FAREWELL.
" Oh ! in that fatal word Farewell howe'er
We promise, hope, believe, there breathes despair 1" BYKOV.
OH ! 'tis a bitter thing to see
Our youthful hopes die one by one,
The joys which bright
Made life's short day,
Fade like some
Transient dream away :
But oh ! there is a deeper woe
That through the soul storm-like doth move ;
'Tis when we breathe that word farewell !
To one we love.
Oh ! 'tis a bitter thing to find
Our early dreams were false and vain,
When all the visions
Of our youth
Are melted by
The rod of Truth.
But oh ! there is a bitterer pang,
And one more full of anguished pain ;
'Tis ' farewell ' breathed by one we ne'er
May see again.
'Tis bitter, too, when first we learn
That friendship is a hollow word
(218)
FAREWELL. 219
An idle sound,
A, fading dream ;
A cloak to hide
Some artful scheme.
But oh ! when those the young, the loved,
Take one last lingering look and part ;
A deeper woe, a heavier blight,
Falls on the heart.
No parting word no parting kiss
Can take from that dark hour its sting ;
No whispered vow,
Though fondly spoken ;
No promise sweet
Of faith unbroken :
Though lip be pressed to lip, and hope
Of future happiness shall tell ;
Still, 'tis life's bitterest grief to say
That word farewell !
There's much besides inconstancy
May chill the hearts that love too well :
Some careless word
May float between ;
Some whispering tongue
May intervene.
For oh ! the world is full of change,
And those the warm, the trusting-hearted,
Whom time could ne'er estrange, may be
By falsehood parted.
220 FAREWELL.
Ah ! bitter, bitter full of woe !
That fatal word that dirge of hope !
Long, tender, wistful
Glances cast ;
This parting kiss
May be your last !
Though time might find in after years
Your trust undimmed, your love unblighted,
Still Death may come to break the vow
Affection plighted.
THE POET'S DREAM.
OH ! strange, sweet gift of Poesy !
I would not give thee up,
Although I know thou fillest for me
With double griefs life's bitter cup.
Though but for thee I should not feel
The woes that through my bosom steal ;
Though even happiness to me,
Must pain by its intensity !
And pain a keener anguish see,
Because of thee because of thee !
Yet oh ! the rapturous joy I know
At moments when I call thee up,
Repays me for an age of woe,
And sweetens all life's bitter cup.
Oh ! strange, sweet gift of Poesy !
My love my life my all !
I soon forget my transient pain,
When thou respondest to my call.
And should the wealthy and the proud,
The gay, the glad, the idle crowd,
Look down in pitying scorn on me
I pity them they have not thee !
For visions greet my poet eye,
They with their wealth could never buy ;
6* (221)
222 THE POET'S DREAM.
I take from some sweet simple flower,
Their coarser souls would overlook,
Rich dreams for many a future hour
Draw lessons thence from Nature's book.
'Tis true, oh ! gift of Poesy !
That I the earth-born child,
Drew into my young heart from thee,
Such yearnings bitter, vague and wild ;
That beauty, wheresoe'er 'tis seen,
In sunny sky, or leaf of green,
In budding tree, or hill afar,
In blooming flower, or holy star,
In twining vine, or sloping lawn,
In stream that ripples calmly on ;
In pebble by the sea-shore found,
In heart's-ease sprinkled o'er the ground,
In shell of rare and curious hue,
In moss that 'neath the ocean grew,
In sunset cloud that floats in space,
Or sparkling in a human face,
Gives to my soul such keen delight,
Such dreams of bliss, such rapture bright,
And wakens there a deep refrain,
A feeling less of joy than pain.
And though from thee my spirit caught
Such fine, deep chords, that even pleasure
Is by exquisite torture bought,
I would not give thee up my treasure !
What care I for the outer world ?
Its praise, its scorn, are naught to me ;
THE POET'S DREAM. 223
I live not on its sniile or frown,
So long as thou art left to me.
A ready pen, a dreamy hour,
There waft me to some Eden bower ;
And wandering there at eventide,
Forget that e'er I wept or sighed.
Should friendship lose its sunny hue,
And those prove false I fancied true ;
Should hearts I deemed so fond, so warm,
That time their truth might never shake ;
Love that I trusted in deceive,
Yea, these all cruelly forsake ;
The world is still as bright to me,
For I have lover friend in thee.
Oh ! strange, sweet gift of Poesy !
Mysterious, divine !
I'd barter all the wealth of earth
Only one hour to call thee mine.
And since thou gavest my young heart
Its brightest, its divinest part,
I envy not the sea its gem,
Nor king his royal diadem.
I envy not the belle her grace,
I envy not proud beauty's face ;
I envy not the great of earth
Their regal wealth, their royal birth.
I envy not the artist's fame,
Nor noble his distinguished name ;
224 THE POET'S DKEAM.
I envy not the maiden fair,
Whose lips may taste love's chalice rare ;-
If aught of these that I have named
Could e'er my heart with envy move,
'Twould be the last upon the list,
The maiden happy in her love !
But love is fickle prone to changes,
As bee from flower to flower ranges ;
For none of these would I resign
This strange, mysterious gift of mine 1
THE MOTHER'S PRAYER.
ABOVE thy midnight couch, my only one,
I bend me low with failing eye and dim ;
Long since has sunk the slowly setting sun,
And o'er the wall are shadows dark and grim.
Thy plaintive wail, so full of pain and woe,
Falls on the heart ear of my grief-bowed form ;
The tide of life grows sluggish in its flow ;
Cold is the cheek once to my own so warm :
O Father ! from my lips take back the cup !
Child of my love ! I cannot give thee up !
Thy infant kiss, so innocently given,
Thy vain attempts to lisp thy mother's name
But thou must go ; for angels up in heaven
Are calling thee, loved one, from whence thou came.
And I shall gaze upon thy broken toy,
Thy little hat, all useless on the wall,
And, gazing, know that thou, my heart's sole joy,
Art lying where there's darkness over all.
pitying Father ! take, take back the cup !
Child of my love ! I cannot give thee up !
One year ago a little face like thine
Was hidden in the darkness of the tomb ;
About my neck I felt his arms untwine,
Then laid him there, where all was night and gloom.
10* (225)
226 THE MOTHER'S PRAYER.
I've wept above that hallowed spot of ground,
Unto the earth with grief and misery crushed ;
The grass is green above the lowly mound :
Must thy sad wailings in the grave be hushed ?
Saviour, who wept for us ! take back the cup !
Child of my love ! I cannot give thee up !
But if thou livest, woman's lot is thine ;
The griefs entailed on her must fall on thee ;
Oft will thy gentle spirit sadly pine
When realizing woman's destiny.
To love unloved, my child, may be thy doom ;
Thy hopes may wither, and thy joys may fade ;
Better than this the quiet of the tomb,
Where I thy infant brother sadly laid
Yet no ! my heart would break ! take back the cup !
Child of my love ! I cannot give thee up !
Yet sorrow not alone on thee might fall :
Sin with its serpent slime might visit thee
Better than that the waving funeral pall,
Although the sight be maddening to see ;
But thou thou art my all, thou loving one ;
Thou 'rt the sole blessing nature to me gave ;
I cannot bear to see thy rising sun
Thus set these arms would snatch thee from the
grave !
Oh ! bitter are the dregs mixed in life's cup !
Child of my love ! I cannot give thee up !
A Saviour calls thee hence, then go, my child ;
Go, from the cares thy future life might bring ;
THE MOTHER'S PRAYER. 227
Go, while thou 'rt young, and pure, and undefiled,
Ere thy young heart has felt the adder's sting.
But shall I meet no more thy proffered kiss,
Or clasp thee to my heart ? the thought is woe !
At noon, at eve, at night, I know I'll miss
Thy soft white arms yet go, my loved one, go :
Father 1 bitter, bitter is the cup !
Child of my love ! 'tis hard to give thee up !
Ah ! this is wrong : go from a sin-cursed earth ;
Dark leaves thy book of fate may have concealed ;
Go ! ere thy voice has hushed its tone of mirth,
And all life's shades are to thy gaze revealed :
I'll fold thy arms upon thy pulseless breast,
Thy brief but blissful dream of life is past ;
The grave has won thee to its quiet rest,
One kiss, my darling one it is my last !
1 meekly bow my head to drink the cup 1
Child of my love ! thy mother gives thee up !
THE BROKEN HEART.
SHE faded with the last sweet summer blossoms ;
When autumn leaves were scattered o'er the plain,
We placed the thin hands o'er the pulseless bosom,
And closed those eyes that ne'er would ope again.
Like some fair lily, from its frail stem broken
Just as it opened into life and light,
We marked her slowly fading with the flowers,
And soon she slept in death's long, rayless night.
How joyously had flown her life's young hours !
Her voice rang out from morn till starlit eve
In songs of gladness : never care or sorrow
Had come to make that bright, free spirit grieve ;
Her silvery laughter, in itself sweet music,
Had echoed to the birdling's morning call ;
And brightly bloomed the buds of joy around her,
Till lie came o'er her path and blighted all.
We marked the timid flush steal o'er her features,
The veiled and downcast eye when he was near ;
And then, the quick, bright glance, so full of meaning*
All told in silent language he was dear.
A dreamy look half happiness, half sorrow-
Stole o'er her face when he was at her side ;
Alas ! even that too plainly was revealing
The love which she so plainly strove to hide.
(228)
THE BROKEN HEART. 229
She little knew the smile which beamed so brightly
Was caused to see a trusting heart deceived ;
Or that those looks of love, and tones endearing,
Were insincere, she listened, and believed !
And when to her in low, deep voice he whispered
He ne'er had seen a face he deemed more fair,
She looked up in his eyes with gentle trusting,
And dreamed not of the vile deception there.
And when she gazed upon his brow of beauty,
And when his soft, beguiling voice she heard,
Gone was her love for household song and pleasure :
She found no joy in flower, nor book, nor bird,
Save when the flower was one that he had given
At eventide, as wandering mid the grove
One he had loved and praised ; or when the Poem
Was some sweet song resembling her own love.
But when at last he spoke of only friendship,
We marked her paling cheek, her sudden start ;
And then she tried to crush each tender feeling,
" But 'twas a bitter task it broke her heart."
Her voice was calm I wondered at its calmness
As to his heartless sentence she replied ;
Her brow was tranquil, and her words were careless :
Ah ! who may know the depth of woman's pride !
" I love thee as a sister ;" such the arrow
Wreathed o'er with roses. What a mockery !
Ah ! well he knew at every hour of meeting
His eyes had told the lover's gentle plea :
230 THE BROKEN HEART.
But what cared he if sorrow gathered o'er her ?
If sunny eye grew dim, and cheek turned pale?
What cared he though he darkened all her being ?
A broken heart is but a common tale.
Still she wreathed chaplets o'er her snowy forehead,
Still mid the gay was bright, and gayest there ;
None marked the stifled sigh, the pale lip's quiver,
Though in her bosom lay that chill despair :
To him all proud and careless was her greeting ;
She summoned to her aid her woman's pride,
And tried to banish every sweet remembrance,
But 'twas in vain she faded, drooped, and died !
" Oh ! tell him not" this was her last, proud pleading
" With secret grief my life had grown so dim ;
Nor let him know my heart was slowly breaking
With all its weight of hopeless love for him.
Say, in the festive dance my step was lighted,
That I was wildest, merriest of the gay ;
Say that my voice ne'er lost its tone of gladness,
Nor ever let him dream of slow decay.
" Ne'er let him know my cheek was growing whiter,
Say that some pestilence has stopped my breath :
I would not have him think it secret sorrow,
I would not have him glory in my death :
He must not know that in the haunted midnight
I seemed to see his eyes upon me beam
With love once more, and clasped his hands all fondly,
Then woke to weep that it was but a dream.
THE BROKEN HEAET. 231
' He must not know that in the hush of twilight
I walked our old familiar paths alone,
To sing the gentle songs he praised so often,
And dreamed his voice was blending with my own.
Oh ! tell him not of all my bitter weeping,
Nor how that always he was unforgot ;
Nor how I kissed his letters, even in dying :
Say what you will but say I loved him not ! "
The sun was sinking o'er the western valleys
Her life was sinking with his parting ray ;
We watched each fading hue with heart of anguish,
We knew her sun would set at close of day.
And as his light was growing dim, and dimmer
With mingled words of tenderness and pride
Her voice grew feebler in the coming darkness,
And just at sunset, she our darling died !
A moonbeam stole in at the open window
To kiss her brow 'twas paler than its light ;
Her hands were folded by its gentle lustre ;
Her form was decked in robes of spotless white.
We lightly smoothed the soft and silken tresses
That fell about the face in graceful wave ;
And by the starlight soft, we clipped one ringlet,
Those stars are shining now upon her grave.
VERSES.
RAVE on, them restless river !
Lash wildly on the shore !
i love to list thy anguish,
Thy shriek, thy angry roar !
Rave on ! thy maddened waters
Are like my troubled heart ;
The beating of each wild wave
Seems of my soul a part.
The loud storm and the tempest
Bring strange delight to me ;
To hear the mad waves shrieking
Upon the stormy sea :
To see the lightning dancing,
To hear the thunder's roar ;
And watch the billows breaking
Upon a rock-bound shore.
I glory in the tempest !
I hate a quiet night !
I love to see the heavens
One vivid sheet of light !
Oh ! there's joy in the raving
Of a storm upon the sea !
And I'd glory in its warring,
Though it brought death to me !
(232) '
"AWEARY."
I KNOW that soon this pulse of mine,
Which wildly beats, will beat no more ;
That soon this strange, mysterious heart
Be still its wondrous workings o'er.
Upon a throbless, quiet breast,
These hands will calmly, coldly lie ;
These lips refuse to move again ;
Ah ! yes : I know that I must die.
Kind hands will fold my weary limbs
In still and statue-like repose ;
The tolling bell proclaim to all
My soul's release from earthly woes.
Some there may be who'll wildly weep
Above my grave when none are by ;
But I the thought is passing sweet,
To know that I so soon must die.
I'm weary of this weary world,
I'm weary of its pleasures vain ;
I'm weary of this aching heart,
Which broods above its silent pain ;
I'm weary of false friendship's vow,
Cold, heartless age deceitful youth ;
I long for wings, that I may fly
To yon bright realm where all is Truth.
(233)
RETROSPECTION.
I LOVE the calm, sequestered woods,
Where not a sound is heard
But the soft, plaintive melody
Of some sweet, wandering bird.
The wind is murmuring through the pines
Its carol low and sweet ;
And haunting voices in my ear
The vows of old repeat.
Where are the many fantasies
Once mine in earlier youth ?
Where are the garlands fancy wove ?
Discolored all by truth.
But pictures still are in my heart,
Which memory's pencil drew ;
They cannot fade by Time's cold touch,
Too sombre is their hue.
I once could sit me idly down
Beside some rippling rill,
And dream sweet dreams of future bliss ;
Alas ! they haunt me still.
There come back, as in mockery,
A pair of soft blue eyes ;
And then, as if by magic wand,
A thousand phantoms rise.
(234)
RETROSPECTION. 235
I see in memory's faithful glass
That moss-grown cot once more ;
The jasmine o'er the trellis twined,
The woodbine at the door.
And once again that prophecy
Falls sadly on my ear :
" Maiden, the frequent sigh is thine,
And thine the falling tear."
I've lived to see joy's meteors sink
In darkness, one by one ;
I've lived to see each rose of hope
Fade ere the setting sun :
I've lived to see the friends I loved
To quiet graveyards borne ;
Some lie entombed some have forgot
And I am all alone !
If thou hast watched thy dearest one
Sink to the dreamless sleep,
Plant flowers above the early tomb,
But do not wildly weep ;
For oh ! thy lot is happiness
If love is still unchanged,
Better weep o'er a lowly grave
Than mourn a heart estranged !
Oh ! this is deepest misery,
To worship day by day
Some idol, once deemed angel-like,
And find it common clay !
236 RETROSPECTION.
I weep not for the early dead,
When I their tombstones see ;
I weep for those the loved and lost,
Who live, but love not me !
I meet the careless and the cold,
I too seem careless, cold
And imitate the heartless young,
Smile with the worthless old :
And they may think my heart is gay,
Because my smiles are bright ;
But smiling lip and sparkling eye
May hide an inward blight.
The festive dress a mockery seems ;
I loathe the glittering wreath ;
I hate the jewels on my brow,
And sigh in vain for death.
No star for me with radiance bright
Illumes the darkened sky ;
I'm weary of this weary world,
God ! that I could die !
MILLER'S GRAVE.
(WRITTEN ON VISITING THE TOMB OF GEORGIA'S LAMENTED
SON, HON. ANDREW J. MILLER.)
HERE let me pause with reverential air,
Beside the tomb that holds his sacred dust ;
And sadly read upon the tablet fair,
The name of him, the good, the brave, the just !
This is not all to tell of him who sleeps,
Although beside it bitter tear-drops start ;
For many a soul his treasured memory keeps,
And he left monuments in every heart.
'Tis well, bright sinking Sun, that thou shouldst shed
Thy latest ray upon this hallowed spot ;
And gild the tablet o'er the illustrious dead,
Who although passed away is unforgot.
A voice, though speechless, hath this work of art,
Nor tells it simply that he lived and died ;
It speaks in trumpet tones to every heart :
" I mark the resting-place of Georgia's pride."
And can it be that Miller's work is done ?
Shall listening Senates hear his voice no more ?
Yes : we have marked the setting of his sun,
The life so gloriously bright is o'er.
And he hath slept for months in this cold bed,
With heart all throbless, cheek all pale and chill ;
Yet Georgia Rachel-like mourns for her dead,
Who lies beneath this tomb so cold and still.
(237)
238 MILLER'S GRAVE.
The dust has settled on that glorious brow ;
The voice that ever soothed another's woes
Is silent ; and the arms once mighty, now
Lie folded calmly in death's strange repose.
No more he'll grace our legislative hall,
No more will battle bravely for the right ;
He lieth where there's darkness over all,
And sleeps the dreamless sleep in death's long night.
In all the brightness of a noonday sun
Earth pillowed him upon her chilling breast,
In vain we wept our hero's work was done,
We now pay tributes to his place of rest.
In life he was our pride ; in death is now
The proudest boast kind nature to us gave.
The brightest laurel on Augusta's brow
Is found in yonder churchyard Miller's grave!
The poor will ne'er forget him oft they'll bend
O'er Miller's tomb with hearts of gratitude ;
The suffering ever found in him a friend,
And with their tears his grave shall be bedewed ;
Though every lip that learns to lisp his name
Shall find a magic in the simple word ;
Yet one such tear is higher meed of fame
Than all that marble tells, or men record.
'Tis Miller's grave step softly, lightly here,
Where flowers blossom and the ivy creeps ;
Let no unworthy, sinful thought appear,
'Tis hallowed ground where the pure patriot sleeps.
MILLEK'S GRAVE. 239
Come, point your children to the quiet place,
Where lone he slumbers ; for in truth you can
Mark out his path for their young feet to trace,
And say to them with pride, this was a Man,
'Tis Miller's grave methinks the evening air
Is purer here about his sacred mound,
The moonbeams softer, and the flowers more fair,
The sunbeams brighter, for 'tis hallowed ground ;
Strangers will linger near this pure white stone,
With reverence deep, where sleeps the good, the
brave,
To bless the memory of him that's gone,
And shed a heartfelt tear on Miller's grave.
THE EVENING STAR.
WHERE dwellest them, my young heart's chosen one ?
What glorious star can claim thee as its own ?
If it be true that when the spirit flies
Prom earth, it nestles in those starlit skies.
What orb is brightened by thy radiant face ?
Methinks in yonder evening star I trace
The light which circled o'er the brow I love,
And fixed my wayward heart on things above.
Though this is fancy, passing sweet's the dream
That when the stars of heaven above me beam,
I've but to raise my glances to the skies,
And see the sparkle of thy love-lit eyes.
Much better than the day I'll love the night,
For when yon lamp of heaven is burning bright,
I'll fancy I can see thy spirit's home,
And hear thee whisper low : " Come, loved one ! come."
Sweet evening star ! brighter than all the rest,
Thou art the star my infancy loved best ;
And still the fancy dream my bosom swells,
That there with thee my loved one's spirit dwells.
I'll clasp the dear delusion to my breast,
That it may quell this wild and vague unrest ;
And though from native land I wander far,
I'll turn to thee with love, bright evening star !
(240)
"THE APPROACHING FOOTSTEP."
SUGGESTED BY AN OLD PICTURE.
LIGHT feet tripping- o'er the daisies,
Bonnet swung upon her arm ;
Singing like a wee wild birdie,
Dreaming not of fear nor harm.
For she knows good fairies guide her,
And she goes to meet her love
Down in yonder lonesome valley,
Ere the stars are lit above.
Dancing lightly o'er the daisies,
Stooping now to pluck a flower
Fair as she, who thus is dreaming
In love's first delicious hour.
How her heart is wildly beating
As she gayly trips along,
Catching up the wild bird's echo,
Chanting many a sweet old song.
Now the " trysting-place " she seeketh,
Deep within yon shaded dell ;
There he told her that he loved her,
And he bade her guess how well.
There the tall sweet-scented bay-trees,
High above the willows loom ;
There the first blue violet opens,
There the white wild lilies bloom.
(241)
242 "'THE APPKOACHING FOOTSTEP."
Now she seats herself around her
Flowers wave, and birds sing free ;
At her feet a rippling streamlet
Soothes her with its melody.
Softly there the wild-winged zephyr
Sways the yellow jasmine vines ;
And while floating onward maketh*
Low sad music in the pines.
Now the anxious thoughts within her
Move her breast with gentle swell ;
She is watching she is listing
For that footfall loved so well.
Hist ! a sound disturbs the silence,
Nervously her bosom heaves
Now he 's coming ! no ; 'tis yonder
Squirrel hopping through the leaves.
Twilight shadows are descending
Like a veil upon the world ;
Stiller grows the silence round her
Eve her curtain has unfurled.
Still he comes not and a shadow
Gathers slowly on her brow ;
Plaintively the sad heart asketh,
Half in fear, " Oh ! where art thou ?"
Something now disturbs the vine leaves
He is coming yes ; 'tis he !
No : vain hope ! 'twas but yon wild bird
Moving restless 011 the tree.
"THE APPROACHING FOOTSTEP." 243
How the heart sinks in her bosom ;
Hope gives place to anxious fear
" Oh ! why comes he not ? he promised
He at eve would meet me here.
" Still he stays perhaps another.
Fairer one has won his love ;
Once he vowed my eyes were brighter
Than the stars which burn above.
But the gipsy said last evening,
That my loved one still was true :
Night is coming ! night is coming !
Stars are up oh ! where are you ?"
Darker grew the shadows round her,
Sadder sang the rippling rill
And the moon came out in beauty,
Sitting on the lonely hill :
" Was ; t for this I careful braided
Every soft and silken tress
O'er the brow he praised so often
For its simple loveliness ?
" Twined sweet roses o'er my forehead,
Plaited garlands in my hair,
That to him I might seem lovely,
That he still might call me fair ?
Was 't for this I strayed so stealthy
From those loving ones at home ?
I ne'er dreamed he would deceive me :
Loved one, come I pray thee, come !
244 "THE APPROACHING FOOTSTEP."
" Or perhaps his purse-proud father
Scorns the simple country maid ;
And would have him wed another
Ne'er before he thus had stayed.
They would chill each warm emotion,
Win him -from the love of old
Sneer him from his fond devotion,
Wed his youthful heart to gold."
Even now the step is coming,
Mark the mingled love and pride ;
And her joy, told by warm blushes,
Vainly she may strive to hide ;
How her heart with love is beating,
As she hears him coming near
Every footfall, eager, anxious,
Telling that she still is dear.
Hear his voice " My loved one, cheer thee ;
I have conquered all his pride,
And my father waits to welcome
Thee, my own fair, chosen bride."
Now her hand his own is clasping,
Moonbeams glisten cold and pale ;
And the streamlet stops to listen
To love's old but pleasant tale.
PARTING.
" One word with thee, though not of hope or gladness,
On which to muse when we are far apart ;
A whisper breathed in silence and in sadness,
To leave a hush forever on my heart !
One word to treasure in my bosom-core,
Whether we meet again, or meet no more. "
WELBY.
AND shall I hear once more thy voice of music ?
And shall I see thy gentle face again ?
Catch the soft murmur of thy whispered greeting,
The low, sweet prelude to a deeper strain ?
It is too much my heart-strings wildly nutter,
Like leaflet stirred by the wild southern breeze ;
For oh ! thou comest to breathe a farewell only ;
And soon the music of the autumn leaves
Wilt tell me, in my dwelling, dark and lonely,
That thou art gone !
Friend of my brighter days ! my more than brother !
Sharer in all my little joys and cares !
Oh ! can it be that thou and I must sever,
To meet no more for long and weary years ?
It were so sweet to have thee ever near me,
When I impulsive err to gently chide ;
But soon between us mountains high shall tower,
And winding rivers gently, calmly glide ;
Yea, soon the waves of time be proudly bearing
Thee from my side.
(245)
240 I'AKTIXft.
For years thy love has been my inspiration ;
To win thy praise has been my highest aim ;
To hear thy gentle words of sweet approval,
Has been the all I sought of earthly fame.
When with the gush of song my lute-strings quivered,
Lending a faint flush to my pallid cheek ;
'Twas bliss to have thy calm eyes bending o'er me,
Telling the love thou did'st not dare to speak ;
To feel within the deep cells of my spirit,
Thy heart my own !
No stormy feeling gave our eyes their lustre,
Ours was a deeper, calmer, holier love ;
So pure, it scarcely raised a blush to own it,
So like to that the angels feel above.
No short-lived passion bade thee seek my presence,
That wild, mad fever-dream of heart and brain ;
So calm and quiet were our hearts united,
To nurse devotion scarcely caused us pain ;
So free was our sweet love from earthly shortness,
And earthly stain.
For, looking calmly up to yon fair heaven,
We felt that we would meet and mingle there ;
And living in the hope of such reunion ;
Our hearts felt not the weight of dull despair.
We knew that we on earth must e'er be parted,
The future promised naught for love like ours ;
For fell disease had marked thee as its victim,
And robbed thy pathway of its brightest flowers
But faith told of a meeting in that Eden,
Whore Death is not !
PARTING. 247
But now we meet, to part perchance forever
Thy hand may touch mine once then never more.
It gives no pang ! the dream that we together
Should walk through life as one, has long been o'er '
One winter evening when the stars were trembling
Pale, weeping watchers, love, like thou and I
We watched the death-throes of that early love-dream,
And wept above it till we saw it die :
Then buried it our breaking hearts the graveyard !
When none was by.
We parted then thou to thy quiet duties,
I, to the world, where mirth oblivion lends
We calmly met, as though we ne'er had parted,
And those who saw us said we were but friends.
The idle ones who caught our words of welcome,
Thy stately greeting, and my quiet pride,
Might never guess the drama late enacted ;
That hope for us had budded, withered, died :
Our hearts too well were schooled, to show emotion
When side by side.
And did our love-dream die on that dark evening
Say, dear one, was it really love that died ?
Nay, nay ; 'twas but our feeble hope that perished,
And left affection chastened, purified.
Love cannot die an angel gift, it lingers
Within the heart, though all all else be dead ;
As heavenly music round the harp still hovers,
Although the hand that swept its strings has fled :
And yields a broken chime when fond remembrance
Awakes the past.
248 PARTING.
True love is deathless, like that unseen spirit
Which lives when from its earthly household riven ;
It breathes on through a still dream-like existence,
And like that spirit, too, its home is heaven :
Then sigh not, weep thou not 1 a calm enjoyment
Awaits us yet, within that brighter sphere ;
That land where all is love, where pain and sadness
Shall, like the mists of morning, disappear :
And feeling this without one tear of parting
I'll give thee up !
But come once more ! once, ere we part forever !
Clasp thou my yielding hand within thine own ;
One glance of thy calm eyes one word of parting !
To cherish in my heart when thou art gone.
One long, sweet talk, like those we held together
When our young hearts no throb of sorrow knew !
Those dreaming hours, when, happy to be near thee,
I saw my heaven in thine eyes of blue.
One hour ! to feel thy fond heart wildly beating,
With pulse so true !
I do not fear that thou wilt e'er forget me,
Our love hath stood the fiery tests of time ;
My face will haunt thee when the twilight gathers
Around thee in that drear and distant clime.
Fond memory will unite our spirits always
Fate smote us early with her poisoned dart ;
The arrow missed its aim, although it reached us,
And only broke the hearts it could not part.
PARTING. 249
How could the hearts be parted that were one, love,
And Heaven's the hand that joined them long ago :
But time is gliding- swiftly we must sever
To lengthen our farewell, ah ! this is woe !
One look ! one last sweet smile ! one word of parting!
Go ! loved one, go !
THE PAST.
BACK to your caves again,
Dreams of the buried past !
And nevermore on me
Your gloomy shadows cast.
A gulf is fixed between
Such memories and me,
A gulf all wide and deep,
And I I will be free.
Stir not, clay-cold corpse,
The stone is on your grave,
I am released at last,
So long, so long a slave.
And yet, dream of mine,
Dream beautiful, but fled !
Sometimes at midnight hour
I weep that thou art dead.
'Twas night there was no moon,
And no one else was by ;
With calm and tearless face,
I watched and saw ye die.
Beside a hearthstone cold,
With ashes covered o'er ;
I counted your quick gasps,
And knew you'd smile no more.
(250)
THE PAST. 251
I heard your last deep sob,
Your faint and quivering breath ;
And smiled to see that thou
Wert beautiful in death.
I smoothed your rigid limbs,
Arranged each shining tress ;
And kissed your still white lips
With yearning tenderness.
I tried to turn away
In calm and quiet pride ;
Some lingering weakness yet
Detained me at your side.
I closed your earnest eyes,
And then, in sudden pain,
And with a gush of love,
I kissed your lips again.
One hour on me had done
The work of many years,
And yet my faee was still,
A grief too deep for tears
Had hushed each gasping sob
But why, oh ! why again,
Recall from its cold tomb
That long, long night of pain ?
THE ROSE AND THE LAUREL.
" How valueless seems the envied laurel beside the dying rose."
BULWER.
NIGHT in the princely dwelling hushed and still
The sounds of busy life. The star-beams bright
Pour through the open windows, and illume
Each lonely chamber with mysterious light.
Soft silken curtains rustle in the breeze,
And light-winged zephyrs summer leaflets stir,
Calling their rich delicious fragrance forth,
But not for her ah ! iievermore for her !
The violet nestles in its hood of green,
The white pink sinks in slumber light and soft ;
And still, as to its worshipped idol turned,
The faithful sun-flower rears its head aloft.
The rose has gathered its fair petals close,
To meet the dew so gently o'er them shed ;
Just as her young heart folded iip its leaves,
When night and storm raged wildly overhead.
The mocking-bird with many a changing note,
Trills his sad song upon the summer air
So mournfully, you'd dream he had no mate,
For in his midnight chant there breathes despair.
Poor bird ! hast thou, like weary mortals, learned
That love brings less of joy than fevered pain ?
Thy song hath such a bitter wailing caught,
I'd almost fancy thou hadst loved in vain.
(252)
THE ROSE AND THE LAUREL. 253
Say, feathered minstrel ! didst thou ever turn
To some bright song-bird of the sunny dell ?
And didst thou sing to her on starlit eves
The thoughts that in thy little bosom swell ?
Say, was she faithless to thy murmured love ?
Turned she in cold indifference away ?
Or did some cruel arrow find her breast,
And make so dark for thee life's little day ?
If not for thine own griefs, for others weep
In yonder mansion there are human woes ;
A worthless thing the envied laurel seems,
And valueless beside the dying rose.
Perch lightly on the window-shutter, bird,
But blend no gay notes in thy little air ;
Oh ! let thy lonely midnight song gush forth
In pitying tenderness -for death is there !
How calm and still ! no sound of revelry
Disturbs the solemn silence late those halls
Rang high with mirth and music now alone
Upon the else unbroken stillness, falls
The muffled tread the swiftly hurrying feet
Of those who gather round to see her die
The murmuring music of the plaintive breeze,
The stifled sob the low, half-broken sigh.
Upon a low, white couch, whose graceful folds
Of silken drapery sweep the polished floor,
Like some fair, fading rose, the lady lies
Dreaming of childhood's happiness once more ;
254 THE ROSE AND THE LAUREL.
Murmuring in broken words of blissful hours,
When she was all the world to him she loved ;
When through the heart that throbbed for only her,
Ambition's fearful storm had never moved.
How beautiful she is ! her golden curls
Float like a halo round her forehead fair
Where the blue veins course underneath the skin
A few white buds are in her shining hair.
One sculptured arm, like Parian marble white,
About her head is thrown the other lies
Upon the snowy sheet pale is her cheek,
And closed, as if in pain, her violet eyes.
The moonbeams fall upon her faded face,
And light with richer hue her clustering hair ;
The stars look down upon her pityingly
Her parted lips are moving as in prayer.
And now her eyes unclose they seek his own,
He who bends over her with fond caress ;
Who feels that if the grave must hide that face,
The whole wide world to him is valueless.
But Fame had been his god for it he turned
Aside from home, and all its calm delight ;
Spurning, as mean and worthless, little joys,
He struggled up Ambition's giddy height :
The world had won him its deceitful voice
Had lured him on its praise was all he sought ;
And now the laurel garlanded his brow ;
But by how dear a price the wroath was bought !
THE ROSE AND THE LAUREL. 255
His noble form had graced the senate's hall,
His voice of eloquence had swayed the crowd ;
His inborn genius awed the listening throng,
And now a conquered world before him bowed.
Brave men knelt to his worth fair women smiled
When he approached admiring thousands hung
Spell-bound, enraptured by the magic words
Of burning eloquence upon his tongue.
Was it for this that he had yielded up
His all of happiness that faithful love,
The only flower left in an earthly bed
Akin to those that blossom up above ?
And had he crushed affection's tender buds,
For Fame's high pomp its glittering pageantry ?
Alas ! proud man ! thou yet shalt live to learn
That one fond heart worth all the world to thee.
To win the laurel he had left the rose,
That rose, the heart he won in boyhood's hour ;
Nor knew he that remorseful bitterness,
Would prove how dearer far the humble flower.
To win the world's applause its empty fame,
He sternly cast his early love aside ;
Poor flower ! it faded slowly from neglect,
And in its loneliness, it pined and died !
List! 'tis the clock strikes twelve ! how fearful sounds
That little throb from the big heart of Time !
And now the mocking-bird, silent before,
Trills his lone lay, as if to form a chime.
256 THE ROSE AND THE LAUREL.
All still and cold and pale the lady lies,
What wonder she in dreamless slumber sleeps ;
And o'er the hands, locked in a mute embrace,
The strong man bows his head and weeps, aye, weeps.
Years pass amid the mighty ones of earth
That proud man stands how cold and stern his brow !
As though he hated even his fame, and yet
The world's applause is all that's left him noiv.
In vain for him the trumpet sounds its burst ;
In vain for him may beauty's ringlets wave ;
In vain for him may sweet-lipped maidens sing
His all of heart lies in one little grave !
He stands before the idolizing crowd ;
He hears the praise Mice to his ears so sweet ;
But 'tis with stern indifference he feels
That conquered Fame lies prostrate at his feet.
And oh ! when in proud loneliness, he turns
To snatch a few brief moments of repose,
These words ring through his heart : " How valueless
The envied laurel by the dying rose !"
SUDDEN DEATH.
" LEAVE me alone, for I would dream of heaven,
That pure bright clime where heart-aches all are o'er ;
Where they, who here by iron hands are riven,
Shall reunite to sever nevermore.
Leave me alone at this sweet sunset hour,
When loveliness to all the earth is given,
When perfume floats from every fragile flower,
I'd be alone oh ! let me dream of heaven.
" Speak not to me I could not bear to hear
A careless tone, a word or smile of mirth ;
Even thy sweet voice is discord in my ear,
And brings my musings back again to earth.
I'm weary of this world too soon my flowers
The serpent found, and blighted all their bloom,
Dimming the brightness of youth's sunny hours,
And filling all my heart with shadowy gloom.
" Yet ne'er before did earth so glorious seem ;
The flowers have a lovelier, rarer hue ;
The sunset, too, hath caught a richer gleam,
And yon far mountain looks more brightly blue.
The breezes fan more gently my wan brow,
And to the stream is sweeter music given
Why seemeth all things lovelier to me now ?
They fade 'tis earth no longer this is heaven."
(257)
258 SUDDEN DEATH.
She ceased and in the liquid, violet eyes,
There came a look unnatural, shadowy, strange ;
Her cheek grew pale as moonlight when it dies,
And o'er the features passed a sudden change.
The stars on golden thrones had each its place,
And calm and quiet was the cloudless even
A smile still lingered on the lovely face
The broken heart had passed from earth to heaven.
GLITTER.
GLITTER, glitter, little star !
In yon azure heaven afar ;
Tell me there's a brighter sphere,
Where earth's shadows disappear ;
Whisper to my wayward heart
That its grief shall there depart ;
Glitter in the midnight sky !
Bid me lift my thoughts on high !
Sparkle, sparkle, little star !
In the night's triumphal car ;
Tell of Him who made thee bright,
To illume the darkest night ;
Tell of Him whose wondrous love
Hung thee in the heavens above,
That while mortals viewed thee there,
They might lift their souls in prayer.
Glisten, glisten, little star !
Naught thy glory e'er can mar,
Till He banishes the night,
Till He bids thee cease thy light.
Twinkle in thy midnight home !
Bid the earth-worn spirits come,
Where no cloud may e'er arise
In those blue, those boundless skies !
(259)
260 GLITTER.
Glitter, glitter, little star !
In yon azure heaven afar ;
Brightest jewel on night's brow,
Heavenly mission too hast thou.
When the soul of man grows dark,
He can see the feeble spark
Of that glorious light above
Lift to heaven his hope, his love !
A TRIBUTE TO CAPT. HERNDON.
SLEEP, gallant one ! a nation weeps for thee,
Thou who art slumbering 'neath the deep blue sea ;
Sweet flowers above thy tomb can never wave,
Sleep, gallant Herndon ! in thy watery grave !
Calm is the wave that rolls above thy head,
It brings no message from the quiet dead ;
It tells not of the struggle or the prayer
When death brought to thy heart a chill despair.
It tells not how thou, with sweet dreams of home,
Didst wrestle with the angry billows' foam ;
How with calm lips didst bravely drink the cup,
And thy own life for woman yielded up.
The moon that sparkles in the midnight sky,
Perchance it heard thy spirit's bitter cry,
When home and friends thy vivid fancy drew,
As thou wert sinking 'neath the waters blue.
She, the bright one, who waited long for thee,
No more on earth thy love-lit eyes shall see ;
Yet, even in grief, this thought shall be her pride,
He lived in honor, and in honor died.
Sleep, gallant one ! old Ocean's coral bed
Must pillow now thy brave and noble head ;
On green sea-flowers thy manly limbs must lay,
And billows rude around thee ever play.
(261)
262 A TRIBUTE TO CAPT. HERNL/ON.
In those blue waters, dark ami deep below,
Lie countless gems of value rare but oh !
Old Ocean won her brightest jewd, when
She chose thee, Herndon, from the forms of men.
The cold waves kiss thy still and marble brow,
And sea-snakes hiss among thy tresses now ;
But never, while chivalric hearts beat high,
The memory of thy gallant deeds shall die.
Long have the wayward billows o'er thee rolled,
And thou art lying pulseless, pale, and cold,
V/here friends to thee no monument may raise ;
But woman's lips shall ever lisp thy praise.
Sleep, gallant Herndon ! 'neath the dark blue sea,
Whose every wave talks to our hearts of thee ;
Sweet be thy rest, earth's noble son, and brave !
Sleep gently, calmly, in thine ocean grave !
THE OLD FARM-HOUSE.
MEMORY has woven her spell to-night,
And my heart flies back to my childhood bright ;
To a shady spot in the deep green wood,
Where the old farm-house with its quaint roof stood ;
To the porch where the woodbine clustering fell ;
To the roses that grew o'er the shaded well ;
To the orchard which seemed an Eden quite ;
To the sweet apple blossoms, so pure and white :
Yea, my heart goes back with a longing cry,
As the scenes of those vanished days flit by.
Artist might never have paused to paint
That old farm-house, so queer and quaint ;
Yet memories linger around that spot
That Time's cold finger may never blot.
'Twas there that I frolicked a lassie wild,
While a mother prayed for her wayward child ;
And there on that unfamed spot of earth,
My first young dream of love had birth ;
When my tangled curls fell over a brow
That the world has given its shadows now.
'Twas there that I penned rny first rude rhyme,
And there full many a tree did climb ;
With a fast, firm hold to the boughs I clave
Will I climb Fame's hill with a heart as brave ?
(263)
264 THE OLD FARM-HOUSE.
Little cared I for pinafore torn,
For fingers bleeding from many a thorn ;
I laughed at my ' falls,' and I smiled at pain,
And fearlessly mounted the limbs again :
0, hwould that this heart, so soon grown cold,
Could throb with the buoyant pulse of old 1
Oh ! the honeysuckles and lilacs fair,
They grew in clustering beauty there ;
The sweet-scented pinks, and the violets too,
The roses and jasmines so fair to view.
That garden was all the pride and care
Of a mother whose grave is far from there ;
And I know that the winds, as to-night they roam
Through the pines that sheltered my childhood's home,
Are wailing because of her early blight,
Are sighing for her while I weep to-night !
My home ! my home ! I have often cried
Like a weary child, since the rolling tide
Bore me away to life's battle plain
Prayed for thy quiet shade again.
Oh ! my heart is heavy with woe and care,
And my eyes are wet with the falling tear ;
For the feet that passed o'er thy polished floor
Will walk through thy lowly doors no more ;
And hands that hung thee with wreaths of old
Are pressed ah me ! to a heart that's cold !
Oh ! there is one, should he read this rhyme,
Who would fondly remember that vanished time ;
THE OLD FARM-HOUSE. 265
Of a dauntless heart, and a fearless eye,
As blue as a summer's cloudless sky.
1 wonder whose heart grows free and light
Under his glance of love to-night ;
Who chases the clouds from his earnest brow ;
Whose lip is quivering for him now ;
I wonder if his is a happy lot ;
/ wonder if I am by him forgot.
Do you remember the nights of old,
When some tale of the ancient time we told,
When the moonbeams fell on your classic brow ?
Say, in what land do they kiss it now ?
When you sang the songs that your childhood loved,
Ere the storm of unrest through your heart had moved ?
When you told the frolics of boyhood o'er,
And sighed for the home you might see no more ?
Oh ! my soul would forget its hidden pain,
Could we meet in the farm-house old again !
Oh ! I, as over life's plain I roam,
May often dwell in a fairer home ;
Yet none will ever be bright to me
As that made dear by its dreams of thee ;
Oh ! for one hour like those to-night !
Those that so made my childhood bright !
With a mother to call me her love, her pride !
With thou beside me to gently chide !
In vain ! in vain ! life's river rolls on,
But the loved of sty .childhood are gone all gone !
12
THE GIPSY BRIDE.
(FRAGMENT OF AN UNFINISHED POEM.)
How speeds the wooing of a pair
Who love where fate forbids they should ;
Who steal apart from watching eyes
To stroll the unfrequented wood ;
Whose hours are spent in idle dreaming,
Their stolen words thus sweeter seeming ?
Ah ! woe to those who look above
To one whom fate forbids to love !
And woe to thee, thou gipsy queen,
When first that low, sweet voice was heard !
And woe to thee when first lie paused
To breathe love's soft and honeyed word !
Say, who may chain the roving wind ?
" The eagle mates but with its kind."
Thy love a noble is, and proud,
With false fair face, and haughty brow ;
His name is old, and his lands are broad,
An outcast gipsy maid art thou !
His birth-place was a castle high,
And thine a crazy tent ; his head
Was pillowed on a silken couch,
While outlaws smoothed thine infant bed ;
And dusky forms of visage wild
Smiled first upon the gipsy child,
(266)
THE GIPSY BRIDE. 267
While he ah ! gentle hands were there,
To robe with joy the new-born heir.
Look ! see that castle grand and fair
On yonder hill how proud the dome !
'Twould but to thee a prison prove,
The wild wood is thy native home :
Then pause, ere love has made thee blind :
" The eagle mates but with its kind."
Hist ! hear the revel, the song, the shout !
The moon is up, and the stars are out ;
The gipsies dance on the village green,
But they miss the face of their worshipped queen.
And she hath stolen from all apart,
Brave, and dauntless, and free from fear ;
A flush on her cheek, hope in her heart,
And a step as light as the agile deer.
Aye, she hath gone to the try sting-place,
Where the black waters dash in angry roar,
To look again on the stranger's face,
To hear his musical voice once more.
Ah ! his brow was fair and his eyes were blue,
They stole from the sky its azure hue ;
And his voice was as soft as the murmuring rill,
That winds its way down the lonely hill :
And his lips such winning smiles could frame,
When he softly breathed the gipsy's name ;
When he clasped her hand with his thrilling touch,
And sought her eyes for the love-light there ;
When he held her form in a mute embrace,
And played with the folds of her shining hair ;
THE GIPSY HRIDE.
When he danced with her on the village greeii,
And stole the heart of the gipsy queen.
Ah ! pause, silly moth ! the blaze is bright,
But its flame will scorch thy tiny wing ;
And pause, fond maiden ! thy misplaced love
To thee can nothing but sorrow bring.
Thou hast read the stars for the love-sick heart,
The gift of prophectic skill is thine ;
Then lift thy palm with a searching eye,
And gaze with fear on each warning line.
Ha ! thy cheek is pale it says, beware !
Thou hast viewed the destiny written there :
Hours of pleasure but years of care !
Brief love brief joy then deep despair !
She seeks the unfrequented wood,
The lonely dell ; her throbbing breast
Is torn by hope and fear ; her heart
Beats wildly in its vague unrest.
Each breeze that sighs among the leaves,
She fancies is her lover's voice,
Who breathes her name in whispered tone ;
Each strange and unfamiliar noise
His coming footstep ; yes, 'tis he !
Oh ! pain of sweet expectancy !
He comes at last he of the eye
That stole its azure from the sky ;
Of lordly step, and haughty brow,
And Zelia's heart is happy now !
She chides him not for long delay,
Her lip has thrilled beneath his kiss
THE GIPSY BRIDE. 269
Her soul forgets its transient pain
In deep, ecstatic happiness !
And he his heart is touched with pain,
Though she is at his side again :
He half repents his plotted wrong,
She seems so artless and so gay ;
Oh ! did this simple wildwood flower
Bloom but to wither on his way ?
Nay ; he would from such sin depart,
Nor break that wild, impassioned heart.
Another victim ! no, oh ! no ;
Too pure, too good for such a fate :
His heart is stained with many a crime,
But this ah ! 'tis not yet too late :
Poor gipsy maid, I'll harm thee not,
I'll leave thee to a happier lot
I will not break the wild bird's wing,
Back to thy tribe, thou gipsy queen !
Go ! sing thy merry songs once more,
And lightly dance upon the green ?
His eyes look down and meet her own
Alas ! the good impulse has flown !
He thought to win her as he had won,
Daughters who boasted a nobler name ;
In vain not even for him she loved
Would Zelia sully her own fair fame.
For reared though she was, to mock at restraint,
Her soul was guietless, and free from taint ;
And maidens of loftier birth I ween,
Might envy the worth of the gipsy queen.
270 THE GIPSY BRIDE.
Dark was her cheek, and her glowing eye
Outsparkled the stars of a summer sky ;
Like the rose, which the honey-bee loving sips,
Was the crimson hue of her parted lips ;
A foot as light as the falling leaf,
A tiny hand and a graceful form ;
While her raven locks fell in shining folds
Over faultless bosom and polished arm ;
A voice whose sound rich music swells
Like the soft, sweet tinkle of silver bells ;
A laugh that rings out wild and clear,
Like the song of a bird on the summer air :
And a thousand nameless witcheries,
As sure to charm, and as rare as these.
Nor beauty alone to her was given ;
G-enius, that rare, rich gift of Heaven,
Had lent its charm "to her midnight eyes,
And breathed in her wild, impassioned sighs.
And the tempter bent him low to speak
Words that crimsoned her dusky cheek :
" Maiden, these tents are rude for thee
Gardens of beauty, rich and rare,
Shall bloom at thy bidding and thy command,
And thou, the loveliest flowret there.
Fragrance from many a tender plant
Shall sweeten the air that is breathed by thee ;
Music of soft voluptuous swell
Shall fill thy spirit with ecstasy.
There thy lightest word will be as law
To him who shall live for thy love alone ;
Then fly from these gypsy tents, sweet maid,
To a home of love and be mine own."
THE GIPSY BBIDE. 271
" Nay : tempt me not my home is here
In the lonely wood, where the wild birds dwell ;
My heart goes but with my hand, proud lord !
And that thou hast never sought farewell 1"
With a mocking laugh, and a wafted kiss,
She left him to utter loneliness,
But a chain around his heart was wove
That bound him fast and that chain was Love I
" I will crush from my soul this cursed pride,
I will woo I will win her my gypsy bride,
For what were my life but a funeral pall,
Till Zelia is lady of Egremont Hall."
A silken robe of texture rare,
And jewels worn with grace and pride,
Bedeck the happy gypsey maid,
And Zelia stands a noble's bride !
That vow she deems will ne'er be broken,
Is fondly breathed, and warmly spoken,
And Zelia wreathes her clasping arms
About his neck her heart is beating
With deathless love, and rapture deep
His own'its every throb repeating.
UNDER THE LAMPLIGHT.
UNDER the lamplight watch them come !
Figures one, two, three ;
A restless mass moves on and on,
Like waves on a stormy sea :
Lovers wooing,
Billing and cooing,
Heedless of the warning old,
Somewhere in uncouth rhyme told,
That old Time, love's enemy,
Makes the warmest heart grow cold.
See how fond the maiden leaneth
On that strong encircling arm ;
While her timid heart is beating
Near that other heart so warm :
Downcast are her modest glances,
Filled her heart with pleasant fancies
Clasp her, lover ! clasp her closer !
Time the winner, thou the loser !
He will steal
From her sparkling eye its brightness,
From her step its native lightness ;
Or perchance
Ere another year has fled,
Thou may'st see her pale and dead.
Trusting maiden !
Heart love-laden
Thou may'st learn
UNDER THE LAMPLIGHT. 273
That the lip which breathed so softly
Told to thee a honeyed lie ;
That the heart now beating near thee
Gave to thee no fond return
Learn and die !
Under the lamplight watch them coine !
Figures one. two, three ;
The moon is up the stars are out,
And hurrying crowds I see
Some with sorrow,
Of the morrow
Thinking bitterly ,
Why grief borrow ?
Some that morrow
Ne'er shall live to see.
Which of all this crowd shall God
Summon to his court to-night ?
Which of these many feet have trod
These streets their last ? who first shall press
The floor that shines with diamonds bright ?
To whom of all this throng shall fall
The bitter lot,
To hear the righteous Judge pronounce :
" Depart, ye cursed ! I know ye not !"-
Oh ! startling question ! ivho ?
Under the lamplight watch them come,
Faces fair to see
Some that pierce your very soul
With thrilling intensity.
12*
274 UNDER THE LAMPLIGHT.
Cold and ragged.
Lean and haggard
God ! what misery !
See them watch yon rich brocade,
By their toiling fingers made,
With the eyes of poverty.
Does the tempter whisper now,
" Such may be thine own " but hoio ?
Sell thy woman's virtue, wretch,
And the price that it will fetch
Is a silken robe as fine
Gems that glitter pearls that shine
But pause, reflect !
Ere the storm shall o'er thee roll,
Ere thy sin spurns all control
Though with jewels bright bedecked,
Thou wilt lose thy self-respect ;
All the good will spurn thy touch,
As if 'twere an adder's sting ;
And the price that it will bring
Is a ruined soul !
God prptect thee keep thee right,
Lonely wanderer of the night I
Under the lamplight watch them come
Youth with spirits light ;
His handsome face I'm sure doth make
Some quiet household bright.
Yet, where shall this lover,
This son, this brother,
Hide his head to-night ?
UNDER THE LAMPLIGHT. 275
Where the bubbles swim
On the wine-cup's brim ;
Where the song rings out
Till the moon grows dim :
Where congregate the knave and fool,
To graduate in vice's school.
Oh ! turn back, youth !
Thy mother's prayer
Rings in thine ear
Let sinners not
Entice thee there !
Under the lamplight watch them come,
The gay, the blithe, the free ;
And some with a look of anguished pain,
'Twould break your heart to see.
Some from a marriage
Altar and priest ;
Some from a death-bed,
Some from a feast :
Some from a den of crime, and some
Hurrying on to a happy home ;
Some bowed down with age and woe,
Praying meekly as they go :
Others, whose honor and friends are gone,
To sleep all night on the pavement stone ;
And, losing all but shame and pride,
Be found in the morning a suicide.
Rapidly moves the gliding throng
List ! the laughter, jest ~and song !
UNDER THE LAMPLIGHT,
Poverty treads
On the heels of wealth ;
Loathsome disease
Near robust health.
Grief bows down
Its weary head ;
Crime skulks on
With a cat-like tread. ^
Youth and beauty, age and pain,
Vice and virtue form the train
Misery, happiness, side by side ;
Those who had best in childhood died,
Close to the good on they go.
Some to joy, and some to woe,
Under the lamplight,
Watch them glide ;
On, like the waves of a swelling sea,
On, on, on, to Eternity !
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