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