THE 
 
 POEMS 
 
 EMMA C EMBURY. 
 
 FIRST COLLECTED EDITION. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY KURD AND HOUGHTON. 
 : Ztfbersftte Dress. 
 1869.
 
 ps 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year iS6q, by 
 
 ANNA K. SHELDON, 
 in the Clerk s Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York. 
 
 RIVERSIDE. CAMBRIDGE: 
 PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 HOUGH the claim of Mrs. Emma C. Embury to 
 a place among the poets of our land has long 
 been established, no complete edition of her po 
 etical works has ever before been published. 
 
 The compilation of the present volume has been alto 
 gether a labor of love, and no revision nor emendation of 
 the poems has been attempted. 
 
 They are published in the order in which they were 
 written, with the exception of two of the " Sketches from 
 History," which, although written at a later date, are in 
 cluded with those published with " Guido " in 1828, under 
 the nom de plume of " lanthe." 
 
 In the years which have elapsed since the publication 
 of that volume, the pen has become familiar to woman s 
 hand, and crowds of aspirants now claim the meed of 
 fame that was then awarded to but few. The poetic taste 
 of the age has changed also, and we have more poems of 
 the intellect than of the affection ; but many hearts will 
 still respond to the glowing strains of her who has been 
 not unaptly styled " The Hemans of America ; " for in her 
 own expressive words, prefacing a little volume entitled 
 "Love s Token-Flowers," published in 1854, "However 
 changed may be the tone which now echoes from j the 
 b
 
 iv PREFACE. 
 
 world s great heart, there are some chords in human na 
 ture that must ever vibrate to the soft and gentle touch 
 of affection." 
 
 Mrs. Emma C. Embury, the gifted author of this vol 
 ume, was the daughter of Dr. James R. Manly, an emi 
 nent physician of New York, distinguished not only for 
 professional ability, but also for his quick sensibilities 
 and fine conversational powers. From him his daughter 
 doubtless inherited that peculiar sensitiveness, which com 
 bined with her rarer gifts to form a woman of ardent sym 
 pathies and brilliant genius. As a child she was most 
 precocious, and learned to read almost intuitively. She 
 early developed a talent for compositions, and her juvenile 
 productions are remarkable for their graceful and flowing 
 rhythm. Under the pseudonym of " lanthe," she contrib 
 uted to the periodicals of the day, and may be considered 
 among the pioneers of female literature among us. She 
 married early, and in her married life was singularly happy. 
 Her husband, the late Daniel Embury, Esq., of Brooklyn, 
 was a gentleman of fine talents and rare intellectual attain 
 ments ; as a mathematician, he ranked second to none in 
 the country, while his extensive reading, courtly manners, 
 and genial hospitality, rendered his companionship at 
 once delightful and instructive. He appreciated fully the 
 peculiar talents of his wife, and in every way encouraged 
 their development ; together they drew around them the 
 charmed circle of refinement and intelligence, and doubt 
 less many still remember, with regretful pleasure, those 
 delightful reunions which the elegant hospitality and bril 
 liant conversation of the gifted host and hostess, rendered* 
 occasions of rare enjoyment. It was an oft repeated re-
 
 PREFACE. V 
 
 mark of Mrs. Embury, " Unless she read, she could not 
 write," and her earlier poems were doubtless toned in har 
 mony with the poets she loved the best ; later, her origi 
 nality asserted .itself, and her productions glow with self- 
 enkindled fire. The peculiar melodiousness of her verse 
 rendered her one of the most graceful of song writers, 
 while the impassioned earnestness of her nature, her scorn 
 of injustice, her quick sympathy with the oppressed, found 
 expression in her poems, and running like an electric 
 thread throughout them, awaken the deeper and higher 
 emotions of the soul. In prose writing she confined her 
 self, almost entirely to magazine writing ; her stories were 
 extremely popular ; they were easily written, of sound 
 moral purpose, and sparkled with wit and fancy. As a 
 conversationalist, Mrs. Embury has rarely been excelled ; 
 possessing a trenchant wit and a keen sense of the ridic 
 ulous, there were a few who feared while they admired 
 her, but these few did not know of the warm and quick 
 sensibilities that lay beneath, and that would not willfully 
 inflict a wound. Her reading was extensive and varied, 
 her memory retentive, her adaptation rapid, and her lan 
 guage forcible and graceful. The centre of a large circle, 
 which numbered among its members many of the bright 
 est names in literature, she shone, even as a bright, par 
 ticular star." The head of a well ordered household, a 
 tender and devoted wife and mother, an active and sym 
 pathizing friend, she passed many years in a constant 
 discharge of her varied duties, her energy and executive 
 ability rendering her fully equal to all emergencies. For 
 her to resolve and to act was almost simultaneous ; to 
 hear of distress was to relieve it ; to sympathize with
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 friends, was to assist them by counsel, by cheer, by ten 
 der pity, by whatever they seemed most to need, that she 
 could give them. In the midst of this useful and brilliant 
 career she was stricken down by an illness from which 
 she never rallied, and for the last few years of her life she 
 became an invalid, totally withdrawn from the world but 
 she had not waited until the waning sun warned of the 
 coming night, to begin her work ; in her own beautiful 
 words, she began to 
 
 Labor on while yet the light of day 
 Shed abroad its pure and blessed ray," 
 
 and so, when the sudden gloom overshadowed her, she 
 was not found idly over her task ; her work was taken 
 from her hands, but not until she had inscribed her name 
 high up upon life s scroll, and done her part to "-rouse the 
 world s great heart " to higher aspirations, leaving behind 
 her, in the spirit of prophecy, the impressive teaching, 
 
 " Diverse though our paths in life may be, 
 Each is sent a mission to fulfill ; 
 Fellow workers in the world are we, 
 While we seek to do our Master s will. 
 
 " Fellow workers are we ; hour by hour 
 Human tools are shaping Heaven s great schemes, 
 Till we see no limit to man s power, 
 And reality outstrips old dreams ; 
 Toil and struggle, therefore, work and weep ; 
 In Cod s acre yc shall calmly sleep 
 When the night cometh ! "
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 GUIDO * 
 
 SKETCHES FROM HISTORY. 
 
 Jane of France 16 
 
 .Scenes in the Life of a Lover 20 
 
 Queen Elizabeth 26 
 
 The Death of Queen Elizabeth ... 29 
 
 Boscobel 32 
 
 The Lament of Columbus 36 
 
 The Shipwreck of Camoens 39 
 
 Lament of Camoens . 4 2 
 
 The Pool of Bethesda 44 
 
 Christ in the Tempest ..... 46 
 
 The Surrender of Calais 49 
 
 Mary s Lament 5 2 
 
 FRAGMENT 54 
 
 THE SISTERS 55 
 
 EDGAR AND ADA 59 
 
 THE MOTHER 64 
 
 MINA . . . . . . - 68 
 
 THE BRIDE ........ -73 
 
 L lMPROVISATRICE 75 
 
 THE SHEPHERD BOY . . 81 
 
 CLARA 84 
 
 THE LONELY ONE . . 87 
 
 AN HOUR OF SADNESS . . . . 91 
 
 To FRANCESCA ... .... 93 
 
 LOVE 94 
 
 To THE EVENING STAR 96
 
 vin CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To FANCY .......... 98 
 
 MIDNIGHT 101 
 
 LOVE SLEEPING 102 
 
 To 103 
 
 STANZAS 104 
 
 LIFE 105 
 
 SONG OF THE FAIRIES . 106 
 
 FRAGMENT 107 
 
 To 108 
 
 WILLIAM TELL ON THE MOUNTAINS 109 
 
 WILLIAM TELL IN CHAINS 110 
 
 LINES ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF A VERY BEAUTIFUL 
 WOMAN THREE WEEKS AFTER HAVING MET HER AT A 
 
 BALL in 
 
 SWEET REMEMBRANCE 113 
 
 SYMPATHY 114 
 
 A DAY DREAM 115 
 
 THE MOTHER S FAREWELL TO HER WEDDED DAUGHTER . 116 
 
 THE DYING YEAR 118 
 
 SUNSET 119 
 
 SABBATH MORNING 121 
 
 DEVOTION 122 
 
 LINES ON READING STANZAS BY F. G. HALLECK . . 123 
 
 FILIAL LOVE 124 
 
 THE EXCUSE 126 
 
 To MY HARP 127 
 
 THE FAREWELL 128 
 
 SONNET 130 
 
 SPRING BREEZES 130 
 
 SONNET 132 
 
 CONFIDENCE IN HEAVEN 132 
 
 THE TRANSPLANTED FLOWERS 133 
 
 SONG 134 
 
 LOVE UNSOUGHT 135 
 
 SONNET 135 
 
 THE MAIDEN TO HER REJECTED LOVER .... 136
 
 CONTENTS. ix 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE REMEMBRANCE OF YOUTH is A SIGH . . . 137 
 
 GRATITUDE 138 
 
 SONNET 139 
 
 THE WEARY DAY 140 
 
 THE DYING POET 141 
 
 THE FADED PASSION-FLOWER 143 
 
 LOVE S VIGIL 144 
 
 To 145 
 
 STANZAS . 146 
 
 LOVE RETURNED 148 
 
 SONG OF MORNING 150 
 
 THE MORAVIAN BURIAL-GROUND 151 
 
 THE MINSTREL S LAST SONG 155 
 
 "PRAY FOR YOUR QUEEN" 158 
 
 CHARADE 159 
 
 BALLAD 160 
 
 TIME 161 
 
 NAPOLEON AT SAINT HELENA 163 
 
 LAMENT OF THE EMPRESS JOSEPHINE . . . . 165 
 
 STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF REICHSTADT . 167 
 
 MADAME DE STAEI 170 
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY 172 
 
 THE CONSUMPTIVE 173 
 
 THE WIDOW S WOOER 174 
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND ON HER DEPARTURE FOR 
 
 ENGLAND 176 
 
 STANZAS 177 
 
 STANZAS 178 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS 180 
 
 THE LAST VIOLET 181 
 
 SONG 182 
 
 LINES ON AN OLD PICTURE OF A MONKISH STUDENT OF THE 
 
 MIDDLE AGES 182 
 
 STANZAS TO A FRIEND AFTER A LONG SEPARATION . . 184 
 
 THE REFUSAL 185 
 
 HAPPINESS 186
 
 x CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE FORSAKEN .187 
 
 SONNET . 188 
 
 STANZAS 189 
 
 NIGHT . . - 19 
 
 BYRON IN THE CERTOSA CEMETERY 191 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN AFTER THE SECOND READING OF " Co- 
 
 RINNA" . 193 
 
 To MY SISTER 195 
 
 To MY FIRST-BORN 196 
 
 STANZAS . . 198 
 
 STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER 200 
 
 THE WIFE S SONG 202 
 
 ADIEU OF THE EMPRESS AMELIA OF BRAZIL TO THE INFANT 
 
 EMPEROR 203 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE SUMMER FRIENDS WHOM I MET AT WEST 
 
 POINT 206 
 
 LINES ON HEARING MY CHILDREN SlNG .... 2o8 
 
 A LAMENT 209 
 
 STANZAS ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND ON HER MARRIAGE . 211 
 
 To MY PARENTS 213 
 
 STANZAS ADDRESSED TO MY FATHER ON NEW YEAR S DAY 213 
 
 PEACE 214 
 
 THE FAREWELL 216 
 
 THE THOUGHTLESS WORD 217 
 
 STANZAS ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE SOME VERSES, AT A 
 
 BRIDAL PARTY 218 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BIBLE PRE 
 SENTED TO A BRIDE . .219 
 
 VIOLETS 220 
 
 To EMMA, THREE YEARS OLD 222 
 
 THE AUTUMN WALK 223 
 
 STANZAS 224 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN FOR A CHARACTER IN A TALE . . 226 
 STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF Miss CLINCH, BETTER KNOWN 
 
 AS "THYRZA" 227 
 
 SONG ........... 229
 
 CONTENTS. xi 
 
 PAGE 
 
 FRAGMENT 230 
 
 SONNET 231 
 
 THE HYMN IN THE TEMPEST 232 
 
 LINES SUGGESTED BY ACCIDENTALLY MEETING WITH AN OLD 
 
 COPY OF THE "MYSTERIES OK UDOLPHO" . . 236 
 
 STANZAS 237 
 
 THE MOTHER S SOLACE 239 
 
 AUTUMN EVENING 241 
 
 BALLAD 243 
 
 STANZAS 245 
 
 LINES 246 
 
 THE WIFE S OFFERING ON THE NEW YEAR . . . 247 
 
 THE PASSING YEAR 249 
 
 THE WIFE S SONG ON THE NEW YEAR .... 252 
 
 To - -254 
 
 STANZAS .... 256 
 
 STANZAS FOR Music 258 
 
 TWELVE YEARS AGO 258 
 
 "TOUJOURS PERDRIX" ....... 261 
 
 LINES ON A PORTRAIT 262 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG ARTIST . . . 264 
 
 SONGS, FROM CONSTANCE LATIMER 266 
 
 THE POETIC IMPULSE 270 
 
 FRAGMENT .271 
 
 SONNETS TO THE HON. MRS. NORTON .... 272 
 
 SPIRITUAL BEAUTY 273 
 
 STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY . 274 
 To - .... -275 
 
 COME TO ME, LOVE 277 
 
 BALLAD .... 277 
 
 STAN/AS 279 
 
 THE ENGLISH RIVER . ... 280 
 
 THE AMERICAN RIVER 283 
 
 STANZAS 2 ^5 
 
 SONNET TO WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, WRITTEN IMME 
 DIATELY AFTER THE PERUSAL OF HIS POEMS . . 287
 
 xii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A LITANY 288 
 
 POESY 290 
 
 DISTRUST 291 
 
 SLIGHTED LOVE 292 
 
 STANZAS 293 
 
 LINES TO A FRIEND 294 
 
 SONNET 295 
 
 THE INCONSTANT 296 
 
 A CHARACTER 296 
 
 RECKLESS MIRTH 297 
 
 I WILL NOT LOVE THEE 298 
 
 INQUIETUDE 298 
 
 A GENTLE HERITAGE is MINE 299 
 
 SONG .... 301 
 
 SONG 302 
 
 NEVER FORGET 303 
 
 THE ^EOLIAN HARP 304 
 
 " SOMETHING BEYOND " 305 
 
 THE MOURNER S APPEAL 306 
 
 SONNET TO THE AUTHOR OF "VESTIGES OF CREATION" 307 
 SONNET ON A PICTURE OF THE TWO MARYS AT THE TOMB 
 
 OF CHRIST 308 
 
 SONNET 308 
 
 THE STAR-FLOWER 309 
 
 THE RUINED MILL 312 
 
 PORTRAITS 315 
 
 THE OLD MAN S LAMENT 319 
 
 PATIENT LOVE ......... 320 
 
 SONNET . . 322 
 
 DREAMS .......... 323 
 
 ILLUSIONS 324 
 
 STAN/.AS 
 
 325 
 
 SONNET . . . -526 
 
 SONNET ON HEARING Music 327 
 
 STANZAS ^27 
 
 STANZAS 328
 
 CONTENTS. Xlli 
 
 l-AGE 
 
 THE WAYSIDE BROOK 329 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE BROOK 331 
 
 SONG 332 
 
 HOW WILL YE THINK OF ME 334 
 
 STANZAS FOR Music 335 
 
 THE PEASANT GIRL S WISH 336 
 
 THE OLD MAN S LAST WISH . . . . * . . . 337 
 
 THE POET S PRAYER 340 
 
 STANZAS 341 
 
 WEARY SPIRIT 343 
 
 STANZAS, WRITTEN AFTER LISTENING TO Music . . . 344 
 
 " DOUBT ME NOT " 345 
 
 EPITAPHS ON A YOUNG LADY 347 
 
 SONGS FOR Music 348 
 
 THE CHILD S DESTINY 352 
 
 TIME S CHANGES 353 
 
 SONG 354 
 
 SONNET 354 
 
 SONNET ON RECEIVING SOME VIOLETS IN MIDWINTER . 355 
 
 " DUM SPIRO, SPERO" 356 
 
 LINES ON SEEING A SEAL WITH THE MOTTO " SEMPRE LO 
 
 STF.SSO " 356 
 
 LINES ON BURNING SOME OLD JOURNALS AND LETTERS . 357 
 
 LAMENT (OF ONE OF THE OLD REGIME } . . . . 359 
 
 LINES SENT TO A FRIEND, WITH A PERFUMED "SACHET" 361 
 
 THE JEALOUS LOVER S EXCUSE 361 
 
 THE PROPHECY 362 
 
 STANZAS 363 
 
 THE GARDEN 365 
 
 FRAGMENT 367
 
 POEMS. 
 
 GUIDO. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 " Dans le bonheur d autrui je cherche mon bonheur." 
 
 CORNEILLE, Le Cid. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 HE halls were bright, and music echoed round, 
 & While merry feet responded to the sound, 
 
 As light as is the gentle rustling heard 
 When the fresh leaves by evening s breath are stirred : 
 Aye, beautiful were those resplendent rooms, 
 All light, and flowers, and delicate perfumes ; 
 While many a brilliant form swept gayly by, 
 With lofty step, and proudly flashing eye ; 
 And many a knight, stern on the battle-field, 
 Taught by sweet woman s witchery to yield, 
 Was bowed to her capricious smile ; and now 
 Twas pleasant to behold the warrior brow 
 Bending before some gentle girl, as fair 
 And delicate as a thing all light or air. 
 
 Apart from the gay throng, a pale youth stood, 
 As, though mid thousands, still in solitude, 
 
 i
 
 2 POEMS. 
 
 Holding a simple lyre : not his the form 
 That ladies love to look on and to charm : 
 Small, slender, boyish was his figure ; pale 
 His sunken cheek, that told a mournful tale 
 Of early suffering ; though his eye v,as proud, 
 And bright as flashes from the thundercloud; 
 His thin and flexile lips seemed meant to pour 
 The wealth of song, but not the honeyed store 
 Of youthful love ; and though his raven hair 
 Fell on a lofty brow, yet early care 
 Had left its foot-prints on if. What doth he 
 Amid that joyous scene of revelry ? 
 
 He was the castle s lord, and he in truth 
 
 Had tasted sorrow ; on his early youth 
 
 No parents kindly smiled ; their pride, their joy 
 
 Was centred in their younger, fairer boy. 
 
 The mother gazed upon the charms that dwelt 
 
 In Julio s noble face, until she felt 
 
 Her soul, almost with loathing, turn away 
 
 From Guide s pale and shrunken form : each day 
 
 Guido more keenly felt this ; his stern sire 
 
 Loved the proud boy who stood with eye of fire 
 
 To hear the tale of battles fierce and wild, 
 
 But turned in scorn upon his feebler child : 
 
 " What, comest thou, too ? no, boy, thy woman s hand 
 
 Was never meant to grasp the blood-stained brand ; 
 
 Julio s high heart is vowed to chivalry, 
 
 But nursery legends are more fit for thee." 
 
 He little knew the being he despised ! 
 
 Guido had not the gifts by warriors prized,
 
 GUI DO. 3 
 
 But genius o er his soul had poured its light ; 
 His was the poet s wreath, and O, how bright 
 It shone o er wasted feeling s hopeless night ! 
 Dearly the brothers loved each other : birth 
 Placed Guido first : but all men hold of worth, 
 All that they deem the richest goods of heaven, 
 Love, beauty, honor, were to Julio given ; 
 While all the hapless elder-born could claim 
 Beyond his birthright, was a minstrel s fame. 
 Yet did they cling together : nought could speak 
 To Julio s heart like Guido s kindling cheek ; 
 And praise might fall upon his ear in vain, 
 If that loved voice reechoed not the strain ; 
 While Guido felt as if not quite bereft 
 Of all life s joys, since Julio yet was left. 
 
 That sire was dead, that brother far away, 
 
 And Guido now must celebrate the day 
 
 When he first claimed his birthright ; but how sad 
 
 Was his young heart while all around was glad ! 
 
 He felt that to his noble name he owed 
 
 The homage of the gay and thoughtless crowd. 
 
 He knew that, had he been the younger born, 
 
 He had been deemed a thing that men might scorn ; 
 
 And, now he stood apart from all, a smile 
 
 Of cold contempt curled his pale lip the while 
 
 That they, who bowed the castle s lord to greet, 
 
 Should think him duped by such scarce-veiled deceit. 
 
 But these unkindly feelings were not made 
 
 To dwell with poesy : his fingers strayed 
 
 Across his harp-strings, then, to still the throng 
 
 Of wayward thoughts, he calmed them thus with song :
 
 4 POEMS. 
 
 Nay, tell me not of woman s charms 
 Why should I heed though she be fair; 
 
 Bid me not mark those brilliant forms 
 With step as light as summer air 
 
 I dare not heed their witchery, 
 
 Since beauty was not meant for me. 
 
 I gaze upon the lofty brow 
 But changeless is its snowy hue; 
 
 I view the cheek where roses glow, 
 The lip where love sips honey dew ; 
 
 But lip, cheek, brow in vain I see, 
 
 Since beauty was not meant for me. 
 
 Yet I have dreamed of one whose cheek 
 Upon my bosom might find rest ; 
 
 Whose eye in love s sweet glance might speak, 
 Whose lip might to mine own be prest ; 
 
 But vain must all such visions be, 
 
 Since beauty was not meant for me. 
 
 As one might gaze on some bright star 
 Lighting yon deep blue heaven above, 
 
 So I may worship from afar, 
 
 But never dare to hope or love : 
 
 Love s star is bright alas for me ! 
 
 It shines not o er my destiny. 
 
 The song had ceased; but still the minstrel seemed 
 Gazing on visions he too oft had dreamed ; 
 Till the low tones of woman s voice awoke
 
 GUIDO. I 
 
 New thoughts, new dreams ; for of himself she spoke : 
 " And is he always thus so sad and pale ? 
 Surely that brow reveals a mournful tale." 
 He started turned O ! years might not erase 
 The memory of that young and lovely face. 
 Her eye met his full gaze a deep blush shone 
 O er her fair cheek and brow then she was gone. 
 But those sweet words of kind and gentle feeling, 
 The look, that beamed on him so bright, revealing 
 All woman s pitying tenderness, now fell 
 On Guido s soul like some bewitching spell, 
 Bidding his wayward fantasies depart, 
 And chasing all the demon from his heart. 
 
 Where is he now ? His simple lyre thrown by, 
 With joyous smile the bard is seated nigh 
 That graceful girl. E en had she not been fair 
 Guido had found some trace of beauty there ; 
 For he recalled the look, the low-breathed word 
 That with such new-born bliss his feelings stirred. 
 But she was beautiful ; twas not the glow 
 Of simple beauty decked her cheek and brow ; 
 For on her lofty forehead mind had made 
 Its visible temple ; her thick tresses strayed 
 Down on her neck, as if they feared to rest 
 On that proud brow, but loved her gentler breast ; 
 Her eye was dark as midnight, yet as bright 
 As if no tear had ever dimmed its light ; 
 Lovely as love s first dream were her sweet lips 
 Sweet as the honey that the wild bee sips 
 On famed Hymettus ; the pale, pearl-like hue
 
 6 POEMS. 
 
 Of her soft cheek was fair as if it drew 
 
 Its tint from purity : the oval face, 
 
 So like some sculptured statue s classic grace, 
 
 The nobly-arching brow, the veined lid, 
 
 Neath which the full dark eye was scarcely hid, 
 
 The short, curved upper lip, aye, Guido dwelt 
 
 On all these charms, until his spirit felt 
 
 As though it looked on some bright deity ; 
 
 But O ! what passing joy was his when she 
 
 Looked kindly on him, and, with gentle wile, 
 
 Sought to win back to his pale lip the smile ! 
 
 The crowd have passed away, and, mid the sighs 
 
 Of dying odors, Guido lonely lies 
 
 Wrapt in fair dreams of beauty ; but each thought 
 
 With the remembrance of one face is fraught : 
 
 He oft had fancied, but to-night he feels 
 
 How much of sweetness woman s look reveals. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 ALAS ! alas for me ! I cannot sing 
 Of happiness or joy s imagining ; 
 I touch my wild and mournful lyre in vain, 
 It but returns the murmurings of pain ; 
 Or if perchance I strike the chord of love, 
 It breathes the plaintive meanings of the dove 
 Who wails in loneliness her long lost mate : 
 I sing of love but love left desolate !
 
 GUIDO. 
 
 Time passed away how rapidly time fleets, 
 
 When every hour is redolent of sweets ! 
 
 Tis vain to trace the progress of love s power 
 
 What eye can mark the springing of a flower ? 
 
 All those impassioned feelings that so long 
 
 Were sealed in Guide s heart, the countless throng 
 
 Of early hopes and fancies, all were poured 
 
 Upon one altar. O, how rich the hoard 
 
 Of treasured love in such a heart must be ! 
 
 And must its sole reward be misery? 
 
 Tis vain to trace the progress of love s power 
 
 Love was not here the plaything of an hour : 
 
 They walked together, and the lovely face 
 
 Of nature wore for Guido richer grace ; 
 
 And e en the breath of heaven more perfume cast, 
 
 When o er Floranthe s cheek and lip it past ; 
 
 They read together, and new beauties shone 
 
 Upon the poet s page, till then unknown. 
 
 Ah, woman s eye may charm, but there is nought 
 
 That with such peril to man s heart is fraught, 
 
 As when he breathes the poet s thoughts that burn 
 
 With passionate energy, and those eyes turn 
 
 With pleasure on him ; or when both are stirred 
 
 With simultaneous feeling; though no word 
 
 Is uttered, yet the meeting look, the smile, 
 
 Betray how they have felt alike the while; 
 
 Or when, with gentle care, he leads her mind 
 
 To loftier energies and thought refined, 
 
 And she is blushing, half with shame to know 
 
 She needs such knowledge, half with joy, to owe 
 
 Its wealth to him : aye, Guido knew too well
 
 8 POEMS. 
 
 How strongly this may aid love s powerful spell : 
 
 Within his breast self-love too had its part 
 
 (Ever an active spirit in man s heart) : 
 
 He oft had known the voice of praise, but ne er 
 
 Till now had heard its tones from lips so dear ; 
 
 His song had called forth tears in those bright eyes, 
 
 And could the minstrel ask a richer prize ? 
 
 And yet Floranthe loved him not the pride 
 
 Of womanhood had taught her how to hide 
 
 Her struggling feelings ; but she well had known 
 
 Those sorrows so peculiarly love s own. 
 
 So young, and proud, and beautiful, and born 
 
 To princely honors could there be a thorn 
 
 Amid these flowers of life ? The heart replies 
 
 There dwells no balm in earthly vanities 
 
 To soothe a wounded spirit ; and the sway 
 
 Of the wide universe can ne er repay 
 
 One who beholds love s early hopes decay. 
 
 She was a high souled woman : her proud race 
 
 Had ever won Ambition s loftiest place : 
 
 What marvel, then, that, from her childhood, she 
 
 Should dwell on the wild tales of chivalry? 
 
 She loved to roam alone through the rich halls 
 
 Where pictured shades of heroes decked the walls, 
 
 Until a dream was formed within her heart 
 
 Which no cold light of truth could bid depart : 
 
 A visioned form too beautiful to fade, 
 
 Within her breast its dwelling-place had made ; 
 
 And e en when lofty ones before her bowed, 
 
 She gladly turned from the adoring crowd
 
 GUIDO. 
 
 To meet her spirit-love. There was one name 
 
 She oft had heard breathed by the voice of fame ; 
 
 And half unconsciously her visions bright 
 
 Were linked with fancies of that wondrous knight. 
 
 At length a tournament was held, and fair 
 
 Was the array of youth and beauty there. 
 
 Queen of the festival Floranthe shone, 
 
 The palm of peerless beauty hers alone ; 
 
 And O, what feelings then her bosom swelled, 
 
 When first that youthful hero she beheld ! 
 
 And O, how richly did her young cheek glow, 
 
 When first she placed upon his bending brow 
 
 The laurel crown ! The idol of her dreams, 
 
 Bright with the light of glory s sunny beams, 
 
 Now stood before her, and she felt how faint 
 
 Were fancy s tints a form like his to paint. 
 
 From that hour she was changed the holy flame 
 
 Which long was fostered by the breath of fame, 
 
 Now, like the vestal s sacred fire, had won 
 
 A purer radiance from its parent sun : 
 
 That knight was Julio : hence it was that she 
 
 With pity looked on Guido s misery. 
 
 He was the brother of her love, and though 
 
 Nature had traced no beauty on his brow, 
 
 His voice, so like to Julio s, her heart stirred, 
 
 Like music o er the moon-lit waters heard ; 
 
 And in his eyes she saw the same sweet light 
 
 That oft in Julio s glances shone so bright. 
 
 Why does my song thus linger? The dark day 
 Of strife was gone, and peace resumed her sway.
 
 10 POEMS. 
 
 E en as the prophet s wand could once unlock 
 
 The hidden waters of the riftless rock, 
 
 So thou, sweet Peace, from iron hearts can bring 
 
 Th unwonted freshness of affection s spring ; 
 
 Till spurns the haughty chief his plumed crest, 
 
 And clasps his smiling infant to his breast, 
 
 While the proud soldier turns from scenes of war, 
 
 Rejoiced to worship beauty s gentler star. 
 
 And mid the mailed warriors Julio came, 
 
 His brow encircled with its wreaths of fame. 
 
 No more alone with Guido now were past 
 
 Floranthe s happiest hours ; for Love had cast 
 
 His spell around them, and beneath his wing 
 
 Hope dared unfold her fragile blossoming ; 
 
 For well could she, in Julio s eye, discern 
 
 (Ah, when was woman slow such tales to learn ?) 
 
 The growing tenderness within his breast, 
 
 The love that made her all too wildly blest. 
 
 But where was Guido? Did not he too see 
 
 Within those tell-tale eyes Love s mastery? 
 
 One night there was a festival, and all 
 
 Of brave and lovely decked the joyous hall ; 
 
 Guido beheld Floranthe s gentle hand 
 
 Meet Julio s in the graceful saraband ; 
 
 Yet this was nothing ; but when the light dance 
 
 Was ended, and he saw the thrilling glance 
 
 Exchanged between them, and her slender form 
 
 So tenderly upheld by Julio s arm, 
 
 While she repaid him with a timid look 
 
 Of soft confiding love, he could not brook 
 
 Longer to gaze upon that blasting sight ;
 
 GUI DO. 
 
 Quickly he turned away a mirror bright 
 Met his full gaze ; reflected there, his own 
 Pale, sunken cheek, and wasted figure shone. 
 Then on his heart, like lightning flashes, came 
 The truth that woke despair s undying flame. 
 O ! there are moments when the heart lives o er 
 Ages of sorrow, when the eyes can pour 
 No gentle flood to ease the throbbing head ; 
 But as if one among the mouldering dead 
 Should start to life, and vainly strive to burst 
 His prison-house, so that sad being, curst 
 With such o erwhelming grief, in vain would find 
 A refuge from the horrors of the mind. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 IT was a lovely summer eve ; the bay 
 
 As calmly as a slumbering infant lay : 
 
 Floranthe sat within her lonely bower, 
 
 Her heart filled with strange feelings ; the calm hour 
 
 To her brought no tranquillity ; the bright 
 
 And glowing west, the clouds of rosy light, 
 
 She gazed upon but saw not, and she heard 
 
 Not e en a sound ; altho the mild breeze stirred 
 
 And made sweet music in the leaves, her ear 
 
 Was all unheeding ; but there was one near 
 
 Who long had gazed on her ; the breeze had fanned 
 
 The clustering ringlets from her cheek ; her hand,
 
 12 POEMS. 
 
 As delicate as a wreath of new fallen snow, 
 
 Was pressed against her wildly throbbing brow, 
 
 And, but that on her cheek there dwelt a flush 
 
 Like young Aurora s rosy-tinted blush, 
 
 And but for her bright lip, she might have seemed 
 
 A changeless statue ; but she little deemed 
 
 He whom she loved to think on was so nigh. 
 
 Julio stood long and gazed on her ; a sigh 
 
 Burst from her heaving bosom, and that eye, 
 
 Whose varying glance seemed meant but to express 
 
 The joy of love, the pride of loveliness, 
 
 Was clouded by sad tears ; a moment more, 
 
 And Julio with bright cheek was bending o er 
 
 The trembling girl but why should I repeat 
 
 Love s follies ? words as gentle and as sweet 
 
 As the soft welling of the distant waves 
 
 Of ocean o er his deep and hollow caves ; 
 
 Or summer breeze that sweeps the trembling strings 
 
 Of the ^Eolian harp sweet as when sings 
 
 Some rose-lipped cherub in the starry sky. 
 
 And O ! how quickly can Love s thrilling sigh 
 
 Win all it seeks : when Julio vowed he ne er 
 
 Would brook the lonely weight of life, a tear 
 
 Stood in her eye ; he felt she was his own, 
 
 For she had paused to hear him, and the tone 
 
 Of her low voice grew fainter they are gone. 
 
 That hour of deep, impassioned feeling past, 
 They sat within the hall ; the moonbeam cast 
 A dim, sweet light through the thick orange-trees 
 That filled the casement, and the evening breeze 
 Was faint with their rich perfume. With a smile
 
 GUIDO. 13 
 
 That once could Guide s every grief beguile, 
 Floranthe bade him wake, in cheerful song, 
 Strains that to love and happiness belong : 
 
 Tis all in vain I cannot sing 
 
 The joys that happy Love may bring ; 
 
 I cannot win mirth s blooming wreath 
 
 Its fragrance o er my lyre to breathe. 
 
 They say that in bright summer bowers, 
 
 All redolent of buds and flowers, 
 
 Young Love is dwelling ; o er his head 
 
 The calmest, bluest skies are spread, 
 
 And flowerets spring beneath his feet, 
 
 As though to die by him were sweet ; 
 
 That some, with rapturous feeling, gaze 
 
 Upon his brow s unclouded blaze, 
 
 While others prize the gentler grace 
 
 That glows around his half-veiled face, 
 
 And all are happy is it so? 
 
 Does Love ne er see a shade of woe ? 
 
 Ask not the smiling lip to tell 
 
 The joys in Love s sweet home that dwell 
 
 Go ask the cheek where paleness sits 
 
 If no cloud o er that blue sky flits ; 
 
 If o er those bowers so green and bright 
 
 Griefs chilling breath ne er throws a blight ; 
 
 If hope s young buds ne er fade away 
 
 Beneath the touch of slow decay. 
 
 But pride may dye the faded cheek 
 
 With hues that seem of joy to speak ; 
 
 And bright the eye may still appear, 
 
 Though all its lustre be a tear.
 
 14 POEMS. 
 
 Then wonder not that my sad lyre 
 
 Breathes not of fancy s thrilling fire : 
 
 The man who ne er beheld the sun 
 
 Save when dark mists its face had shrouded, 
 
 Could never paint flowers shone upon 
 
 By summer skies and light unclouded. 
 
 Thus I must shun each brighter theme, 
 
 And still of wasted feeling dream ; 
 
 Still tales of blighted love impart, 
 
 Because I read them in my heart. 
 
 Floranthe little knew the thoughts that stirred 
 In Guido s breast ; she knew not he had heard 
 Their plighted vows, her tender tones, when she 
 Confessed the love long cherished hopelessly. 
 Aye, Guido felt her falsehood had been bliss 
 To the wild thought she never had been his ! 
 Is it not ever thus ? O, who could brook 
 The knowledge that each gentle word, each look 
 Which hope had fancied filled with tenderness, 
 Was only meant cold pity to express ? 
 O, surely it is far less grief to see 
 Upon the altered brow inconstancy, 
 Than still to view the loved eye s chilling beam, 
 Like sun rays glittering o er a frozen stream. 
 Guido had seen his dearest hopes depart, 
 And now one high resolve filled his lone heart ; 
 He knew her sire would ne er bestow her hand 
 On one whose wealth was but his battle-brand 
 Inly he vowed that not by him should she 
 Be doomed to long and hopeless misery :
 
 GUIDO. 15 
 
 The star of life had set why should he care 
 
 For honors that Floranthe could not share ? 
 
 On the next morning Julio sought to bear 
 
 His joyful tale to his loved Guide s ear, 
 
 But vainly did he seek the orange bovver, 
 
 The lonely grotto, and the ruined tower, 
 
 All his loved haunts, were silent now and lone ; 
 
 His harp-strings, too, were broken, as if none 
 
 Might wake its gentle voice now he was gone. 
 
 They sought the chamber of his nightly rest 
 
 It was untenanted, his couch unprest ; 
 
 But on his ivory tablets he had traced 
 
 Words that a burning tear had half effaced : 
 
 " He loathed the false, deceptive world, and now 
 
 A cowl must hide his early furrowed brow ; 
 
 And to the brother of his heart he gave 
 
 A name proud as Ambition s self could crave, 
 
 While for himself he sought an early grave." 
 
 O ! there is never need of words to tell 
 To woman s heart that she is loved too well : 
 The glance, the sigh, in ill-dissembled hour, 
 Quickly betray the fullness of her power. 
 Haply Floranthe would not then unfold 
 Her every thought, while memory unrolled 
 Its darkened record, and her heart hung o er 
 Each gentle look and tone unmarked before ; 
 And haply, too, in after years, when prest 
 To her adoring husband s manly breast, 
 Floranthe felt she had not been thus blest 
 But for the self-devoted love which gave 
 Itself to be stern sorrow s veriest slave.
 
 SKETCHES FROM HISTORY. 
 
 JANE OF FRANCE. 
 
 "Jeanne de France etoit fille de Louis XI. et soeur de Charles VIII. On la ma- 
 ria 4 1 iige de vingt deux ans avec Louis XII., 1 an 1476. Elle en usa bien avec lui 
 pendant qu il 6toit disgracie ; et Ce fut elle qui, par ses prieres, le fit sortir de prison, 
 1 an 1491 ; mais cela ne fut point capable de balancer dans le coeur de son mari 1 in- 
 clination violente qu il avoit pour la veuve de Charles VIII. C e toit Anne de Bre- 
 tagne ; il 1 avoit aim6e, et en avoit ete aime avant qu elle epousat Charles. Ann 
 done de contenter son envie, ilfit rompre son mariage, et il promit tant de recom 
 pense au Pape Alexandre VI. qu il en obtint tout ce qu il voulut." 
 
 BAYLE, Dictionnaire. 
 
 >ALE, cold, and statue-like she sat, and her im 
 peded breath 
 Came gaspingly, as if her heart was in the 
 
 grasp of death, 
 While listening to the harsh decree that robbed her of 
 
 a throne, 
 
 And left the gentle child of kings in the wide world 
 alone. 
 
 And fearful was her look ; in vain her trembling maid 
 ens moved, 
 
 With all affection s tender care, round her whom well 
 they loved ;
 
 JANE OF FRANCE. 17 
 
 Stirless she sat, as if enchained by some resistless 
 spell, 
 
 Till with one wild, heart-piercing shriek in their em 
 brace she fell. 
 
 How bitter was the hour she woke from that long dream 
 less trance ; 
 
 The veriest wretch might pity then the envied Jane of 
 France ; 
 
 But soon her o erfraught heart gave way, tears came to 
 her relief, 
 
 And thus in low and plaintive tones, she breathed her 
 hopeless grief: 
 
 " O ! ever have I dreaded this, since at the holy shrine 
 My trembling hand first felt the cold, reluctant clasp of 
 
 thine ; 
 And yet I hoped My own beloved, how may I teach 
 
 my heart 
 To gaze upon thy gentle face, and know that we must 
 
 part? 
 
 " Too well I knew thou lovedst me not, but ah ! I 
 fondly thought 
 
 That years of such deep love as mine some change ere 
 this had wrought : 
 
 I dreamed the hour might yet arrive when, sick of pas 
 sion s strife, 
 
 Thy heart would turn with quiet joy to thy neglected 
 wife.
 
 1 8 FOE MS. 
 
 " Vain, foolish hope ! how could I look upon thy glori 
 ous form, 
 
 And think that e er the time might come when thou 
 wouldst cease to charm ? 
 
 For ne er till then wilt thou be freed from beauty s 
 magic art, 
 
 Or cease to prize a sunny smile beyond a faithful heart. . 
 
 " In vain from memory s darkened scroll would other 
 thoughts erase 
 
 The loathing that was in thine eye, whene er it met my 
 face : 
 
 O ! I would give the fairest realm beneath the all-see 
 ing sun, 
 
 To win but such a form as thou mightst love to look 
 upon. 
 
 "Woe, woe for woman s weary lot if beauty be not 
 
 hers ; 
 
 Vainly within her gentle breast affection wildly stirs ; 
 And bitterly will she deplore, amid her sick heart s 
 
 dearth, 
 The hour that fixed her fearful doom a helot from 
 
 her birth. 
 
 " I would thou hadst been cold and stern the pride 
 
 of my high race 
 Had taught me then from my young heart thine image 
 
 to efface ; 
 But surely even love s sweet tones could ne er have 
 
 power to bless 
 My bosom with such joy as did thy pitying tenderness.
 
 JAXE OF FRANCE, 19 
 
 " Alas ! it is a heavy task to curb the haughty soul, 
 
 And bid th unbending spirit bow that never knew con 
 trol ; 
 
 But harder still when thus the heart against itself must 
 rise 
 
 And struggle on, while every hope that nerved the war 
 fare dies. 
 
 " Yet all this have I borne for thee aye, for thy sake 
 
 I learned 
 The gentleness of thought and word which once my 
 
 proud heart spurned ; 
 The treasures of an untouched heart, the wealth of 
 
 love s rich mine, 
 These are the offerings that I laid upon my idol s shrine. 
 
 " In vain I breathed my vows to heaven, twas mock 
 ery of prayer ; 
 
 In vain I knelt before the cross, I saw but Louis there : 
 
 To him I gave the worship that I should have paid my 
 God, 
 
 But O ! should his have been the hand to wield the 
 avenging rod ? "
 
 POEMS. 
 
 SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A LOVER. 
 
 Anne Boleyn, when maid of honor to Queen Catharine, was betrothed to Henry 
 Percy, afterwards Earl of Northumberland, but at that time a page in the household 
 of Cardinal Wolsey. The king, discovering their attachment by means of some gem, 
 a love-gift from Percy to Anne, ordered him to be removed from court. The young 
 lover, after beholding the object of his affection elevated to the highest station in the 
 realm, was finally compelled, as one of the peers of England, to preside at her trial 
 and condemnation. Miss BENGER S Memoirs of Anne Boleyn, 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 ITHIN a green and flower-decked glade they 
 
 stood ; 
 
 The harvest moon was shedding a rich flood 
 Of light around them, and revealed to view 
 The youth s bright glance, the deep and burning hue 
 That flushed the maiden s cheek ; her lover s arm 
 Was fondly clasped around her graceful form : 
 But half aside she turned ; she could not brook 
 The passionate fondness of his earnest look ; 
 And proudly did his o er-fraught bosom swell 
 As there, to hide her blushing face, she fell. 
 Upon her brow he pressed one burning kiss. 
 And then in all the speechlessness of bliss 
 Stood gazing on her, till low murmurs broke 
 From her sweet lips, and his heart s pulses woke : 
 " Now am I thine, beloved one ; doubt me not 
 Amid the splendors of my courtly lot ; 
 For dearer far to me this little gem 
 Than e er could be a queenly diadem; 
 And when no more my bosom it shall grace, 
 The sweet remembrance of this fond embrace,
 
 SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A LOVER. 21 
 
 Then deem me faithless, Henry, and despise 
 
 The heart that only lives beneath thine eyes." 
 
 Then to her rosy lips the maiden prest 
 
 The gem with which his hand had decked her breast : 
 
 " Now fare thee well, beloved one, I must go 
 
 Once more to mingle in the heartless show 
 
 That fills yon haughty castle one last kiss 
 
 And shoulclst thou doubt me, Henry, think on this." 
 
 She glided from his arms ; her flying feet 
 
 Scarce from the violet pressed its fragrance sweet ; 
 
 He was alone, and thus to music s spell 
 
 He joined the murmurs of his low farewell : 
 
 Farewell to thee, dear ; 
 
 When I meet thee again, 
 Light hearts will be round us 
 
 And pageantries vain ; 
 But well do I know, 
 
 In life s sunniest hours, 
 Thou lt think of our meeting 
 
 Mid moonlight and flowers. 
 
 Farewell to thee, dear one, 
 
 And O ! in thy dreams 
 When fancy sheds o er thee 
 
 Her loveliest beams, 
 Then think that thou revest 
 
 Through Percy s fair bowers, 
 And remember our meeting 
 
 Mid moonlight and flowers.
 
 22 POEMS. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 HARK ! hark to the tumult ! the trumpets and drums 
 Are waking wild mirth as the pageantry comes ; 
 Mid knights and fair dames, see the king proudly ride, 
 While near him is borne in her glory his bride ; 
 And never could England s proud diadem gleam 
 On a brow where more beauty and majesty beam. 
 
 There s a flush on her cheek like the deep crimson glow 
 That sunset sheds over the pure Alpine snow ; 
 And her eye sheds a brightness more glorious by far 
 Than the splendor that beams from heaven s loveliest 
 
 star ; 
 
 There is joy in her heart, but does happiness speak 
 In the wildly bright eye, and the fever-flushed cheek ? 
 
 Tis she tis the maiden ! but where now is gone 
 The gem that so long on her bosom had shone ? 
 Though diamonds are sparkling, and pearls rich and rare, 
 Yet the earliest offering of love is not there ; 
 And the king at her side is not he on whose breast, 
 In that still hour of bliss, her sweet face had found rest. 
 
 Look, look to the queen ! o er her features are spread 
 A hue like the paleness that dwells with the dead ; 
 Her wandering glance, as if urged by a spell, 
 Turned full on the form she had loved but too well ; 
 And how did her heart with wild agony beat, 
 As she thought of those hours still in memory too sweet !
 
 SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A LOVER. 23 
 
 O ! sadly he looked on her robes rich and gay, 
 He had seen that form fairer in simple array, 
 And shuddering he gazed on her jeweled tiar 
 Less bright than her eye, once his loveliest star : 
 And his proud heart swelled high as he thought of past 
 
 hours, 
 And remembered their meeting mid moonlight and 
 
 flowers. 
 
 But vain such remembrance ; a tyrant s fierce love 
 
 Had broken the bonds young affection had wove. 
 
 The youth to another in sorrow is wed ; 
 
 In glory the maid as a queen is now led ; 
 
 And soon as a subject he humbly must bow 
 
 To her on whose lips he had breathed his love-vow. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 WITH black the stately hall was hung ; a cloud was on 
 each brow 
 
 That gathered round the council board in solemn si 
 lence now j 
 
 And pain and anxious doubt within each noble s bosom 
 stirred, 
 
 For well they knew that life and death now hung upon 
 their word. 
 
 With snow-white robes and veiled brow, a female form 
 
 drew nigh ; 
 With calm and stately air she stepped, while fixed was 
 
 every eye ;
 
 24 POEMS. 
 
 And mid the dark, stern visaged guards around her, 
 
 she might seem 
 The being of a higher sphere, the creature of a dream. 
 
 Now like a criminal she stood, while plainly she could 
 
 trace 
 
 The fearful workings of his soul upon each noble s face ; 
 Yet was she calm ; with queenly grace her veil aside 
 
 was thrown 
 Unhappy Percy ! from thy lips burst that convulsive 
 
 groan ? 
 
 Well might his breast with anguish thrill ! few years 
 had passed away 
 
 Since that fair form within his arms in love s deep 
 fondness lay ; 
 
 Since then she moved the stately queen now the dis 
 loyal wife, 
 
 For her deep treachery and wrong must answer with 
 her life. 
 
 Yet she was innocent ; O ! none could gaze upon her eye 
 And deem that sin s dark stain within her bosom s 
 
 depths could lie; 
 But. who might dare assert her truth, when, wearied 
 
 with her charms, 
 The tyrant had decreed that she should sleep in death s 
 
 cold arms ? 
 
 Now, placed mid England s haughty peers, must Percy 
 
 seal the doom 
 That gave the creature of his love to fill a bloody tomb >
 
 SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A LOVER. 25 
 
 Too soon the fatal deed was done though pure as un 
 sunned snow, 
 
 Yet must the fearful hand of death stamp guilt upon 
 her brow. 
 
 He heard no more ; but wildly from the judgment hall 
 
 he rushed, 
 Too strong the tenderness within his anguished spirit 
 
 gushed ; 
 Till worn by such resistless pangs, o ermastered by the 
 
 spell 
 Of demon thought, upon the earth in senselessness he 
 
 fell. 
 
 Stately and calm the queen had sat, but when she heard 
 his cry, 
 
 From her quick heaving bosom burst the half-convul 
 sive sigh. 
 
 One pleading look to heaven she cast, then spoke in 
 murmured tone : 
 
 " Slight is the bitterness of death when spotless fame 
 is gone." 
 
 Thus did she die the young, the fair, the good, com 
 pelled to bow 
 
 Her graceful, swan-like neck beneath the headsman s 
 heavy blow ; 
 
 Her shining locks were dabbled in the blood that 
 flowed like rain ; 
 
 But o er the whiteness of her soul, e en blood could 
 leave no stain.
 
 26 POEMS. 
 
 QUEEN ELIZABETH. 
 
 " Sir James Melvil tells us that this princess, the evening of his arrival in London, 
 had given a ball to her court at Greenwich, and was displaying all that spirit and alac 
 rity which usually attended her on these occasions : but when news arrived of the 
 prince of Scotland s birth, all her joy was damped ; she sunk into melancholy ; she 
 reclined her head upon her arm, and complained to some of her attendants, that the 
 Queen of Scots was mother of a fair son, while she herself was but a barren stock." l 
 
 HUME S History of England. 
 
 OLDLY she sat, while graceful hands her stately 
 
 form arrayed 
 In silken robes, and wreathed her hair in many 
 
 a jeweled braid ; 
 
 But all a woman s vanity was in the vivid glow 
 That flattery s magic tones awoke upon her cheek and 
 brow. 
 
 Beside her hung the pictured form of Scotland s match 
 less queen 
 
 O ! language would need rainbow hues to paint that 
 glorious mien, 
 
 That face which bore the high impress of majesty, and 
 yet 
 
 Where Love, as if to win all hearts, his fairest seal 
 had set. 
 
 And bitter was the scorn that filled Elizabeth s proud 
 
 eye, 
 As turning from her mirrored self, she saw her rival 
 
 nigh 
 
 1 A slight, perhaps not unpardonable liberty has been taken with historical fact. 
 The queen is supposed to be at her toilette, preparing for the ball.
 
 QUEEN ELIZABETH. 27 
 
 But transient was the cloud, and soon she bent with 
 
 smiles to greet 
 The graceful little page who now was kneeling at her 
 
 feet : 
 
 " Letters from Scotland " eagerly she grasped the 
 
 proffered scroll 
 Which sharper than a scorpion s sting could pierce her 
 
 haughty soul ; 
 And timidly her maidens shrunk ; for quickly could 
 
 they trace 
 Fierce passion in the darkening hue that gathered o er 
 
 her face. 
 
 The white foam stood upon her lip, and wildly beat 
 
 her heart, 
 Till its convulsive throbbings rent her broidered zone 
 
 apart : 
 " Away ! " she cried awe-struck they stood to hear 
 
 that anguished tone, 
 "Away!" like frighted fawns they fled, and she was 
 
 left alone. 
 
 O ! fiercer than the angry burst of ocean s tameless 
 
 wave 
 Is woman s soul, when thus unchecked its maddening 
 
 passions rave ; 
 But soon the storm was spent, and then like rain-drops 
 
 fell her tears, 
 While thus the heart-struck queen bewailed her lone 
 
 and blighted years :
 
 28 POEMS. 
 
 " All, all but this I could have borne methought that 
 
 queenly pride 
 Had checked within my woman s breast affection s 
 
 swelling tide ; 
 
 But vainly has my spirit sought mid glory to forget 
 The youthful dreams whose faded light gleams o er my 
 
 fancy yet. 
 
 " And she has realized those dreams aye, she whose 
 
 gentle brow, 
 
 In all its graceful loveliness, is turned upon me now ; 
 Mary of Scotland ! gladly would my lofty heart resign 
 The pomps and vanities of power, to win such joy as 
 
 thine. 
 
 " O ! dearer far than halls of state the humble cottage 
 hearth, 
 
 Where childhood s joyous tones awake in all their reck 
 less mirth ; 
 
 And happier far the meanest churl, than she, within 
 whose breast 
 
 Affection s soft and pleading voice by pride must be 
 represt. 
 
 " A mother s joy ! a mother s pride ! O ! what is regal 
 power 
 
 To the sweet feelings that are born in such a blissful 
 hour? 
 
 Now well art thou avenged, fair queen, of all my jeal 
 ous hate, 
 
 For thou hast clasped a princely son, and I am des 
 olate ! "
 
 THE DEATH OF QUEEN ELIZABETH. 29 
 
 THE DEATH OF QUEEN ELIZABETH. 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 OULD this be England s boasted pride ? 
 
 Where were her glories now ? 
 Where the rich jewels that were wont 
 To deck her princely brow ? 
 Where were the pomps of regal state, 
 
 The charms of lady s bower ? 
 Not on such couch the island queen 
 Should meet her dying hour. 
 
 In vain her anxious maidens decked 
 
 Her bed of royal state ; 
 With finger pressed upon her lip, 
 
 Upon the floor she sate ; 
 Sorrow had bowed her stately form, 
 
 And time had blanched her hair; 
 While her proud eye, now glazed and dim, 
 
 Was filled with wild despair. 
 
 She took no heed of aught; her thoughts 
 
 Were in the bloody grave 
 That her own hand had dug for him 
 
 She would have died to save ; 
 And ever to her heart she pressed 
 
 A ring, a trifling gem, 
 But far more precious to her now 
 
 Than England s diadem.
 
 30 POEMS. 
 
 It was a pledge of special grace 
 
 For hours had often been 
 When the proud dame could not forget 
 
 The woman in the queen ; 
 And to the hand of Essex then, 
 
 In such an hour she gave 
 The ring, and promised any boon 
 
 That with it he might crave. 
 
 And when they called him rebel chief, 
 
 And told her he must die, 
 How long, how fondly did she wait 
 
 To see that pledge brought nigh; 
 But time passed on, and it came not: 
 
 Then, forced by harsh decree, 
 Her hand confirmed his doom, and sealed 
 
 Her own deep misery. 
 
 Now when twas all too late, she learned 
 
 How treachery and wrong 
 Around the noble earl had wove 
 
 Their toils so deep and strong ; 
 For he had sent the fatal ring, 
 
 But ere it met her eye, 
 The hapless youth had sunk beneath 
 
 The death that traitors die. 
 
 This was the fearful thought that weighed 
 
 Upon her noble heart, 
 And never more could earthly pomps 
 
 A ray of joy impart ;
 
 THE DEATH OF QUEEN ELIZABETH. 31 
 
 The crown her hand had decked with gems 
 
 Oppressed her weary head, 
 And what cared she for princely power ? 
 
 It could not wake the dead. 
 
 Thus days passed on, while fixed she sat 
 
 A statue of despair, 
 Unheeding aught save when arose 
 
 The murmured voice of prayer ; 
 Then slowly down her wasted cheek 
 
 The gathering tear-drops stole, 
 But O ! what human voice may speak 
 
 The anguish of her soul ? 
 
 Are there who smile that thus in age 
 
 Affection should awake 
 And scorn to think a heart so late 
 
 In hopelessness may break ? 
 Go look upon the mountain stream 
 
 Its wild wave rushes by, 
 Till wasted by its own excess 
 
 Behold the channel dry ! 
 
 Aye, thus she suffered she who scorned 
 
 To share her envied throne ; 
 She who had spurned a sceptered hand, 
 
 Proud to but reign alone ; 
 Now sunk beneath the fatal strength 
 
 Of passion, and forgot 
 The glories of a stately queen, 
 
 To die by woman s lot.
 
 32 POEMS. 
 
 BOSCOBEL. 
 
 " By the Earl of Derby s directions, Charles went to Boscobel, a lone house, on the 
 borders of Staffordshire, inhabited by one Penderell, a farmer. To this man Charles 
 intrusted himself. Penderell took the assistance of his four brothers, equally honor 
 able with himself; and having clothed the king in a garb likt their own, they led him 
 into a neighboring wood, put a bill into his hand, and pretended to employ them 
 selves in cutting fagots. For a better concealment, he mounted upon an oak, where 
 he sheltered himself among the leaves and branches for twenty-four hours. He saw 
 several soldiers pass by. All of them were intent in search of the king ; and some 
 expressed in his hearing, their earnest wishes of seizing him." 
 
 HUME S History of England. 
 
 WAS sunset, and the forest trees 
 
 Glowed neath the golden sky, 
 While evening s soft and dew-fraught 
 
 breeze 
 Awoke its gentle sigh. 
 
 Slowly the toil-worn woodman came ; 
 
 His glance was high and proud ; 
 Though neath the fagots painful weight 
 
 His drooping form was bowed. 
 
 At length in weariness he cast 
 
 His burden to the earth ; 
 And never such a look could beam 
 
 From one of lowly birth. 
 
 Xhe peasant s summer toil seemed traced 
 
 Upon his swarthy cheek ; 
 But not more native pride than his 
 
 A kingly eye could speak.
 
 BOSCOBEL. 33 
 
 Aye, majesty upon his brow 
 
 Its signet had imprest ; 
 And lofty was the heart that heaved 
 
 Beneath the woodman s vest ; 
 
 For he was one of royal race, 
 
 His heritage a throne : 
 What doth he in the pathless wood, 
 
 Thus peasant-clad and lone ? 
 
 Beside the silver brook he threw 
 
 His wearied limbs, and sighed : 
 " Alas ! must this then be the end 
 
 Of Stuart s kingly pride? 
 
 "Woe for the glorious hopes that once 
 
 My lofty heart could fill ! 
 The hand that grasped the warrior s sword, 
 
 Now bears the woodman s bill ; 
 
 " The neck that never bent before, 
 
 Now bows itself to wear 
 A burden that, in better days, 
 
 My slaves had scorned to bear. 
 
 " Better, far better twere to die 
 
 Beneath the assassin s knife, 
 Than thus drag on, mid toil and care, 
 
 A painful load of life." 
 3
 
 34 POEMS. 
 
 Hark to the sound of crashing boughs ! 
 
 A stranger s step is heard ! 
 Again the love of life within 
 
 The prince s bosom stirred. 
 
 With lithe and active limb he climbed 
 
 An oak s majestic height ; 
 And, sheltered mid its clustering leaves, 
 
 Looked on a fearful sight. 
 
 A band of fierce-eyed men were there ; 
 
 Their swords were stained with blood ; 
 And they bent to lave their burning brows 
 
 Within the crystal flood. 
 
 Then rose the ribald jest, the laugh, 
 
 The tale of daily guilt ; 
 And, demon-like, the exulting boast 
 
 Of blood their hands had spilt. 
 
 But still they sought one victim more 
 The Prince ! the Prince ! for him 
 
 With frantic haste they hurry through 
 The forest-shadows dim. 
 
 He heard their cries of baffled rage ; 
 
 He saw their eyes fierce glare ; 
 He knew that he was hunted like 
 
 A wild beast in his lair.
 
 BOSCOBEL. 35 
 
 Then all death s bitterness was his ; 
 
 And down his swart cheek rolled 
 Big drops of agony that well 
 
 His soul s dread conflict told. 
 
 Night dews upon the green sward shed 
 
 Full many a precious gem, 
 And on the midnight skies was seen 
 
 Heaven s glorious diadem. 
 
 Stillness was on the peaceful earth, 
 
 And beauty rilled the grove, 
 While nature seemed too fair for aught 
 
 Save gentleness and love. 
 
 A hallowed sound that stillness broke ;, 
 
 For, lowly kneeling there, 
 To pitying heaven the rescued prince 
 
 Poured his unwonted prayer. 
 
 And O ! in after years, when placed. 
 On England s glorious throne, 
 
 The wealth and power of regal state- 
 Around him richly shone 
 
 When pleasure o er his fancy wove 
 
 Her bright and powerful spell, 
 Did not the monarch s proud heart bless 
 
 The shades of Boscobel ?
 
 36 POEMS. 
 
 THE LAMENT OF COLUMBUS. 
 
 " Until now I have wept for others ; have pity upon me, Heaven, and weep for me, 
 earth ! In my temporal concerns, without a farthing to give in offering ; in spiritual 
 concerns, cast away here in the Indies ; isolated in my misery, infirm, expecting each 
 day will be my last ; surrounded by cruel savages, separated from the holy sacra 
 ments of the Church, so that my soul will be lost if separated here from my body ! 
 Weep for me whoever has charity, truth, and justice. I came not on this voyage to 
 gain honor or estate ; for all hope of that kind is dead within me. I came to serve 
 your majesties with a sound intention and an honest zeal, and I speak no falsehood." 
 
 Extract of a Letter from Columbus. 
 
 " He looked upon himself as standing in the hand of Heaven, chosen from among 
 rnen for the accomplishment of its high purpose. He read, as he supposed, his con 
 templated discovery foretold in holy writ, and shadowed forth darkly in the mystic 
 revelations of the prophets. The ends of the earth were to be brought together, and 
 all nations and tongues and languages united under the banners of the Redeemer." 
 
 IRVING S Life of Columbus. 
 
 " There is a fire 
 
 And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
 In its own narrow being 
 
 And but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 
 Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
 Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core, 
 Fatal to him that bears, to all who ever bore." 
 
 Childe Harold. 
 
 3T mine the dreams, 
 
 The vague chimeras of an earth-stained soul, 
 O er which the mists of error darkly roll ; 
 
 For Heaven-sent beams 
 
 Have chased the gloom that round my soul was flung, 
 And pierced the clouds that o er creation s mysteries 
 hung. 
 
 From my youth up 
 For this high purpose was I set apart
 
 THE LAMENT OF COLUMBUS. 37 
 
 An unbreathed thought, it lived within my heart ; 
 
 And though life s cup 
 
 Was filled with all earth s agonies, I quaffed 
 Unmurmuring, for that hope could sweeten any draught. 
 
 There were who jeered, 
 
 And laughed to scorn my visionary scheme ; 
 They thought yon glorious sun s resplendent beam 
 
 So brightly cheered 
 And vivified alone the spot of earth 
 Where they, like worms, had lived and groveled from 
 their birth. 
 
 But, called by God, 
 
 From home and friends my willing steps I turned ; 
 Led by the light that in my spirit burned, 
 
 Strange lands I trod ; 
 
 And lo ! new worlds, uncurtained by my hand, 
 Before th admiring East in pristine beauty stand. 
 
 And what was given 
 To recompense the many nameless toils 
 That won my king a new found empire s spoils ? 
 
 The smile of Heaven 
 
 Blessed him who sought amid those Eden plains 
 To plant the holy cross ; but man s reward was chains. 
 
 Forgot by all, 
 
 Amid a land of savages, I wait 
 From cruel, hostile hands my coming fate ; 
 
 Or else to fall
 
 38 POEMS. 
 
 Beneath the grief that weighs upon my heart 
 While unaneled, unblessed, my spirit must depart. 
 
 How have I wept 
 
 In pity for my followers, when afar 
 O er the wide sea with scarce a guiding star 
 
 Our course we kept; 
 
 But night winds only o er my grave shall sigh ; 
 For, bowed with cruel wrongs, on stranger shores, I die. 
 
 No selfish hope 
 
 Of fame or honor led me here again 
 To tread this weary pilgrimage of pain ; 
 
 He who must cope 
 
 With treachery and wrong, until the flame 
 Of pure ambition dies, has nought to do with fame. 
 
 To serve my king 
 
 I came, with zeal unkindness could not chill ; 
 To glorify my God, whose holy will 
 
 Taught me to fling 
 
 The veil of error from before my eyes, 
 And teach mankind his power as shown neath other 
 skies. 
 
 Weep for me, earth ! 
 
 Thou whose bright wonders I have oft explored, 
 Weep for me heaven ! to whose proud heights has soared, 
 
 E en from its birth, 
 
 My strong vtinged spirit in its might alone; 
 Lo ! he who gave new worlds now dies unwept, un 
 known.
 
 THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOENS. 39 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOENS. 
 
 " On his return from banishment, Camoens was shipwrecked at the mouth of the 
 river Gambia. He saved himself by clinging to a plank, and of all his little property 
 succeeded only in saving his poem of the Lusiad, deluged with the waves as he brought 
 it in his hand to shore." J SISMONDI. 
 
 " I saw him beat the surges under him, 
 And ride upon their backs ; he trod the water, 
 Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted 
 The surge most swoln that met him." 
 
 Tempest. 
 
 CLOUDS gathered o er the dark blue sky, 
 
 The sun waxed dim and pale, 
 And the music of the waves was changed 
 To the plaintive voice of wail ; 
 And fearfully the lightning flashed 
 
 Around the ship s tall mast, 
 While mournfully through the creaking shrouds 
 Came the sighing of the blast. 
 
 With pallid cheek the seamen shrank 
 
 Before the deepening gloom ; 
 For they gazed on the black and boiling sea 
 
 As twere a yawning tomb : 
 But on the vessel s deck stood one 
 
 With proud and changeless brow ; 
 Nor pain nor terror was in the look 
 
 He turned to the gulf below. 
 
 He is described with his sword in his hand, upon the authority of his own words : 
 " N huma mao livros, n outra, ferro et aco, 
 N huma mao sempre a espada, n outra a pena."
 
 40 POEMS. 
 
 And calmly to his arm he bound 
 
 His casket and his sword ; 
 Unheeding, though with fiercer strength 
 
 The threatening tempest roared ; 
 Then stretched his sinewy arms and cried : 
 
 " For me there yet is hope ; 
 The limbs that have spurned a tyrant s chain 
 
 With the stormy wave may cope. 
 
 " Now let the strife of nature fage, 
 
 Proudly I yet can claim, 
 Where er the waters may bear me on, 
 
 My freedom and my fame." 
 The dreaded moment came too soon, 
 
 The sea swept madly on, 
 Till the wall of waters closed around, 
 
 And the noble ship was gone. 
 
 Then rose one wild, half-stifled cry ; 
 
 The swimmer s bubbling breath 
 Was all unheard, while the raging tide 
 
 Wrought well the task of death : 
 But mid the billows still was seen 
 
 The stranger s struggling form ; 
 And the meteor flash of his sword might seem 
 
 Like a beacon ? mid the storm. 
 
 For still, while with his strong right arm 
 
 He buffeted the wave, 
 The other upheld that treasured prize 
 
 He would give life to save.
 
 THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOEXS. 41 
 
 Was then the love of pelf so strong 
 
 That e en in death s dark hour, 
 The base-born passion could awake 
 
 With such resistless power? 
 
 No ! all earth s gold were dross to him, 
 
 Compared with what lay hid, 
 Through lonely years of changeless woe, 
 
 Beneath that casket s lid ; 
 For there was all the mind s rich wealth, 
 
 And many a precious gem 
 That, in after years, he hoped might form 
 
 A poet s diadem. 
 
 Nobly he struggled till o erspent, 
 
 His nerveless limbs no more 
 Could bear him on through the waves that rose 
 
 Like barriers to the shore ; 
 Yet still he held his long prized wealth, 
 
 He saw the wished for land 
 A moment more, and he was thrown 
 
 Upon the rocky strand. 
 
 Alas ! far better to have died 
 
 Where the mighty billows roll, 
 Than lived till coldness and neglect 
 
 Bowed down his haughty soul : 
 Such was his dreary lot, at once 
 
 His country s pride and shame ; 
 For on Camoens humble grave alone 
 
 Was placed his wreath of fame.
 
 42 POEMS. 
 
 LAMENT OF CAMOENS. 
 
 Donna Catharina de Atayde, a lady of rank and fortune, inspired Camoens with a 
 love as deep as it proved lasting. He was her equal in birth, though destitute of riches. 
 His poverty, however, in the opinion of her parents, was a crime which could be ex 
 piated only by exile ; and as she was attached to the court, they found no difficulty 
 in procuring from the sovereign a decree for his banishment. This summary mode of 
 proceeding, though it separated the lovers, served but to increase their mutual affec 
 tion, while it brought upon the unhappy Camoens misfortune and disgrace. After 
 a lapse of years, during which he had suffered penury, shipwreck, and the loss of 
 the little property he had accumulated in the East Indies, he returned to his native 
 country, broken in health and in spirits, only to weep over the grave of his beloved 
 Catharina, who had cherished her hopeless love for him to the last moments of her 
 life. Life of Camoens. 
 
 " O when in boyhood s happier scene, 
 
 I pledged my love to thee, 
 How very little did I ween 
 My recompense would now have been 
 So much of misery ! " 
 
 CAMOENS. 
 
 ( Y brow is wasted with its throbs of pain ; 
 
 My limbs have worn the exile s heavy chain ; 
 
 And now, in weariness of heart, I come 
 
 To seek my home 
 Alas ! alas ! what home is left me save 
 The marble stone that marks my Catharine s grave. 
 
 Amid the loneliness of banished years, 
 When every hour was traced in bitter tears, 
 When gainst itself my bosom learned to war, 
 
 Thou wert the star 
 
 That o er my path of dreary darkness shone, 
 My own sweet Catharine, and thou too art gone ! 
 
 Too well thy faith, my gentle one, was kept ; 
 The love, the perfect tenderness that slept
 
 LAMENT OF CAMOENS. 43 
 
 Within thy bosom, on itself has preyed, 
 
 Till thou wert laid 
 
 Within the shelter of earth s quiet breast, 
 The sinless victim of a love unblest. 
 
 Still thou didst glory in that love ; thy brow 
 With deep affection s brightest flush would glow ; 
 And though with bitter tears, when last we met, 
 
 Thy cheek was wet, 
 
 Yet thou didst bear a spirit high and proud, 
 And bid me suffer on with soul unbowed. 
 
 Alas ! I hoped thou wouldst have heard my name 
 Linked with the voice of song, the breath of fame : 
 I fondly deemed that thou wouldst yet behold 
 
 My name enrolled 
 
 Amid my country s records, while my lyre 
 Should wake within all hearts a patriot fire. 
 
 But that is past ; once I had wept, and raved, 
 
 And cursed the fate that, through such perils, saved 
 
 Me to lament o er early-faded dreams ; 
 
 Now reason seems 
 
 Gifted with life to add new stings to pain ; 
 For frenzy rules my heart, but not my brain. 
 
 No outward sign such mortal woe may speak ; 
 No tears, my Catharine, stain my hollow cheek ; 
 For ah ! this languid frame, this sinking heart 
 
 Tell me we part 
 
 But for a season ; soon my toil-worn soul 
 Shall throw aside this weary life s control.
 
 44 POEMS. 
 
 Then shall death sanctify my lyre ; and then 
 Shall nations praise " him of the sword and pen ; " 
 Then shall my grave become a pilgrim shrine ; 
 
 And then too thine, 
 
 Thus hallowed by a poet s love, shall be 
 Sought when forgot are thy proud ancestry. 
 
 THE POOL OF BETHESDA. 
 
 (ST. JOHN v. 2-9.) 
 
 RANQUIL Bethesda s waters lay, 
 No breeze the surface stirred, 
 When sudden through the brightening air 
 A rustling wing was heard ; 
 Then loudly rose the joyous cry : 
 " The angel of the pool is nigh ! " 
 
 Well might they shout, the lame, the blind, 
 
 The fevered who had lain 
 Beside Bethesda s healing wave, 
 
 Through many a day of pain ; 
 They knew it was the destined hour 
 When God would show his pitying power. 
 
 Then with the selfishness that marks 
 
 Deep misery, they rushed 
 Towards the holy fount that now 
 
 With heaven-sent freshness gushed ;
 
 THE POOL OF BETPIESDA. 45 
 
 For he who first should reach its brink, 
 New being from its wave might drink. 
 
 But there was one who stirless lay 
 
 Upon his weary couch ; 
 Nor sought amid the hurrying crowd 
 
 The troubled waters touch ; 
 But in his bitter sigh was heard 
 The agony of "hope deferred." 
 
 Almost reproachfully he turned 
 
 His eye upon the stream ; 
 When lo ! a gentle voice awoke, 
 
 Like music in a dream, 
 So soft, so sweet its accents stole, 
 " My brother ! wilt thou not be whole ? " 
 
 Slowly he turned his feeble frame, 
 
 And gazed upon a face 
 Of more than woman s loveliness, 
 
 Of more than kingly grace ; 
 "Alas! in vain my will," he cried, 
 "I cannot reach Bethesda s tide. 
 
 "In more than infant feebleness, 
 Through long and changeless years, 
 
 I ve lain beside this healing pool 
 And yet no help appears ; 
 
 For ere my palsied limbs draw nigh, 
 
 The hour of mercy is gone by."
 
 46 POEMS. 
 
 The Saviour bent his noble form, 
 
 A heavenly smile passed o er 
 His placid lip : " Arise ! " he cried, 
 
 " Go hence and sin no more ! " 
 Lo ! touched by those almighty hands, 
 Once more in manhood s strength he stands. 
 
 Surely this deed of wondrous power 
 
 A truth to us imparts : 
 When Heaven s best gifts have not the skill 
 
 To heal our broken hearts, 
 May we not look through faith to thee 
 Thou first-born of eternity ? 
 
 CHRIST IN THE TEMPEST. 
 
 (ST. MATTHEW viii. 24-27.) 
 
 :IDNIGHT was on the mighty deep, 
 
 And darkness filled the boundless sky, 
 While mid the raging wind was heard 
 The sea-bird s mournful cry ; 
 For tempest clouds were mustering wrath 
 Across the seaman s trackless path. 
 
 It came at length ; one fearful gust 
 Rent from the mast the shivering sail, 
 
 And drove the helpless bark along, 
 The plaything of the gale ; 
 
 While fearfully the lightning s glare 
 
 Fell on the pale brows gathered there.
 
 CHRIST IN THE TEMPEST. 47 
 
 But there was One o er whose bright face 
 Unmarked the vivid lightnings flashed ; 
 
 And on whose stirless, prostrate form 
 Unfelt the sea-spray dashed ; 
 
 For mid the tempest fierce and wild, 
 
 He slumbered like a wearied child. 
 
 O ! who could look upon that face, 
 
 And feel the sting of coward fear ? 
 Though hell s fierce demons raged around, 
 
 Yet Heaven itself was here ; 
 For who that glorious brow could see 
 Nor own a present Deity ? 
 
 With hurried fear they press around 
 
 The lowly Saviour s humble bed, 
 As if his very touch had power 
 
 To shield their souls from dread ; 
 While, cradled on the raging deep, 
 He lay in calm and tranquil sleep. 
 
 Vainly they struggled with their fears, 
 
 But wilder still the tempest woke, 
 Till from their full and o erfraught hearts 
 
 The voice of terror broke : 
 " Behold ! we sink beneath the wave ; 
 We perish, Lord ! but thou canst save." 
 
 Slowly he rose ; and mild rebuke 
 
 Shone in his soft and heaven-lit eye : 
 
 " O ye of little faith," he cried, 
 " Is not your master nigh ?
 
 48 POEMS. 
 
 Is not your hope of succor just? 
 Why know ye not in whom ye trust ? " 
 
 He turned away, and conscious power 
 
 Dilated his majestic form, 
 As o er the boiling sea he bent, 
 
 The ruler of the storm ; 
 Earth to its centre felt the thrill, 
 As low he murmured : " Peace ! Be still ! " 
 
 Hark to the burst of meeting waves, 
 The roaring of the angry sea ! 
 
 A moment more, and all is hushed 
 In deep tranquillity; 
 
 While not a breeze is near to break 
 
 The mirrored surface of the lake. 
 
 Then on the stricken hearts of all, 
 Fell anxious doubt and holy awe, 
 
 As timidly they gazed on him 
 Whose will was nature s law : 
 
 "What man is this," they cry, "whose word 
 
 E en by the raging sea is heard ? "
 
 THE SURRENDER OF CALAIS. 49 
 
 THE SURRENDER OF CALAIS. 
 
 1 HE king was in his tent, 
 
 And his lofty heart beat high, 
 As he gazed on the city s battered walls 
 With proud and flashing eye ; 
 But darker grew his brow and stern, 
 
 As slowly onward came 
 The chiefs who long had dared to spurn 
 The terror of his name. 
 
 With calm and changeless cheek 
 
 Before the king they stood, 
 For their native soil to offer up 
 
 The sacrifice of blood. 
 Like felons were they meanly clad, 
 
 But the lightning of their look, 
 The marble sternness of their brow, 
 
 E en the monarch could not brook. 
 
 With angry voice he cried : 
 
 " Haste ! bear them off to death ; 
 Let the trumpet s joyous shout be blent 
 
 With the traitors parting breath ! " 
 Then silently they turned away, 
 
 Nor word nor sound awoke, 
 Till from the monarch s haughty train, 
 
 The voice of horror broke. 
 4
 
 50 POEMS. 
 
 When hark ! a step draws near, 
 
 Not like the heavy clang 
 Of the warrior s tread, and through the guards 
 
 A female figure sprang : 
 " A boon ! a boon ! my noble king ! 
 
 If still thy heart can feel 
 The love Philippa once could claim, 
 
 Look on me while I kneel ! 
 
 " Tis for thyself I pray ; 
 
 Let not the dark ning cloud 
 Of base-born cruelty arise, 
 
 Thy glory to enshroud ! 
 Nay, nay, I will not rise ; 
 
 For never more thy wife 
 Will hail the victor, till thy soul 
 
 Can conquer passion s strife ! 
 
 " Turn not away, my king, 
 
 Look not in anger down, 
 I ve lived so long upon thy smile 
 
 I cannot bear thy frown ; 
 O ! doom me not, dear lord, to feel 
 
 The pang all pangs above 
 To see the light I worship fade, 
 
 And blush for him I love. 
 
 " Think how for thee I laid 
 My woman s fears aside, 
 And dared where charging squadrons met, 
 With dauntless front to ride ; l 
 
 1 At the battle of Neville s Cross, in which the Scots were defeated and their king 
 taken prisoner.
 
 THE SURRENDER OF CALAIS. 51 
 
 Think how, in all the matchless strength 
 
 Of woman s love, I spread 
 Thy banners, till they proudly waved 
 
 In victory o er my head. 
 
 "Thou saidst that I deserved 
 
 To share thy glorious crown ; 
 O, force me not to turn away 
 
 In shame from thy renown. 
 My Edward, thou wert wont to bear 
 
 A kind and gentle heart ; 
 Then listen to Philippa s prayer, 
 
 And let these men depart." 
 
 O, what is all the pride 
 
 Of man s oft boasted power, 
 Compared with those sweet dreams that wake 
 
 In love s triumphant hour? 
 Slowly the haughty king unbent 
 
 His stern and vengeful brow, 
 And the look he turned upon her face 
 
 Was filled with fondness now. 
 
 Ne er yet was woman slow 
 
 To read in tell-tale eyes 
 Such thoughts as these ; a moment more, 
 
 And on his breast she lies ; 
 Then while her slender form still clung 
 
 To his supporting arm, 
 He cried, " Sweet, be it as thou wilt 
 
 They shall not meet with harm."
 
 52 POEMS. 
 
 Then from the patriot band 
 
 Arose one thrilling cry, 
 And tears rained down the iron cheek 
 
 That turned unblenched to die ; 
 " Now we indeed are slaves," they cried, 
 " Now vain our warlike arts ; 
 Edward has now our shattered walls, 
 
 Philippa wins our hearts." 
 
 MARY S LAMENT. 
 
 " The queen ceased not to direct her looks to the shore of France, until the dark 
 ness interrupted her wishful eyes. At the dawn of day the coast of France was still 
 in sight, the galleys having made but little progress during the night. While it re 
 mained in view she often repeated, Farewell, France ! farewell ! I shall never see 
 you more. " CHALMERS Life of the Scottish Queen. 
 
 AREWELL, dear France, my sad heart s chosen 
 
 home, 
 
 Land of my earliest joys, a last farewell. 
 Still o er thy shores mine eyes delighted roam, 
 But O ! the cruel winds the white sails swell, 
 And when to-morrow dawns my look shall dwell 
 Only upon the rushing waves that bear 
 My bark too swiftly on to reach its port of care. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! till now I never knew 
 
 How sharp might be the thoins that line a crown ; 
 O ! woe is mine that thus am doomed to view 
 
 At once the smile of fortune and her frown, 
 
 And find my spirit in the dust cast down,
 
 MARY S LAMENT. 53 
 
 When pride would bid me think on queenly state, 
 And spurn mid glory s dreams the humbler ills of fate. 
 
 Yet ah ! how can the mournful widow s heart 
 Turn to the thoughts ambition might awake ! 
 
 Doomed from the husband of my youth to part, 
 What pleasure now in glory can I take ! 
 When most I prized it, twas for his dear sake ; 
 
 My loftiest aim was but to share his throne 
 
 How can my weak hand bear the sceptre s weight alone ! 
 
 Like you, pale moon, must be my dreary way. 
 Lonely she shines, although so pure and bright, 
 
 And as she blends not with the sun s rich ray, 
 But waits his absence to diffuse her light, 
 So only since my day has turned to night 
 
 Has so much splendor gathered round my name ; 
 
 Alas ! how happier far had I but shared his fame ! 
 
 But he is gone, and I his heavy loss 
 
 Through many a lonely year am doomed to weep ; 
 Yet oft my thoughts the dark blue sea will cross 
 
 To seek the spot where all I love cloth sleep ; 
 
 For in my husband s grave is buried deep 
 The all of joy that I could ever taste, 
 And glory but illumes my lone heart s blighted waste.
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 ! HEY knew it was their destiny to sever, 
 And yet they loved with that intensity, 
 That deep,. devouring passion, which may never 
 Seek in this selfish world for happiness. 
 Yet they had learned to suffer, and could see 
 Their dearest pleasures daily vanishing ; 
 But Fate had yet one arrow left to sting 
 Their hearts to madness. They could calmly bear 
 To lose each earthly joy, so they might share 
 Each other s sorrow, but the hour was nigh 
 When they must part in life, to linger on 
 And struggle with a breaking heart alone, 
 Or yield at once to wretchedness, and die. 
 
 She had been beautiful ; but now that worst 
 
 Most fatal sickness, soirow, long had preyed 
 
 Upon her beauty. Young affection, nurst 
 
 In loneliness and tears, too soon will fade 
 
 The bloom on woman s cheek. Yet she would hide 
 
 Her sufferings from him, and whene er he sighed 
 
 In sad foreboding, she would gayly smile, 
 
 And with kind, cheerful words his grief beguile.
 
 THE S/S TEA S. 55 
 
 O ! man, ungrateful man can never know 
 
 The force of woman s love how deep, how strong 
 
 Is her enduring tenderness in woe. 
 
 Still found the firmest friend, when the world s wrong 
 
 Weighs on the heart, her hand is ever near 
 
 To soothe the pang and wipe the starting tear. 
 
 In joy s bright hour her playfulness may gain 
 
 A homage that proud man denies in vain ; 
 
 But tis in sorrow, danger, and distress 
 
 That woman shines in all her loveliness. 
 
 In calm forgetfulness of self she braves 
 
 The world s worst storms ; one sole reward she craves 
 
 To know that she has turned aside one dart 
 
 Meant for his breast, e en though it rankles in her heart. 
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 
 ! HE elder was a small and slender girl, 
 With sweet low brow, o erhung by many a curl 
 Of raven blackness, and soft eyes as blue 
 As the bright summer sky just trembling through 
 A silvery cloud ; her long dark lashes shaded 
 A cheek whose roses grief had sadly faded ; 
 But her sweet lips, so statue-like, O ne er 
 Could fancy image loveliness so rare ; 
 Their soft and delicate outline might have seemed 
 Almost voluptuous, but that her face beamed 
 With such soft purity as dwells within 
 An infant s heart that ne er has dreamed of sin.
 
 56 POEMS. 
 
 The other sister was more tall and fair, 
 
 With lofty forehead, and long dark-brown hair ; 
 
 Her eyes were bright, but yet they never knew 
 
 A beauty of expression or of hue ; 
 
 At times her cheek wore a slight transient glow, 
 
 A trace of earlier days but her high brow 
 
 Was the sole charm that dwelt in Ella s face, 
 
 And e en this was too high for female grace. 
 
 And their minds, too, were different. Nina s soul 
 
 Was meek and gentle ; her soft sweet voice stole 
 
 Upon the ear like music heard at night 
 
 Across the moonlit waves. Those thousand slight 
 
 And nameless kindnesses that to each heart 
 
 A feeling of calm tenderness impart, 
 
 Like the mild dews that on each flow ret fall. 
 
 Silently shedding freshness upon all ; 
 
 That unsuspecting innocence which must, 
 
 Though oft deceived, to tones of kindness trust ; 
 
 That purity of heart which never dreams 
 
 Man can be other than the thing he seems, 
 
 All these were Nina s charms. But Ella s proud 
 
 And haughty spirit never yet had bowed 
 
 To such all perfect gentleness ; her mind 
 
 Was far less feminine. Yet there were kind 
 
 And tender feelings hidden in her breast, 
 
 But, taught by pride, those feelings she represt ; 
 
 And oft her heart was crowded by a throng 
 
 Of thoughts that the cold world had counted wrong ; 
 
 Still they were cherished, for she only felt 
 
 That none could know the shrine at which she knelt.
 
 THE SISTERS. 57 
 
 It might be wrong that she should thus adore, 
 But this was nothing, since she calmly bore 
 The punishment, nor ever sought to be 
 An idol mid the scenes of gayety. 
 
 There is a fount of love that ever springs 
 
 Unstained and clear in woman s heart, and flings 
 
 Its sweetness over all within the sphere 
 
 Of her mild kindness ; this made Nina dear 
 
 To all that dwelt around her: but twas hid 
 
 Closely in Ella s bosom, and forbid 
 
 To pour its full and perfect tenderness 
 
 Where it most wished to flow ; twas given to bless 
 
 The only being who on her relied 
 
 For comfort or affection ; and with pride 
 
 She gazed upon her Nina s gentle form, 
 
 Whose every slightest movement had a charm 
 
 Equally lovely when she gayly smiled 
 
 As innocent and playful as a child, 
 
 Or when some sudden recollection brought 
 
 Back to her heart its dreams of saddened thought. 
 
 Nina had suffered sorrow ; her short life 
 
 Had been a mournful scene of pain and strife. 
 
 Her heart was like a delicate wild flower given 
 
 To grow up neath the light and dews of heaven, 
 
 Unfit to suffer e en the wind s wild s mirth ; 
 
 Yet it had felt the rudest storms of earth, 
 
 And when the wintry tempest had passed o er 
 
 It seemed to smile as gayly as before. 
 
 Alas! no sunshine s renovating power 
 
 Could give its wonted brightness to that flower,
 
 58 POEMS. 
 
 For withering grief consumed it, and decay 
 Was slowly wasting all its bloom away. 
 
 Months rolled away, but painful thought had lain 
 
 With a deep burning weight on Nina s brain, 
 
 And maddened her ; now mid strange fantasies 
 
 Her mind was ever dwelling, and her eyes 
 
 Roamed o er the world as o er a dreary waste 
 
 Whose very fruits were bitter to the taste. 
 
 Yet was her spirit pure, e en as the brook, 
 
 Though turned aside its course, gives back the look 
 
 Of the blue heaven, while meaner things find rest 
 
 Only in broken shadows on its breast. 
 
 But if there was a solitary trace 
 
 Of memory left, twas when the mournful face 
 
 Of Ella met her view, and still she clung 
 
 To that fond bosom while her own was wrung 
 
 With agonizing pain ; yet Ella s doom 
 
 Was one of unmixed suffering, for the bloom 
 
 Was quickly fading from young Nina s cheek, 
 
 And her frame grew more wasted and more weak, 
 
 Aye, many a lengthened night and weary day 
 
 She watched the certain progress of decay 
 
 O er Nina s loveliness, till friendly Death 
 
 Gave his last summons. Then, as if the breath 
 
 Of some much loved one thrilled her frame, she sighed, 
 
 And, smiling tenderly on Ella, died.
 
 EDGAR AND ADA. 59 
 
 EDGAR AND ADA. 
 
 "The wretched are the faithful." 
 
 BYRON, Lament of Tassa. 
 
 E was all manly beauty, and she seemed 
 As fair a form as ever poet dreamed 
 Mid early love s imaginings ; with eyes 
 Dove-like and beautiful, and lofty brow, 
 White as the snow on Alpine summits lies ; 
 Upon her cheek there was a brilliant glow 
 Like young Aurora s earliest, brightest blush, 
 Deepening at her sweet lip, till it became 
 The crimson tint of summer eve ; the flush 
 Of changeful feeling, hope, or joy, or shame, 
 Gave sweetness to a face that else had been 
 Too samely beautiful : none e er had seen 
 Her innocent smile but paused to look again, 
 She seemed so pure, so free from every stain 
 Of earthly feeling ; and young Edgar s heart 
 Scarce trusted its own bliss when in her face 
 He read (what nought save looks can e er impart) 
 The love, the tenderness that steals new grace 
 From maiden bashfulness ; aye, low his proud 
 And lofty spirit at her shrine was bowed. 
 The guileless fancies of unsullied youth ; 
 Its high-souled aspirations after truth ; 
 The innocent wishes, vague and undefined ; 
 The brilliant visions of a lofty mind ; 
 The hope that only on fame s mountain height 
 His eagle spirit e er should rest its flight,
 
 60 POEMS. 
 
 All these were his ; and when the traitor Love 
 
 Around that spirit s snowy pinions wove 
 
 His silken bonds, in vain might he essay 
 
 Its heavenward course mid myrtle groves to stay ; 
 
 The soft, light fetters only seemed to bring 
 
 Renewed freshness to each radiant wing. 
 
 Yet all his soul was hers ; and what did she 
 
 With such a prize ? Did she not joy to see 
 
 Its proud upspringing ? Did she not aspire 
 
 To catch a spark of the ethereal fire ? 
 
 And did not her less powerful mind reflect 
 
 A brightness from his vivid intellect ? 
 
 No ! all too glorious was the dazzling blaze 
 
 Of genius placed before her timid gaze ; 
 
 She shrank before his brilliancy, content 
 
 To find in vanity her element. 
 
 His love for her was pure as it was deep ; 
 
 Not like the shallow brook whose wavelets break 
 
 When the light breezes o er its surface sweep, 
 
 But like the mighty ocean that can wake 
 
 Only to brave the tempest. 
 
 But when all thought him happiest, for the time 
 
 When he might claim his promised bride drew near 
 
 (Alas ! they know not the heart s changeful clime 
 
 Who only see its summer flowers), a shade 
 
 Gathered upon his brow ; he seemed to wear 
 
 Less joyous smiles than he was wont. Twas said 
 
 That she was faithless ; but he breathed not one 
 
 Unkind reproach ; the soul of life was gone 
 
 From him forever ; and nought now was left
 
 EDGAR AND ADA. 6 1 
 
 Save a wide waste of all its bloom bereft. 
 
 The idol he had worshipped was o erthrown ; 
 
 Its ruined fane was in his heart alone. 
 
 Yet he could not believe that she would brook 
 
 Another s tenderness a little while 
 
 And she was wedded ; he beheld her smile 
 
 Upon another with the same sweet look 
 
 That once had greeted him : then first he knew 
 
 His bosom s hopeless misery ; then too 
 
 He felt how surely she had withered all 
 
 His spirit s high-wrought energies ; in vain 
 
 He strove his hopes of glory to recall 
 
 Alas ! there was no guerdon now to gain. 
 
 He deemed hope dead within his heart, and then 
 Alas ! he plunged amid the haunts of men. 
 Aye, that proud heart, so full of holy feeling, 
 Was joined unto the world the stain of earth 
 So slowly o er his guileless bosom stealing, 
 Though hid beneath the sparkling flowers of mirth 
 A darker, deeper madness could impart 
 Than even grief had left within his heart. 
 His spirit s plumes were sullied ; but not long 
 He paused to hear soft pleasure s syren song ; 
 Not long his noble nature thus could bear 
 The joys where innocence might find no share. 
 
 There was a gentle girl for whom he felt 
 A brother s tenderness, and she knew well 
 His wrongs and sufferings ; often had she knelt 
 Beside him when she marked the fearful swell
 
 62 POEMS. 
 
 Of the blue veins upon his brow, which told 
 That thought again her record had unrolled ; 
 And she alone his sadness could beguile 
 With her soft voice, her sweetly pensive smile, 
 Or soothe with tears she sought not to repress. 
 She spoke to him of peace (for happiness 
 She knew he hoped no longer), and she gave 
 Fresh motive for exertion : day by day 
 Her gentle kindness won its silent way, 
 Until he felt that he again could brave 
 The world s wild storms. Affection s deepest stream 
 Was sealed within his bosom ; but the beam 
 Of kind benevolence across it glowed 
 Until it seemed as though again it flowed 
 Unfettered ; but such thought indeed were vain 
 Nought now on earth could e er unloose that chain ; 
 His lip again a tranquil smile might wear, 
 But memory s waste was ruled by fell despair. 
 
 Yet Ada felt that deep and passionate love 
 Was in her heart ; at first she vainly strove 
 Against its power ; she knew she ought to fly ; 
 Yet what kind, gentle one would then be nigh 
 To watch o er Edgar s melancholy mood, 
 And save him from the heart s dread solitude ? 
 O ! man can never know what treasures lie 
 Within the quiet depths of woman s soul ; 
 How strong the fortitude that dares to die 
 E en with a broken heart, yet can control 
 Each painful murmur. Ada knew she ne er 
 Could be aught than his sister, though so dear
 
 EDGAR AND ADA. 63 
 
 Her innocent heart had held him a few years 
 Of mingled joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, 
 And then they must be parted ; he would wear 
 Upon his brow the laurel s fadeless bloom, 
 While her heart, worn by many a secret tear, 
 Would find its shelter in the silent tomb. 
 
 Days passed away, and Ada s bloom had fled. 
 She felt that soon the city of the dead 
 Would greet her as its habitant ; and yet 
 Her gentle bosom breathed not one regret : 
 She feared if she should live and he depart, 
 Grief might reveal the secret of her heart ; 
 But now while she could listen to his voice 
 Whose silver tones bade her sad soul rejoice ; 
 Now while to her his tenderness was given, 
 Death was the dearest boon she sought from Heaven. 
 Yet e en this consolation was denied ; 
 For accident revealed what maiden pride 
 Had closely hidden ; pangs that long had slept 
 In Edgar s breast were roused : " Have I doomed thee, 
 Mine innocent child, to hopeless misery ? " 
 He clasped her to his bosom and they wept, 
 Bitterly wept together ; but she rose 
 As though the fountains of her weeping froze 
 E en in their flow, her arms were round him thrown, 
 One kiss upon his brow, and she was gone. 
 
 Days, weeks passed on ; but from that time he ne er 
 Had seen sweet Ada ; many a bitter tear 
 Had he in secret shed, when he was told
 
 64 POEMS. 
 
 That she was dying ; ere that heart was cold 
 Which had loved him so well, ere she was free 
 From worldly thoughts, she prayed his face to see. 
 He came ; she sat beside the lattice, where 
 The jasmine twined its bridal blossoms fair ; 
 A transient blush suffused her cheek ; she sighed : 
 " Think like this flower thine own dear Ada died ; 
 It felt no lightning-stroke, no tempest s strife, 
 But withered neath the sun that gave it life." 
 She laid her head upon his breast life s last 
 And happiest moment then her spirit passed ! 
 
 THE MOTHER. 
 
 " To aid thy mind s development ; to watch 
 Thy dawn of little joys ; to sit and see 
 Almost thy very growth ; to view thee catch 
 Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to thee ! 
 To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, 
 And print on thy soft cheek a parent s kiss, 
 This, it should seem was not reserved for me." 
 
 Childe Harold. 
 
 ERS was no brilliant beauty ; a pale tint, 
 As if a rose-leaf there had left its print, 
 Was on her cheek ; her brow was high and fair, 
 
 Crossed by light waving bands of chestnut hair ; 
 
 Her eyes were cast down on the lovely boy, 
 
 Beside whose couch she knelt ; but such calm joy, 
 
 Such beautiful tranquillity as dwelt 
 
 Upon her features, none have ever felt
 
 THE MOTHER. 65 
 
 Save a fond mother : her tall graceful form 
 
 Was bending o er him, and one round white arm 
 
 Supported his fair head, while her hand prest 
 
 Her bosom, as she feared that he might start 
 
 To feel the quickened pulses of her heart. 
 
 Yet still she drew him nearer to her breast 
 
 Almost unconsciously. At length he woke, 
 
 And the soft sounds that from his sweet lips broke, 
 
 Were like the gentle murmurings of a brook 
 
 Along its pebbly channel ; but her look 
 
 Told joy that lay too deep for smiles or tears : 
 
 Twas a strange happiness where hopes and fears 
 
 Were wildly blended, yet twas happiness ; 
 
 For well she knew that nought on earth could bless 
 
 A woman s heart like the deep, deathless love 
 
 A mother feels : all other joys may prove 
 
 But sin or vanity ; this, this alone 
 
 With perfect peace and purity is fraught. 
 
 On the fair tablet of a mother s thought 
 
 There is no stain of passion tis the one 
 
 Sole trace of that pure joy man s knowledge cost, 
 
 Sole remnant of the heaven our parents lost. 
 
 When first man from his paradise was driven, 
 Woman s sweet wiles and witcheries were given 
 To cheer him through life s dreary wilderness ; 
 But what was left her erring heart to bless? 
 She once had loved him as a being sent 
 From heaven in God s own image, yet he went 
 Astray e en at her bidding loved she less ? 
 No, but her adoration now was o er; 
 5
 
 66 POEMS. 
 
 And earthly passions, sinless now no more, 
 Absorbed her heart, while every pang or sigh 
 That burst from him thrilled her with agony. 
 His stern reproach, too, she endured unmoved 
 And patient, for she felt how much she loved. 
 Then, to repay her sufferings, and atone 
 For man s unkindness, seeds of joy were sown 
 Within her heart a mother s love was given, 
 And this repaid her for the loss of heaven. 
 
 O ! but to watch the infant as he lies 
 
 Pillowed upon his mother s breast ; his eyes 
 
 Fixed on her face, as if his only light 
 
 On earth beamed from that face with fondness bright ; 
 
 Or to gaze on him sleeping, while his cheek 
 
 Moves with her heart s glad throbbings that bespeak 
 
 Feeling too full for words ; see him break 
 
 The silken chains of slumber and awake 
 
 All light and beauty, while he lisps her name 
 
 " Mother, ! " although his childish lips can frame 
 
 No other sound. O ! who, with joy like this 
 
 Could ask from heaven a dearer, deeper bliss ? 
 
 Again I saw the mother bending o er 
 The pillow of her babe ; but joy no more 
 Was pictured in her face : her sunken cheek, 
 Her faltering accents, tremulous and weak, 
 Told a sad tale : she had hung o er that couch 
 For many a weary night, and every touch 
 Of his thin, wasted hand seemed to impart 
 A thrilling sense of pain to her young heart ;
 
 THE MOTHER. 67 
 
 Yet deemed she not that death could now destroy 
 
 So bright a blossom as her darling boy. 
 
 She feared not that ; she felt she could not bring 
 
 Aught to relieve him ; this to her was death. 
 
 But when at last she felt his feverish breath 
 
 Pass o er her brow, the deadly withering 
 
 Of early hope that young hearts only know, 
 
 First taught her all a youthful mother s woe. 
 
 Oft would she check the bursting sob of pain 
 
 When, as she marked the evening planets wane, 
 
 She thought that though another day had past, 
 
 Another came as mournful as the last ; 
 
 And oftentimes the bright, big tear unbid 
 
 Would gather slowly neath her long-fringed lid, 
 
 As rain-drops mark the coming storm whose shock 
 
 Shall blast the wild flower and its sheltering rock 
 
 In the same ruin ; but each coming day 
 
 She saw him wasting. One eve as he lay 
 
 Within her arms, the moonbeams shining bright 
 
 Gave to his pallid face a ghastly light : 
 
 She gazed on him she bent to hear his breath 
 
 His heart throbbed faintly then she gazed on Death !
 
 68 POEMS. 
 
 MINA. 
 
 " Nature is fine in love ; and when tis fine 
 It sends some precious irstance of itself 
 After the thing it loves." Hamlet. 
 
 T was the place of tombs; the dark-leaved yew 
 And bending willow their sad shadows threw 
 Across the lowly graves ; no sound was heard 
 Save the soft murmur of a rippling stream, 
 Or the light carol of the lark that stirred 
 The balmy air with music : it might seem 
 That all things slept in some delicious dream. 
 There was a hillock decked with many a wreath 
 Of young spring-flowers, but they had faded neath 
 The morning sun, like young hopes pure and bright 
 Withering beneath the look that gave them light. 
 And to that grave there came the form of one 
 Who had been beautiful ; but sickness now, 
 And sorrow, too, had marked her for their own, 
 And stolen the joyous beauty from her brow. 
 On the damp grass she many a night had lain, 
 The star-gemmed heavens her only canopy ; 
 And this had dimmed the lustre of her eye, 
 And faded her young cheek ; she came again 
 To deck with fresh culled flowers the lonely spot 
 She loved so well. She sighed : " Sure these are not 
 The flowers I braided ; ah ! the cruel sun 
 Has touched them, and their loveliness is gone." 
 She threw herself beside the grave and wreathed 
 The dewy flowers, while mournfully she breathed 
 A low and broken melody :
 
 MINA. 69 
 
 Aye, flowers may glow 
 In new-born beauty, and the rosy spring 
 To deck the earth her sparkling wreaths may bring; 
 
 But where art thou ? 
 
 The early bloom 
 
 Of flowers in freshest infancy I wreathe, 
 Their transient life of fragrancy to breathe 
 
 Upon thy tomb. 
 
 And I have sought 
 
 The lowly violet, that in shade appears 
 Shrinking from view, like young love s tender fears, 
 
 With sweetness fraught. 
 
 And rosebuds, too, 
 
 Crimson as young Aurora s blush, or white 
 As woman s cheek when touched by sorrow s blight, 
 
 O er thee I slrew. 
 
 And flowers that close 
 
 Their buds beneath the sun, but pure and pale 
 Ope their sweet blossoms neath the dewy veil 
 
 That evening throws. 
 
 The fragrant leaves 
 
 Of the white lily, too, with these I twine, 
 The drooping lily that seems born to shine 
 
 Where true love grieves.
 
 70 POEMS. 
 
 But what cloth this 
 
 Half withered bud amid my blooming wreath? 
 Already its young charms have faded neath 
 
 The sun s warm kiss. 
 
 Ah! this shall lie 
 
 Upon my bosom ; it is fit to strew 
 Such blighted flowers o er her who only knew 
 
 To love and die ! 
 
 There will be none 
 
 To deck thy grave with flowers and chant for thee 
 These snatches of remembered melody 
 
 When I am gone ; 
 
 But thou shalt have 
 
 A gift more pure than e en the buds I fling 
 A broken heart my latest offering 
 
 Upon thy grave. 
 
 She laid 
 
 Upon the verdant flower-wreathed turf her head ; 
 The breeze amid her long, dark ringlets played, 
 And thus she slept the dying with the dead. 
 
 Hers was no wondrous history ; should we seek 
 The cause that fades the bloom of woman s cheek, 
 Twould oft be found a tale like this, she loved 
 As woman ever loves undoubtingly ; 
 His rich-toned voice o er her young pulses moved
 
 MINA. 7 
 
 Like the soft breath of summer airs that sigh 
 Upon the wind-god s harp ; his glorious eye 
 To her was as the sunbeam from on high 
 Nursing the passion-flowers within her heart, 
 And teaching them their fragrance to impart. 
 He knew not all her love ; she taught the deep 
 And strong emotions of her breast to sleep 
 Beneath mirth s semblance, and whene er she heard 
 His footstep, though her feelings wildly stirred, 
 The trembling of her downcast lid, her cheek 
 Suffused with blushes these alone could speak 
 Her woman s fondness. Ernold toyed awhile 
 With the fond heart whose every throb was fraught 
 With tenderness for him ; and then the smile 
 Of one more fair claimed all the truant s thought. 
 Aye, thus man values woman s heart a toy 
 That may amuse his changeful hours of joy, 
 Or charm his bosom s waywardness, then cast 
 Aside, or broken when the mood is past. 
 
 Twere vain to tell of Mina s hopes and fears, 
 
 Her seeming gayety and secret tears ; 
 
 Woman too oft is doomed such pangs to prove, 
 
 And man why should he know of woman s love? 
 
 Too soon the loved, the faithless one was wed 
 
 To one so beautiful she seemed to make 
 
 A very heaven about her, and to take 
 
 Captive those hearts whence feeling long had fled ; 
 
 Yet she was cold to him as is the snow 
 
 On mountain tops she should have been as pure 
 
 And silently he bade his heart endure
 
 72 POEMS. 
 
 To see the same cold smiles upon her brow, 
 
 Like sunbeams glittering o er a frozen lake. 
 
 At length came one with magic power to wake 
 
 The beautiful statue into life, and she 
 
 Who should have shared her husband s destiny, 
 
 Unchanged through every change, was faithless ! gave 
 
 Her name, her honor to become the slave 
 
 Of sinful passion. From that fatal day 
 
 Grief wore the wretched Ernold s life away ; 
 
 And when pain thus had wrung him, and decay 
 
 Had marked him for the grave, remembering nought 
 
 Save that he now was wretched, Mina sought 
 
 To soothe his misery ; and oft she led 
 
 His trembling footsteps to the river side, 
 
 Upon whose green bank they were wont to tread 
 
 When life was brighter, and whene er he tried 
 
 To banish sad remembrance, she would smile 
 
 And seek with cheerful words his grief to guile. 
 
 Death came at length ; she lived to dress his tomb 
 
 With sweet spring flowers, but pain had stolen her 
 
 bloom. 
 
 She knew that she was dying ; one bright morn 
 She went again the green grave to adorn, 
 Hut she returned not she had calmly laid 
 Her cheek upon the grassy mound, a braid 
 Of fresh buds in her hand, and thus beside 
 Her lover s tomb her latest breath was sighed.
 
 THE BRIDE. 73 
 
 THE BRIDE. 
 
 "Say, as ye point to my early tomb, 
 
 That the lover was dear though the bridegroom had come." 
 
 A non. 
 
 " But neither bended knees, pure hands held up, 
 Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears, 
 Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 HE lady sat in sadness ; her fair lid 
 Shrouding her eye s dark beauty ; while soft hands 
 Were wreathing her thick tresses, and amid 
 The glossy ringlets twining costly bands 
 Of snowy pearls ; but oft the deep-drawn sigh 
 Heaved the rich robe that folded o er her breast ; 
 And when she raised her head, within her eye 
 Sparkled a tear which would not be represt. 
 She glanced towards the mirror, and a smile 
 Crossed her sweet lip it was a woman s feeling 
 Of mingled pride and pleasure, even while 
 The blight of sorrow o er her heart was stealing : 
 Yet as she gazed she thought of by-past hours, 
 When she was wont, within the orange bowers, 
 To sit beneath the moonlight ; and the arm 
 Of one she loved was folded round her form, 
 While to his throbbing breast she oft would cling 
 And playfully her loosen d tresses fling, 
 Light fetters, o er his neck ; then, with bright cheek, 
 Smile when he strove his tenderness to speak. 
 
 Another change came o er her face ; she turned 
 And raised a crystal cup that near her stood ;
 
 74 POEMS. 
 
 Upon her cheek a deeper crimson burned, 
 And to her eye there rushed a fearful flood 
 Of wild emotion : eagerly she quaffed, 
 With trembling lip, the strangely blended draught, 
 And then in low and faltering accents cried : 
 " Am I not now a gay and happy bride ? " 
 
 She stood before the altar ; her pale brow 
 
 Uplifted to the holy cross. The sun 
 
 Shed through the painted window a deep glow 
 
 Upon her cheek ; and he who thus had won 
 
 Her hand without her heart, was at her side ; 
 
 The dark-robed priest, too ; but as less allied 
 
 To earth than heaven, she stood. When called to speak 
 
 The sad response, her voice had grown so weak 
 
 She scarce could utter it ; her fragile form 
 
 Shook with convulsed emotion ; but the arm 
 
 Of her stern sire supported her ; her head 
 
 Fell helpless on her breast, and she was wed. 
 
 The bridegroom pressed his lip to her pale face ; 
 
 She shrunk from him as loathing his embrace ; 
 
 Then starting up with fearful calmness said : 
 
 " Father, I promised ; have I not obeyed ? 
 
 But there is yet another vow unpaid ; 
 
 For I am the betrothed of Death, and lo ! 
 
 The bridegroom waits his promised bride, e en now. 
 
 Our nuptial torch shall be the glow-worm s light ; 
 
 Our bridal bed the grave. O ! it is sweet 
 
 To think that there no grief can throw its blight 
 
 O er young affection yes, e en I can greet
 
 DIM PRO VISA TRICE. 7 5 
 
 The marriage cup when drugged with aconite." 
 She trembled would have fallen ; but again 
 Her haughty father s arm was near : her breath 
 Grew fainter ; her breast heaved as with pain ; 
 Lowly she murmured : " Let my bridal wreath 
 Lie on my bier he deems me faithless now 
 Let him bend o er this pale and stony brow, 
 And learn how well I loved " one fleeting spot 
 Of crimson crossed her cheek and she was not. 
 
 L IMPROVISATRICE. 
 
 " As in the sweetest bud 
 The eating canker dwells, so eating love 
 Inhabits in the fairest wits of all. 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona. 
 
 >ER cheek, white as the snowy couch, was prest 
 Against her delicate hand ; and her dark eye 
 Beamed with unearthly light and purity : 
 A hue like that within the rosebud s breast 
 Was on her lip, and thus she told the tale 
 Of sorrow which had made her cheek so pale. 
 
 It was in life s young morn ; sixteen short springs 
 Had scarce yet bloomed for me ; my soul was filled 
 With vague and wandering hopes ; imaginings 
 Of some yet unknown bliss my bosom thrilled : 
 I dreamed of some one loving and beloved,
 
 76 POEMS. 
 
 Though yet unseen, whose gentle whispers moved 
 
 Like music o er my spirit, till my heart 
 
 Was all attuned to tenderness and love. 
 
 It needed but a master s hand to rove 
 
 Amid its chords, and teach them to impart, 
 
 A melody of magic power to bless, 
 
 Whose very echoes had been happiness. 
 
 Then, then twas I first saw him ; the dark eye 
 
 Where dwelt the pride of intellect, the high 
 
 And snowy forehead, the lip full and bright, 
 
 The beaming smile like heaven s own sunny light 
 
 These were the charms that met my gaze, yet O ! 
 
 Twas not alone the beauty of his brow 
 
 That won my heart ; it was the mind that dwelt 
 
 Within his form before whose shrine I knelt. 
 
 Yet I knew not I loved him ; from the time 
 
 When I first saw him, and love s passion-flower 
 
 Was budded in my young heart s sunny clime, 
 
 Until the sad and well remembered hour 
 
 That saw its full and perfect blossoming 
 
 In ripened beauty, I knew not how well 
 
 My tenderness had nursed the fragile thing. 
 
 Alas ! his presence was a mighty spell 
 
 Gainst which I could not strive : his look, his smile 
 
 Had ever power my sadness to beguile ; 
 
 A glance from his all speaking eye at will 
 
 The troubled waves of painful thought could still. 
 
 He was unhappy, but I knew not why ; 
 
 It was enough for me that the deep sigh 
 
 Oft heaved his bosom, and the darkening shade 
 
 Oft crost his brow, and bade his sweet smile fade.
 
 L IMPRO VISA TRICE. 7 7 
 
 Why lengthen out the tale ? Months rolled away, 
 Yet I was happy, and each changing day 
 Brought me new pleasure ; for I still could see 
 The being dearer than the world to me. 
 But now we soon must sever ; I should be 
 Forgot, or only claim a passing thought, 
 Although his every look and tone were fraught 
 With sad remembrance for my after years 
 Of pain and sorrow, loneliness and tears. 
 
 Once twas in twilight s hour we sat alone. 
 
 Each heart responding to a saddened tone. 
 
 I had been weeping bitterly, and now 
 
 One hand was prest against my throbbing brow, 
 
 The other lay in his ; I had nor power 
 
 Nor will to draw it thence : then bending o er 
 
 He spoke in gentlest words, and, with a smile 
 
 Full of calm tenderness, he sought to guile 
 
 My mournful feelings, and I felt his arm 
 
 An instant closely clasped around my form ; 
 
 I felt his lip upon my burning cheek 
 
 The first, first kiss ! I sprang from his embrace 
 
 To hide my tearful and, aye, happy face ; 
 
 A moment past, and then, O ! words were weak 
 
 My bosom s thrilling agony to speak : 
 
 Then first mine eyes were opened, and I knew 
 
 How dearly my heart held him, and then too 
 
 Came the conviction that I loved in vain ; 
 
 I dare not dwell on this too much of pain 
 
 Lies in the thought. On the next night we parted, 
 
 But stranger eyes were near, and cold ones stood
 
 78 POEMS. 
 
 Around us, and I stilled the fearful flood 
 Of wild emotion ; though half broken-hearted, 
 My voice ne er faltered, and my clouded eye 
 Was tearless ; if the deep-drawn, struggling sigh 
 Burst from my lip, twas all unheeded, while 
 My changeless cheek still wore a careless smile. 
 
 We parted ne er to meet as we had met. 
 
 I knew too well he loved me not, and yet 
 
 Twas sweet to hear the music of his voice, 
 
 And neath his smiles to feel my soul rejoice. 
 
 Time passed away, yet did my bosom cherish 
 
 Its fond idolatry ; aye, love may perish 
 
 When nurst mid pleasures, but the love that springs 
 
 From sorrow, fed by hopelessness, still clings 
 
 To the young heart unchanged through every change ; 
 
 No grief can chill it, and no time estrange ; 
 
 It lives until it wastes the heart away ; 
 
 And such was mine why do I thus delay ? 
 
 There was a young, fair girl, with dove-like, eyes, 
 And voice as gentle as the south wind s sighs ; 
 And when long months had passed away, and I 
 Again beheld him, he was seated nigh 
 That gentle girl ; methought his bright eye burned 
 More brightly when upon her face it turned. 
 Twas said he sought her for his bride, and she 
 Returned no answering fondness. Could it be 
 That he to one who loved him not had given 
 The tenderness which would have been my heaven ? 
 I never met him save when at her side,
 
 L IMPRO VISA TRICE. 7 9 
 
 And then my heart swelled high with woman s pride, 
 
 And hid my woman s love. At length I grew 
 
 Reckless of everything in life ; a new 
 
 And fearful demon haunted all my hours, 
 
 And charged with venom all my path s few flowers. 
 
 And then then all grew darkness ; ask me not 
 
 What cast that shadow o er my wayward lot 
 
 Twas my own folly madness; but no more 
 
 Memory extends a barren wilclness there 
 
 And life would fail me ere I could tell o er 
 
 My bosom s agony, my heart s despair. 
 
 But soon a sudden gleam of light dispelled 
 
 The darksome cloud, and then my proud heart swelled 
 
 With loftier feelings ; I had sometimes strung 
 
 My humble lyre, and in low accents sung 
 
 Of love and sorrow ; now they bade me sweep 
 
 Its chords with bolder hand, nor let them sleep 
 
 In silence ; and some said that on my brow 
 
 Ere long the poet s garland might be twined. 
 
 From that hour I was changed ; I sought not now 
 
 To die and leave no memory behind ; 
 
 I bade my sleeping intellect unbind 
 
 Its listless pinions, and with lofty flight 
 
 Soar mid Imagination s realms of light; 
 
 I taught my lyre with Fancy s flame to glow, 
 
 And the soft notes in loftier strains to flow ; 
 
 While gay ones marveled I could spend my days 
 
 In painful study. They knew not how strong 
 
 The impulse was ; twas not mere love of praise 
 
 That bade me seek the highly gifted song. 
 
 Ah no ! I hoped the time would come when he
 
 8o fOEMS. 
 
 Would listen to my melancholy lays : 
 
 I hoped that he, so loved though lost, would see, 
 
 Gladly, some future day, my humble name 
 
 Placed high upon the glorious lists of fame, 
 
 And that "the sweet surprise of sudden joy" 
 
 Would fill his generous heart, when he beheld 
 
 The reckless girl, whom he so long had held 
 
 To be the sport of levity, the toy 
 
 Of wayward feeling, teach her soaring soul 
 
 To spurn the fetters of the world s control ; 
 
 And with the pride of genius bear away 
 
 Upon her woman s brow the deathless bay. 
 
 Were these hopes blighted ? 
 
 Since I first saw him five long years have past, 
 And I am dying ; yet tis not the hand 
 Of grief that o er my brow this shade has cast : 
 I long have ceased to weep ; an icy band 
 Seems drawn about my heart ; I cannot weep, 
 But now upon my lone couch I could lie 
 As calmly as an infant turns to sleep 
 Upon his gentle mother s breast and die.
 
 THE SHEPHERD BOY. 81 
 
 THE SHEPHERD BOY. 
 
 " Ma pur si aspre vie, ne si selvagge 
 Cercir non so ch Amor non venga sempre 
 Ragionando con meco ed io con lui. ; 
 
 Petrarca. 
 
 ] E was a slender boy ; his coal black hair 
 Hung in thick masses o er his brow so fair. 
 His cheek was pale and sunken, and the light 
 Of his dark eye seemed as it had been bright, 
 Though now its flashing glance was quenched in tears, 
 And grief seemed preying on his early years. 
 O erspent with toil he stood ; his native land 
 Lay far beyond the ken of that low vale 
 Whose gentle breezes now his hot cheek fanned ; 
 And when he strove to tell his simple tale, 
 It was in broken accents, but with tone 
 Sweet as love s whisper : he was all alone 
 In the wide world, and now he sought a home 
 Where coldness or unkindness could not come. 
 
 Four changeful seasons now had rolled away 
 Since first Celesto dwelt within that vale, 
 An humble shepherd boy, and yet no ray 
 Of joy e er visited his cheek so pale. 
 He shunned the crowd of gay ones that were met 
 Upon the green at summer eve ; nor yet 
 Did he e er seek to win a maiden s smile : 
 It seemed that nought on earth had power to guile 
 His wretchedness. He loved alone to sit 
 And watch the bright and various clouds that flit 
 6
 
 82 POEMS. 
 
 Across the sunset sky, or stretched beneath 
 The fragrant orange groves, to list the breath 
 Of Zephyr sweeping o er the leaves that sigh 
 In answer and return sweet melody. 
 Once, and once only, did the sad boy quit 
 His lonely haunts and join the festive throng ; 
 And then he seized the light guitar and wove, 
 In broken strains, a melancholy song, 
 Breathing of blighted hope and hapless love : 
 
 They called her fair ; and she oft had heard 
 The voice of song in the moon-lit grove ; 
 
 But O ! how wildly her pulses stirred 
 
 When first she bent to the voice of love ! 
 
 Like heaven s sweet breath o er the wind god s lyre, 
 It woke its tones in her guileless heart ; 
 
 But scarcely can heaven itself inspire 
 
 Such joy as dwells in love s witching art. 
 
 To him who wakened each sleeping string 
 She gave her heart ; but be this the token 
 
 How well he valued the fragile thing, 
 
 The music has ceased ! the heart is broken ! 
 
 There was a young, fair girl with sunny brow, 
 And cheek where smiles were ever wont to glow, 
 The gayest mid the gay ones, but her eye 
 Lost its bright gladness, and despondency 
 Marked her once laughing face ; her faded cheek 
 Was pale, save when she heard Celeste s name,
 
 THE SHEPHERD BOY. 83 
 
 And then quick deepening blushes o er it came 
 
 Those tell-tales that a maiden s fondness speak. 
 
 The boy knew that she loved him, but he felt 
 
 That none would love him long; for grief had d.vdi 
 
 Within his heart until it wore away 
 
 His life. Although his eye and cheek grew brighl, 
 
 Yet twas the soul s last effort to give light 
 
 And beauty to the wasting frame s decay, 
 
 And steal from death part of its agony. 
 
 Soon, very soon, the boy knew he must die, 
 
 And then he sought the pale girl, and unrolled 
 
 The tablets of sad memory ; then he told 
 
 His mournful tale. From that time, though the trace 
 
 Of tears was often left on Annette s face, 
 
 Yet was her spirit calm. 
 
 At length, one morn, 
 
 In that bright season when earth seems new born, 
 She sought the spot Celesto loved to tread, 
 And there she saw the fair boy lying- dead ! 
 They came to robe him in funereal vest, 
 And then they found a maiden s snowy breast 
 Beneath the shepherd s coat. The imaged form 
 Of one whose eye possessed the serpent s charm, 
 Hung from her neck a dark-browed cavalier. 
 They sought from sad Annette the tale to hear, 
 But she was silent : thus by all unknown 
 The hapless maiden lies. A solitary stone, 
 Graved with the name Celesta, marks her tomb, 
 The only relic of her mournful doom.
 
 84 POEMS. 
 
 CLARA. 
 
 " You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings 
 Follow such creatures." 
 
 Henry VIII. 
 
 [HE had sprung up like a sweet wild flower, hid 
 From common eyes, in some lone dell, amid 
 The light and clews of heaven ; and ne er was 
 found 
 
 A purer bud on earth s unhallowed ground. 
 
 Her face was fair, but the admiring eye 
 
 Loved less its beauty than its purity ; 
 
 No cloud e er darkened o er that placid brow ; 
 
 No care e er dimmed her bright smile s sunny glow ; 
 
 A gentle heart that ne er had dreamed of sin- 
 
 Or suffering, shone her dove-like eyes within ; 
 
 And the high hope that with such calm joy stirs 
 
 The trusting soul the Christian s hope was hers : 
 
 Twas this that gave such sweetness to a mien 
 
 So softly gay, so peaceful and serene ; 
 
 Calm without apathy, as woman mild, 
 
 Yet innocent and playful as a child. 
 
 But in her heart there was one unbreathed thought 
 With all a woman s holiest fondness fraught. 
 Here was not wild, fierce passion, such as glows 
 In untamed hearts, but the calm love that grows 
 Within the soul like an expanding flower, 
 Breathing its perfume o er each passing hour : 
 From infancy it grew. The graceful boy 
 To whose embrace she clung with childish joy,
 
 CLARA. 85 
 
 And on whose breast her head had oft reposed 
 When weariness her infant eyes had closed, 
 Was still as dear to her young bosom now, 
 Though time had written man upon his brow. 
 There was no shame in such a love concealed 
 In her heart s quiet depths, or but revealed 
 By the slight tremor or the blush that came 
 O er cheek and bosom when she heard his name. 
 
 And did not Henry look with loving eyes 
 
 On the fair orphan who so tenderly 
 
 Cherished his image ? Long he vainly strove 
 
 To check the feeling he dared not call love ; 
 
 He thought of earlier days when she had smiled 
 
 In his encircling arms, a reckless child ; 
 
 Could she forget the difference in their years 
 
 And listen to a lover s hopes and fears 
 
 From one so much her elder? He might claim 
 
 A sister s tenderness ; but the pure flame 
 
 Of deep and deathless love could never be 
 
 Kindled by him in its intensity. 
 
 Thus deemed he in his hopelessness ; but vain 
 
 His efforts to repress the thrilling pain 
 
 That filled his heart, while thinking of the hour 
 
 When he should see his loved and cherished flower 
 
 Breathing its fragrance in another s bower. 
 
 One balmy summer eve, with him she roved 
 
 Through many a greenwood haunt they long had loved ; 
 
 When as they gazed upon the glorious west, 
 
 Dark clouds obscured the bright sun s glowing crest;
 
 86 POEMS. 
 
 And through the forest trees the wind s wild cry 
 
 Rang as of some strong man in agony. 
 
 A storm was coming, and, while pale with fear, 
 
 She clung to him, his own proud castle near 
 
 Offered them shelter ; in his arms he bore 
 
 The maiden to those halls oft trod before 
 
 In childhood s day ; and while the tempest s strife 
 
 Blackened the scene so late with gladness rife, 
 
 His heart was filled with joy ; for maiden pride 
 
 Was hushed by fear, and Clara dared to hide 
 
 Her face upon his breast, while the red fire 
 
 Flashed from dark clouds careering in their ire 
 
 Like angry spirits ; ere an hour had past, 
 
 The storm was spent, and its terrific blast 
 
 Hushed into stillness ; but before they turned 
 
 To leave the spot, the restless- thoughts that burned 
 
 In Henry s breast were breathed o er Clara s cheek, 
 
 And silence answered more than words could speak. 
 
 And they were wed. O, gentle Love, how dear 
 Is thy sweet influence when thou dost rear 
 Amid our household gods thy sacred shrine, 
 And givest thy torch upon our hearths to shine, 
 Folding in calm repose thy radiant wings, 
 And gathering round our homes earth s purest, loveliest 
 things !
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 87 
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 
 
 What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? 
 The heart bleeds longest, and but heals to wear 
 That which disfigures it ; and they who war 
 With their own hopes, and have been vanquished, bear 
 Silence but not submission." 
 
 Childe Harold. 
 
 HERS was not such love as worldings feel ; 
 But an intense and passionate devotion, 
 Pure as an infant thought, was in her heart. 
 Yet she had none of woman s charms ; the low 
 And gentle voice, the full bright lip, the eye 
 All light and beauty, these were not for her. 
 But on her spirit genius poured its rays, 
 And in her eye the pride of intellect 
 Was visibly enthroned ; yet proved she not 
 Herself a mere, mere woman, when she gave 
 Her heart to man s control ? No, he was one 
 Whom not to love had almost been a crime : 
 It seemed that Heaven had formed him to be loved 
 E en as itself was worshipped : well did she 
 Obey its will ; he was the life, the soul 
 Of her existence ; and she poured forth all 
 The richest fullness of her untouched heart 
 As incense on his shrine, e en though she knew 
 Its sweetness would be wasted. Hopelessly 
 She gave it ; for she knew he looked on her 
 With kindness, friendship, everything but love. 
 And yet she murmured not ; could she repine 
 When she received a brother s tenderness ? 
 She turned from scenes of gayety : for there
 
 88 POEMS. 
 
 She could not think of him ; and gifted ones 
 Oft sought her love as twere a precious thing. 
 But how could one who worshipped the bright sun, 
 Pay the same homage to the meaner stars ? 
 She gave herself to loneliness ; a life 
 Of self-devotion to her hopeless love 
 Was dearer to her than all earthly joy. 
 
 At length the hour she long had looked for came, 
 
 And he was wed. She knew the very hour 
 
 That gave him to another. It were vain 
 
 To paint the fearful conflict of her heart ; 
 
 She knew he would be wretched if he dreamed 
 
 Of her deep sorrow ; and this gave her strength 
 
 To conquer woman s weakness. When she next 
 
 Beheld him he was near his youthful bride : 
 
 Calmly she met his proffered hand, and looked 
 
 With smiles on her bright face, and though her cheek 
 
 Was deadly pale, yet her voice faltered not. 
 
 Her course through life was marked out by the hand 
 
 Of changeless destiny ; her days were past 
 
 In painful study ; she explored the paths 
 
 Of science with a sad delight ; for one 
 
 Faint hope yet lingered, that, in after years, 
 
 When men should breathe her name in tones of praise, 
 
 He would remember her with thoughts of pride. 
 
 Yet she was not unhappy ; she had taught 
 
 His wife to love her, and the innocent face 
 
 Of his fair child oft rested on her heart, 
 
 While its soft arms were twined about her neck 
 
 With all an infant s fondness.
 
 THE LONELY ONE. 89 
 
 Years passed on, 
 
 And long ere she had reached life s middle course, 
 Sorrow amid the lone one s dark brown locks 
 Had mingled silver, while her sunken cheek 
 And wasted figure told a mournful tale 
 Of the heart s struggle. Well had she subdued 
 Each rebel thought ; her eye no longer quailed 
 In anguish to behold his tenderness 
 Bestowed upon another ; for she gave 
 To his fair child the fullness of that love 
 She dared not yield to him. Alas ! alas ! 
 And did she think the heart would thus be swayed 
 E en as she listed ; that her will could change 
 The course of its affections ? vain deceit ! 
 E en as the breath of winter, while it binds 
 The mountain torrent in its icy chains, 
 Checks not the current which still rushes on 
 Beneath its frozen surface, so the strong, 
 Resistless energy of mind may stay 
 The outward struggles of the restless soul, 
 But cannot reach its inmost depths, where still 
 The waves of passion moan. Too soon she knew 
 How much she was deceived. Death came, but not 
 To her who waited him ; the grief-worn frame 
 Was all too mean a prey for him ; he seized 
 The gentle wife and mother ; she whose life 
 Had been a fairy tale. 
 
 No selfish thought 
 
 Was in the bosom of the lonely one, 
 As, bending o er the bed of death, she wept,
 
 90 POEMS. 
 
 Mingling her tears with his ; but when she found 
 
 That still he sought for comfort in her kindness, 
 
 E en when the smile revisited his lip, 
 
 What marvel if within her breast awoke 
 
 Again the sweet delusions of young hope. 
 
 The passionate feelings of his youth were gone ; 
 
 And now he turned with tranquil tenderness 
 
 To her affection, e en as one will pause, 
 
 Amid the weary vanities of life, 
 
 To hear some half- forgotten melody 
 
 That charmed his childish hours ; but ah ! the heart 
 
 Which bore so well with sorrow could not brook 
 
 The fullness of such joy ; and as the flower 
 
 May bide the pelting of the storm, to die 
 
 Beneath the very sun that gave it life, 
 
 Thus did she wither. But how did she shrink 
 
 To meet the death she once had sought ; how weep 
 
 To check again the love but half subdued ? 
 
 Thus months and weeks passed onward, until he 
 
 Who, in her hour of youth and bloom, had turned 
 
 In coldness from her love, now sought for it 
 
 As twere his very being. Who can speak 
 
 The anguish of her spirit, as with sick 
 
 And swelling heart she gasped : " It is too late !-" 
 
 As the worn traveller amid the wilds 
 
 Of burning Araby, o erspent with toil, 
 
 Falls ere he reach the brink of that pure wave 
 
 Which proffers life to his parched lip, thus she 
 
 Found joy within her grasp but when she knew 
 
 It was her last, her dying hour. She died
 
 AN HOUR OF SADNESS. 91 
 
 Yet as a day of storms will ofttimes sink 
 With a rich burst of sunlight at its close, 
 Thus did the rays of happiness illume 
 Her parting spirit. 
 
 AN HOUR OF SADNESS. 
 
 M weary of this false and hollow world ! 
 Its brightest smile is but the fickle light 
 That leads the wildered traveller astray ; 
 Its dearest joys are but vain morning dreams ; 
 Its very mirth is madness ; and the man 
 Who seems most blest, is only he who best 
 Can feign, and neath a smiling brow conceal 
 The bosom s secret anguish. There is nought 
 On earth but sorrow. Where can mortals look 
 For happiness or peace ? Shall we seek fame, 
 Ambition, knowledge, love ? Alas ! in vain. 
 The laurel wreath is stained with human blood, 
 Or blighted by the feverish breath of him 
 Who won it by the sacrifice of health. 
 What can ambition give ? Vain man may tread 
 Upon the neck of thousands, and become 
 A god among the nations, yet his deeds 
 Will be forgotten. Knowledge, too, is but 
 The painful guerdon of protracted toil. 
 And thou, Love! though thine altar is in heaven, 
 Thy flame is burning in the hearts of those
 
 92 POEMS. 
 
 That worship thee on earth. O it is sad 
 
 That aught so sweet should bring such desolation 
 
 That woman, too, that gentle, timid woman 
 
 Should oft nest be the victim. When success 
 
 Has crowned thy votaries, they have found the prize 
 
 Scarce worth the pain and anguish that it cost ; 
 
 Or, if unkindly early hope is crost, 
 
 The end is death or madness. 
 
 All, all is sorrow ! Ask the aged man 
 
 By his enjoyments to compute his years ; 
 
 Will he then say that he can count three-score ? 
 
 O ! happy they who die ere they awake 
 
 From their illusive dream of joy. Men weep 
 
 Upon the early tomb which haply saved 
 
 Its tenant from a thousand living deaths ; 
 
 And happy they whom the first grief can kill 
 
 Who are not doomed to drag the lengthened chain 
 
 Of wearisome existence but to live 
 
 Among the selfish beings of this earth, 
 
 As one whose thoughts dwell elsewhere to endure 
 
 The secret workings of a restless spirit 
 
 That once aspired to higher, nobler things ; 
 
 To bear the desolation of a heart 
 
 Broken by early suffering, and to feel 
 
 That though we would not live, we cannot die ! 
 
 This, this is sorrow, yet it may be borne. 
 
 For many painful years, e en in life s spring 
 
 It may have been endured, and yet the lip 
 
 May wear a smile. But tis a bitter mirth 
 
 That seems to mock itself; the eye may beam, 
 
 The cheek still brightly glow, but on the brow
 
 TO FRANCESCA. 93 
 
 Are furrows which the hand of Time ne er planted 
 Traces of scathing grief. And this is life ! 
 This is the life to which fond man will cling 
 And spend his years in toil, yet vainly strive 
 Gainst friendly Death. O doom me not, sweet 
 
 Heaven, 
 
 To waste, Prometheus-like, away, but grant 
 To me thy kindliest boon an early grave ! 
 
 TO FRANCESCA. 
 
 WHO thy brow s sweet pensiveness can view, 
 Thy blue eye s deep and thrill ing tenderness, 
 Thy witching mouth, thy young cheek s tender 
 
 hue, 
 Nor feel emotions he may not express. 
 
 Thine is not brilliant beauty ; there may be 
 Forms which can boast of more majestic grace 
 
 And brighter cheeks, but none can ever see 
 Such pure, pale softness in another face. 
 
 It is the mind that in each feature gleams, 
 The feeling that each gentle glance displays, 
 
 The heart as pure as infancy s young dreams, 
 They are more sweet than beauty s brightest rays. 
 
 Yet I have seen that brow with grief o ercast, 
 
 And those eyes dimmed with sorrow s bitter tears
 
 94 POEMS. 
 
 Ah ! even from thee is pleasure fleeting fast ? 
 Art thou, too, doomed to sad and lonely years ? 
 
 O ! may the task to soothe thy woes be mine ; 
 
 And though the brilliant flowers of joy be dead, 
 Yet some pale buds of hope I yet may twine, 
 
 Their gentle fragrance o er thy heart to shed. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 love, what is it ? Tis to shed 
 Fond woman s little all of light 
 On rainbow clouds, whose tints are fled 
 Ere scarce they meet the raptured sight ; 
 To yield her youthful heart to one, 
 To live on earth for him alone, 
 And feel twere almost grief to bear 
 E en bliss unless he, too, might share. 
 
 To give to one her every thought, 
 
 And feel that even though bereft 
 Of every joy on earth, twere nought, 
 
 So the wide storm that dear one left ; 
 To know that she to him has given 
 
 The worship which was due to Heaven 
 Yet in his love to find such bliss 
 
 She asks no other heaven than this.
 
 LOVE. 95 
 
 Vain man may talk of woman s guile, 
 
 And curse the hour he learned to prize 
 The magic of her sunny smile, 
 
 And drink the light of her sweet eyes. 
 But timid woman may not speak 
 
 The wrongs that pale her tender cheek ; 
 No, deep within her heart they lie 
 
 What matters it ? she can but die. 
 
 Full many a cheek has lost its bloom, 
 
 And many a brilliant eye grown dim ; 
 Man heeds it not the silent tomb 
 
 Soon shrouds the heart that broke for him. 
 When first he was allowed to sip 
 
 The honey-dew from woman s lip, 
 And knew that it was all his own, 
 
 Its greatest charm for him was gone. 
 
 O woman s love is a gentle light, 
 
 That sheds its beams on hope s young bowers, 
 Man s is the fell sirocco s blight, 
 
 That blasts the fairest, sweetest flowers ; 
 Yet, though the buds of hope are gone, 
 
 That steady light will still shine on, 
 Shine on, despite of grief and gloom, 
 
 Like sunbeams o er a mouldering tomb.
 
 9 6 TO THE EVEA IXG STAR. 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 " A single star 
 
 Is rising in the east, and from afar 
 Sheds a most tremulous lustre ; silent night 
 Doth wear it like a jewel on her brow." 
 
 Barry Cornwall. 
 " () what a vision were the stars 
 When first I saw them burn on high." 
 
 Mior;. 
 
 ALE, melancholy star ! that pourest thy beams 
 So mildly on my brow, pure as the lear 
 A pitying angel sheds o er earthly sorrow, 
 I love to sit beneath thy light, and yield 
 My heart to its strange musings, wayward dreams 
 Of things inscrutable, and searching thoughts 
 That would aspire to dwell in yon high sphere. 
 I love to think that thou art a bright world 
 Where bliss and beauty dwell where never sin 
 Has entered to destroy the perfect joys 
 Of its pure, holy habitants. Tis sweet 
 To fancy such a quiet, peaceful home 
 Of innocence, and purity, and love. 
 There the first sire still dwells with all his race, 
 From his loved eldest-born to the sweet babe 
 Of yesterday ; there gentle maids are seen, 
 Fair as the sun, with all that tenderness 
 So sweet in woman ; and soft eyes that beam 
 The fondest love, but freed from passion s stain. 
 There all have high communion with their God, 
 And though the fruit of knowledge is not plucked, 
 Yet doth its fragrance breathe on all around.
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR. 97 
 
 O ! what can knowledge give, to recompense 
 The happy ignorance it cost ? Man gave 
 His heaven to gain it ; what was his reward ? 
 Deep, lasting misery ! 
 
 Sweet star ! can those in thy bright sphere behold 
 Our fallen world ? do they not weep to view 
 Our blighting sorrows? and do they not veil 
 Their brows in shame, to see Heaven s choicest gifts 
 Profaned and trampled by our maddening passions ? 
 Surely this world is now as beautiful 
 As twas in earliest prime : the earth still blooms 
 With flowers and brilliant verdure ; the dark trees 
 Are thick with foil age, and the mountains tower 
 In proud sublimity ; the waters glide 
 All smoothly mid the green, enameled mead, 
 Or dash o er broken cliffs, flinging their spray 
 In high fantastic whirls. Surely tis fair 
 As it could be before the wasting flood 
 Had whelmed it. Let us forth and gaze upon 
 The face of nature. All is peaceful now, 
 Yet man will tread there too ; cities will rise 
 Where now the wild bird sings ; thousands will dwell 
 Where all is loneliness ; but will it be 
 More beautiful ? No ; where the wild flowers spring, 
 Where nought but the bird s note is heard, we may 
 Find friends in every leaf; each simple bud 
 Speaks to the heart and fills it with the sweet, 
 Soft tenderness of childhood ; but vain man 
 Makes it a peopled wilderness : the blight 
 Of disappointment and distrust is found 
 7
 
 8 POEMS. 
 
 Wherever man has made his troubled home ; 
 And the most fearful desert is the spot 
 Where he best loves to dwell. 
 
 O, let me hope, while gazing on thy light, 
 
 Sweet star, that yet a peaceful home is left 
 
 For those sad spirits who have found this world 
 
 All sin and sorrow. Haply in thy sphere 
 
 I yet may dwell, when cleansed from all the stains 
 
 Of passions that too darkly dwell within 
 
 This throbbing heart. O ! had I early died, 
 
 I might have been a pure and sinless child 
 
 In some sweet planet ; and my only toil, 
 
 To light my censer by the sun s bright rays, 
 
 And fling its fire forever towards the throne 
 
 Of the Eternal One. 
 
 TO FANCY. 
 
 " Fancy, my internal sight." 
 
 Milton. 
 
 Fancy ! I have been thy favored child 
 From earliest infancy ; and thou wert wont 
 To show me thy bright imagery, ere yet 
 My young lips could frame language to describe 
 The fair but fleeting shadows : thou hast nursed 
 Those warm and ardent feelings nature gave ; 
 And though tis true that thou hast taught my heart 
 To heave the quickened throb of deeper anguish
 
 TO FANCY. 99 
 
 Than cold ones e er can feel, yet thou hast given 
 
 Joys they can never know. I love to see 
 
 The setting sun resting his broad bright rim 
 
 Upon the golden wave, as lingering there 
 
 To bid the world farewell ; and when he sinks, 
 
 To watch the thousand summer clouds he leaves 
 
 Of strange fantastic shape and varied hue. 
 
 Then is thine hour, bright Fancy then is felt 
 
 Thy softest, sweetest influence o er the heart. 
 
 O ! when I gaze upon th unclouded heaven 
 
 Studded with gems of brilliancy, my soul 
 
 Forgets the lapse of time, and doth recall 
 
 The fantasies so proud and beautiful 
 
 Of ancient times : the stars were then in truth 
 
 "The poetry of heaven," and had high power 
 
 O er mortal fate. Tis sad that those sweet dreams 
 
 Are now denied us. O, how much more bliss 
 
 Lies in the legend of our infant years, 
 
 Than in the sad reality we learn ! 
 
 Many would deem me weak ; but I have gazed 
 Upon the fairy clouds and pictured there 
 Familiar forms and faces ; and have felt 
 That I could almost weep to see them fade, 
 So like a presage of the transient date 
 Of all life s changeful joys. It may be vain 
 To yield to these impressions ; but what heart 
 Could scorn such gentle dreams in early youth. 
 
 I love to look upon the clouded sky, 
 
 When the fierce forked lightning flashes bright,
 
 :oo POEMS. 
 
 And the deep roar of heaven s artillery 
 
 Sounds fearfully ; and I can calmly view 
 
 The strife of elements, and fancy then 
 
 I hear the shouts of proud rebellious spirits 
 
 Storming the towers and battlements of heaven. 
 
 O, what a depth of feeling lies within 
 
 The full, the o erfraught heart in such an hour ! 
 
 And this, too, is thine hour, bright Fancy, this 
 
 Thy proudest, mightiest power. In the sweet calm 
 
 Of evening, thou dost come with whispers bland, 
 
 And all its gentleness ; but when the storm 
 
 Is raging thou dost speak in majesty, 
 
 And the full heart is lifted to the heavens, 
 
 While we can feel there yet is high communion 
 
 Between fallen man and pure angelic natures. 
 
 Could but the skeptic feel the thrilling power 
 
 Of chastened Fancy at a time like this, 
 
 Surely the blush of shame would tinge his cheek. 
 
 Would not the deep emotions of his soul 
 
 Prove that high soul immortal ? Can it be 
 
 That we should have such glimpses of a light 
 
 Not of this world, if we are ne er to see 
 
 The fullness of its glory? Can the man 
 
 Who feels the restless workings of a mind 
 
 Aspiring after knowledge, think that earth 
 
 Can limit the expansion of his soul ? 
 
 No ; he must deem that there will come a time 
 
 When all shall be unfolded. Tis a proud, 
 
 An elevating thought. O, who would doubt?
 
 MIDNIGHT. 1 01 
 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 I HE moon is riding high in the blue heavens, 
 And like a delicate drapery the clouds 
 Hang o er the vast expanse ; the air is calm ; 
 No voice, no sound is heard, save the soft note, 
 Far distant, of a solitary lute ; 
 All things are hushed in that tranquillity 
 Which speaks e en to the worn and troubled heart 
 And bids its passions rest. How beautiful 
 Is this fair world ! There s not a leaf that falls 
 Within the forest, not a flower that springs 
 Beneath our footsteps, not a twinkling star 
 That gems the brow of night, but gives the heart 
 A lesson it should ne er forget, of peace 
 And innocence. Surely this world was made 
 For pure, angelic habitants ; the breath 
 Of heaven, that passes o er the spangled earth 
 And fills with fragrance every flower, was meant 
 To fan the golden hair of such as those 
 Who throng around the eternal throne with harps 
 Of thrilling melody. Earth is too fair 
 To be the scene of turbulence the abode 
 Of pain and misery. O ! why will man 
 Transform thy gentle paradise of sweets 
 To a dark waste of sorrow and of sin !
 
 102 POEMS. 
 
 LOVE SLEEPING. 
 
 OVE sleeps ! O do not strive to break 
 His slumbers, he too soon will wake. 
 But now all tranquilly he lies, 
 
 And the fair lid that shrouds his eyes 
 Is like the silvery cloud when driven 
 Across the deep blue summer heaven, 
 That bids the sunbeams shine less bright, 
 But cannot hide their glorious light. 
 
 He dreams of some ecstatic bliss, 
 His full, red lip pouts forth to kiss, 
 His brightly mantling blushes speak 
 Like those upon the maiden s cheek, 
 When, clasped to her fond lover s breast, 
 The first kiss on her lip is prest. 
 
 And on his gentle brow the while 
 
 Is that sweet look, half frown, half smile, 
 
 Like virgin coyness that reproves 
 
 The very tenderness it loves ; 
 
 Now o er his face a calmness steals 
 
 O ! nothing such deep bliss reveals ; 
 
 Joy s ecstasy nought else can tell, 
 
 A smile, a sigh would break the spell. 
 
 But Love s bright visions cannot last ; 
 E en now they are already past ; 
 See, ere his eyelids yet unclose, 
 Down his fair cheek the tear-drop flows.
 
 TO . 103 
 
 Nay, hush thee, foolish boy, and sleep, 
 Since thou dost only wake to weep ; 
 Alas ! thou seekest for rest in vain 
 Once waked, Love cannot dream again. 
 
 TO 
 
 [HERE S a cloud on the mountain, a mist on the 
 
 lake, 
 
 Is not this a warning the storm soon will break? 
 Though the sun on the meadows is still shining clear, 
 Yet the wild winds are sighing, the tempest is near. 
 
 There s a shade on thy brow, and a tear in thine eye, 
 Seen through the long lashes that over it lie ; 
 And though on thy lip is the bright beaming smile, 
 Yet sad thoughts are hid in thy bosom the while. 
 
 The sun s brilliant beams have dispersed the dark cloud, 
 And no longer the mist the lake s bosom doth shroud ; 
 O, thus let the smile on thy lip ever glow, 
 Till its brightness has driven the shade from, thy brow. 
 
 Aye, changes may pass over nature s sweet face, 
 And smiles may the gloom of the countenance chase ; 
 But when sorrow has long made its home in the heart, 
 O, where is the light that can bid it depart ?
 
 104 POEMS. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 "The early grave 
 Which men weep Aver, may be meant to save." 
 
 Byron. 
 
 EEP not for those 
 Who sink within the arms of death, 
 Ere yet the chilling wintry breath 
 Of sorrow o er them blows ; 
 But weep for them who here remain 
 The mournful heritors of pain, 
 Condemned to see each bright joy fade, 
 And mark griefs melancholy shade 
 Flung o er hope s fairest rose. 
 
 Nay, shed no tear 
 
 For those who soundly, sweetly sleep ; 
 They heed not the cold blasts that sweep 
 
 Across their lowly bier ; 
 But weep for those who see the cloud 
 Of misery youth s bright heaven enshroud, 
 And view the flowers that deck life s path 
 
 Fall dry and sear. 
 
 Dread not the tomb ; 
 To those who feel that youth survives 
 The joys that youthful fancy gives, 
 
 It wears no face of gloom. 
 It is a quiet, peaceful home 
 For those who through life s desert roam
 
 LIFE. 105 
 
 A place for wearied ones to rest, 
 Where o er the painful, care-worn breast 
 Spring flowers may bloom. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 j>HEN Hope s fairy fingers are straying 
 
 O er the chords of the youthful heart, 
 And fancy in prospect displaying 
 The bliss that new years may impart ; 
 When sweet feelings are ever up-springing, 
 
 And the pulses all joyously beat ; 
 When each day a new pleasure is bringing, 
 O ! then indeed life is most sweet. 
 
 When the torch of affection just lighted, 
 
 Burns bright on the altar of truth, 
 Ere the cold, selfish world yet has blighted 
 
 One innocent feeling of youth ; 
 When earth seems a garden unfading, 
 
 Where flowers spring round our glad feet ; 
 When no cloud our bright heaven is shading, 
 
 O ! then indeed life is most sweet. 
 
 When the cold breath of sorrow is sweeping 
 O er the chords of the youthful heart, 
 
 And the youthful eye, dimmed with strange weeping, 
 Sees the visions of fancy depart ;
 
 io6 POEMS. 
 
 When the bloom of young feeling is dying, 
 
 And the heart throbs with passion s fierce strife 
 
 When our sad days are wasted in sighing, 
 Who then can find sweetness in life ? 
 
 When unkindness or coldness has faded 
 
 The pure, hallowed light of true love, 
 And the mists of the dark earth have shaded 
 
 The dreams that o er young spirits move ; 
 When earth seems a wide waste of sorrow 
 
 No longer with bright blessings rife ; 
 When we look but for clouds on each morrow, 
 
 Who then can find sweetness in life ? 
 
 SONG OF THE FAIRIES. 
 
 HASTE ye, haste to the Avis grove, 
 The home that the fairies so dearly love ; 
 There a leaf never dies save when others 
 
 are springing, 
 
 More beautiful far, on each slender spray; 
 There bright-plumaged birds, ever joyously singing, 
 Are glancing like sunbeams away, haste away ! 
 
 Since last we met we have wandered far 
 
 Beneath the light of each dewy star ; 
 
 Borne on the wings of the viewless air, 
 
 We have basked in the smile of maidens fair ; 
 
 And sad ones have blessed the soothing touch 
 
 Of our odorous wings o er their sleepless couch.
 
 FRAGMENT. 1 07 
 
 But still the farther away we roam, 
 
 The dearer we love our own sweet home ; 
 
 The eye of beauty is not as bright 
 
 As the stars in our queen s fair crown of light, 
 
 And tis dearer far O no ! there is nought 
 
 In our own sweet shadowy world so fraught 
 
 With exquisite joy, as tis thus to stray 
 
 Doing good to all ; then away, away ! 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 HERE is a something in my heart that speaks 
 Of death ! E en in my wildest bursts of joy 
 That thought is ever present, but not then 
 In fearfulest array ; e en as the man 
 Who dwells beside a gushing rivulet, 
 Will seem to hear, when far away, the sound 
 Of rippling waters, so tis blended with 
 My every thought. In hours of tranquilness, 
 Fancy displays the green grass and wild flowers 
 Growing in rich luxuriance o er my grave, 
 And I, a blessed spirit, hovering near 
 The gentle ones I love, unheeding then 
 The grosser air of earth ; for well I know 
 That yon bright heaven would be too sad a home 
 Were I bereft of them. 
 
 And yet I sometimes sigh for length of days : 
 I scarce know why, but when I see the crowds 
 Of gifted ones that throng around the shrine 
 Of Liberty, and bring their blooming bays
 
 lo8 POEMS. 
 
 To form a garland for Columbia s brow, 
 
 Which there may live for ages, I could wish 
 
 I too might add a wild flower. This is vain, 
 
 Nay, more than vain ; such thoughts should never dwell 
 
 Within the quiet depths of woman s heart. 
 
 While Halleck wreathes the laughing vine amid 
 
 The verdant oak leaves and the myrtle bough, 
 
 And Bryant culls the lily and the rose 
 
 To twine with the rich autumn leaves, tis vain 
 
 To dream a pale half-budded violet 
 
 Could mingle with their sweets. 
 
 TO 
 
 [S the bright beacon still will glow 
 When summer billows gently flow, 
 And smile on the tumultuous wave 
 When winds are loud and tempests rave, 
 So such enduring love as mine 
 Through years of joy would calmly shine ; 
 But should the world s rude storms arise, 
 Then will it glad thy weary eyes 
 The one bright star amid the gloom, 
 The one lone spot where hopes still bloom.
 
 WILLIAM TELL ON THE MOUNTAINS. 109 
 
 WILLIAM TELL ON THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 " Yet, Freedom ! yet thy banner, torn but flying, 
 Streams like a thunder-storm against the wind." 
 
 ChUde Harold. 
 
 NCE more I breathe the mountain air, once more 
 I tread my own free hills ; e en as the child 
 Clings to its mother s breast, so do I turn 
 To thee my glorious home. My lofty soul 
 Throws all its fetters off: in its proud flight, 
 Tis like the new-fledged eaglet, whose strong wing 
 Soars to the sun it long has gazed upon 
 With eye undazzled. O ! ye mighty race, 
 That stand like frowning giants, fixed to guard 
 My own proud land, why did ye not hurl down 
 The thundering avalanche, when at your feet 
 The base usurper stood ? A touch, a breath, 
 Nay, e en the breath of prayer, ere now has brought 
 Destruction on the hunter s head, and yet 
 The tyrant passed in safety. God of Heaven ! 
 Where slept thy thunderbolt ? 
 
 O ! Liberty, 
 
 Thou choicest gift of Heaven, and wanting which 
 Life is as nothing, hast thou then forgot 
 Thy native home ; and must the feet of slaves 
 Pollute this glorious scene ? It cannot be ! 
 E en as the smile of Heaven can pierce the depths 
 Of these dark caves, and bid the wild flowers bloom
 
 no POEMS. 
 
 In spots where man has never dared to tread, 
 
 So thy sweet influence still is seen amid 
 
 These beetling cliffs : some hearts yet beat for thee 
 
 And bow alone to Heaven : thy spirit lives, 
 
 Aye, and shall, when e en the very name 
 
 Of tyrant is forgot. Lo ! while I gaze 
 
 Upon the mist that wreathes yon mountain s brow, 
 
 The sunbeam touches it, and it becomes 
 
 A crown of glory on his hoary head. 
 
 O ! is not this a presage of the dawn 
 
 Of freedom o er the world ? Hear me, thou bright 
 
 And beaming Heaven ! while kneeling thus, I swear 
 
 To live for Freedom, or with her to die. 
 
 WILLIAM TELL IN CHAINS. 1 
 
 >HAT ! does he think that bonds can chain the 
 
 mind ? 
 
 That dungeon air can taint the spotless soul ? 
 Fond fool ! let Gesler wear his princely pomp 
 If he would know the weight of real chains ; 
 And learn that to the base and crouching slave 
 All earth is one wide prison house. In vain 
 They shut me from the blessed light of heaven ; 
 They cannot dim the inward ray that sheds 
 Such brightness on my spirit. I have dwelt 
 
 1 The first of these two pieces was written after seeing Macready s personation of 
 William Tell ; and the second after seeing Inman s admirable picture of that dis 
 tinguished actor as William Tell in chains.
 
 LINES. 1 1 1 
 
 Upon the lofty mountain tops, and held 
 
 High converse with the elements, and gazed 
 
 Upon the sun, until his very beams 
 
 Became as twere a language ; shall I seek 
 
 To win the smile of princes ? I have watched 
 
 The storm-clouds gather round the snow-capped cliff, 
 
 And, in the rolling thunder, heard the threat 
 
 Of an offended God ; shall I bow down 
 
 Before the wrath of tyrants ? Never, never ! 
 
 When thou canst tame the eagle down to wear 
 
 The jesses of the falcon, or canst yoke 
 
 The lion to the humble steer, then hope, 
 
 Proud Gesler, to behold the brow of Tell 
 
 Bending before thy footstool. 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF A VERY BEAUTIFUL 
 WOMAN THREE WEEKS AFTER HAVING MET HER AT A 
 BALL. 
 
 ER dark, bright glances seemed to fall 
 With equal tenderness on all, 
 And shed such lustre o er her cheek 
 As when the setting sunbeams break 
 An instant from the evening cloud 
 That seeks its crimson light to shroud, 
 And sheds upon the mountain snow 
 A bright and rosy tinted glow.
 
 112 POEMS. 
 
 Her high, white forehead gave to view 
 Its branching veins of deepest blue ; 
 The gentle touch of sickness there 
 Gave sweetness to a brow so fair; 
 Her form so exquisitely frail, 
 Her face so softly, purely pale, 
 Seemed as if to her soul was given 
 Already less of earth than heaven. 
 
 And yet amid the festive throng 
 She paused to hear the mirthful song 
 And listened to the voice of mirth 
 As though she felt the joys of earth 
 Had yet some power left to impart 
 A sense of pleasure to her heart. 
 
 But though in all life s early bloom 
 She seemed soon destined for the tomb, 
 And it was this that bade each ray 
 Of beauty more serenely play ; 
 Twas this that gave a softened light 
 To eyes else too intensely bright ; 
 Twas this that threw a charm around 
 Her every movement ; the sweet sound 
 Of her low voice the feelings stirred 
 Like tones of music faintly heard. 
 
 Three little weeks the funeral vest 
 Was folded o er that gentle breast, 
 For Death had set his seal on all 
 So loved, so lovely ; the dark pall,
 
 SWEET REMEMBRANCE. 113 
 
 Forever must that form enshroud 
 So late the idol of the crowd. 
 
 Forgot by many, yet with me 
 Thy form shall live in memory, 
 Like half-traced shadows of a dream 
 Where all things fair and lovely seem 
 Such shadows as the moonbeam makes 
 When half through silvery clouds it breaks. 
 
 SWEET REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 LOVELY is yon sunset sky 
 
 As fades the dying day, 
 And tranquil are the rippling waves 
 That in its glory play ; 
 A woodland odor fills the breeze, 
 
 And bloom is on the bough, 
 But where, mid all this outward joy, 
 Are the hopes of childhood now ? 
 
 The voice of song is breathing round 
 
 When summer zephyrs sigh, 
 And rippling waves in music wake 
 
 Upon the shore to die ! 
 A thousand symphonies are heard 
 
 Amid spring s rosy bowers, 
 But we miss the music of the heart 
 
 That charmed our early hours.
 
 H4 POEMS. 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 " Or sai tu dove e quando quest! amori 
 Furon creati e come." 
 
 Dante. 
 
 LOVED thee, not because thy brow 
 
 Was bright and beautiful as day, 
 Not that on thy sweet lip the glow 
 Was joyous as the morning ray ; 
 No, though I saw thee fairest far, 
 The sun that hid each meaner star, 
 Yet twas not beauty taught me first 
 The love that silent tears have nurst. 
 
 Nor was it that thine every word 
 
 With stores of mental wealth was fraught, 
 With eloquence each heart that stirred, 
 With deepest feeling, holiest thought ; 
 Nor thy rich voice, whose witching spell 
 Like music on my spirit fell, 
 Sweet as the notes the bugle-horn 
 Breathes when o er moonlit waters borne. 
 
 But I beheld the darkening stain 
 
 Of sorrow cloud thy beaming eye, 
 I heard thy bosom s secret pain 
 
 Find utterance in the struggling sigh ; 
 And, like some lone, neglected lute, 
 My young heart s sweetest chords were mute 
 No hand had ever touched its strings, 
 To wake its blissful murmurings, 
 And silent still its chords would be 
 But for the touch of sympathy.
 
 A DAY DREAM. 115 
 
 A DAY DREAM. 
 
 E LL have a cot 
 
 Upon the banks of some wandering stream, 
 Whose ripple, like the murmur of a dream, 
 Shall be our music ; roses there shall twine 
 Around the casement, with the jessamine, 
 Whose starry blossoms shine out from beneath 
 Their veiling leaves like hope, and whose faint breath 
 Is sweet as memory s perfume. All the flowers 
 That Nature in her richest beauty showers, 
 Shall deck our home ; fresh violets that, like light 
 And love and hope, dwell everywhere ; the bright 
 And fragrant honeysuckle, too ; our feet 
 Shall press the daisy s bloom. O ! twill be sweet 
 To sit within the porch at even-tide, 
 And drink the breath of heaven at thy dear side. 
 The sky will wear a smile unseen before, 
 The sun for me more genial light will pour, 
 Earth will give out its treasures rich and rare, 
 New health will come in every balmy air. 
 Then thou wilt ope to me great Nature s book, 
 And nightly on the star-gemmed heavens we ll look ; 
 Thou, with the pride of knowledge, wilt unfold 
 The mighty chart where science is enrolled, 
 And gayly smile when I recount to thee 
 My wild and wayward flights of fantasy ; 
 For the frail beings of my dreamy heaven 
 Shrink from the light by scholiast wisdom given.
 
 n6 POEMS. 
 
 Wilt thou not joy to see the vivid glow 
 
 Of my expanded mind, when I shall owe 
 
 Its treasures all to thee? 
 
 Methinks it would be grief for me to bear 
 
 E en bliss, beloved, unless thou, too, might share ; 
 
 But O ! were joy poured forth in such excess, 
 
 My heart would break from very happiness. 
 
 THE MOTHER S FAREWELL TO HER WEDDED 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 fO, dearest one, my selfish love shall never pale 
 
 thy cheek 
 
 Not e en a mother s fears for thee will I in sad 
 ness speak ; 
 Yet how can I with coldness check the burning tears 
 
 that start? 
 
 Hast thou not turned from me to dwell within a stranger 
 heart ? 
 
 I think on earlier, brighter days, when first my lip was 
 
 prest 
 Upon thy baby brow while thou lay helpless on my 
 
 breast : 
 
 In fancy still I see thine eye uplifted to my face, 
 I hear thy lisping tones, and mark with joy thy childish 
 
 grace.
 
 THE MOTHER S FAREWELL. n? 
 
 E en then I knew it would be thus ; I thought e en in 
 
 that hour, 
 Another would its perfume steal when I had reared the 
 
 flower ; 
 And yet I will not breathe a sigh how may I dare 
 
 repine ? 
 The sorrow that thy mother feels was suffered once by 
 
 mine. 
 
 A mother s love ! O, thou knowest not how much of 
 
 feeling lies 
 In those sweet words ; the hopes, the fears, the daily 
 
 strengthening ties : 
 
 It wakes ere yet the infant draws its earliest vital breath, 
 And fails but when the mother s heart chills in the grasp 
 
 of death. 
 
 Will he, in whose fond arms thou seek st thine all of 
 
 earthly bliss, 
 E er feel a love, untiring, deep, and free from self, like 
 
 this? 
 O, no ! man s deepest tenderness thy gentle heart may 
 
 prove, 
 But only in a mother s breast dwells such unselfish love. 
 
 My thoughts to thee must ever turn as in the years 
 
 gone by, 
 
 While to thy heart I shall be like a dream of memory ; 
 Go, dearest one, may angel hosts their vigils o er thee 
 
 keep 
 How can I breath love s sad farewell, and yet forbear 
 
 to weep ?
 
 Il8 POEMS. 
 
 THE DYING YEAR, 
 
 [HE dying year ! How are those few words fraught 
 
 With images of fading loveliness ! 
 How do they fill with dreams of saddened 
 
 thought 
 
 The heart that sighs o er all that once could bless ! 
 They fall with mournful sound upon the ear, 
 The knell of something we have long held dear. 
 
 Thou frail and dying year ! ah ! where are now 
 The charms that have in turn been all thine own ? 
 
 The spring s young bloom, the summer s ripened glow, 
 The autumn s mournful splendor, all are gone, 
 
 And thou art sinking in oblivion s wave : 
 
 Would that the griefs thou gavest might there, too, find 
 a grave ! 
 
 Aye, years may pass ; but yet time s rapid flight 
 Would be unheeded, were it not he flings 
 
 A cloud o er all youth s hopes and fancies bright : 
 Alas ! he bears upon his shadowy wings 
 
 Darkness, distrust, and sorrow ; while the mind 
 
 Pines mid the gloom to which it is consigned. 
 
 Thou dying year! hast thou not swept away 
 Joys dearer far than any thou hast left ? 
 
 Have we not seen our hopes with thee decay 
 Felt ourselves almost desolate and reft 
 
 Of all the fairest, brightest things of earth ? 
 
 Have we not turned away sick of the world s vain mirth ?
 
 SUNSET. I] 
 
 Have we not prayed that thou wouldst quickly fleet, 
 When we were sunk in sorrow s deepest gloom ? 
 
 Have we not learned each coming day to greet, 
 Because it brought us nearer to the tomb ? 
 
 And thou hast fleeted, and with thee has past 
 
 The strong, deep misery that could not last. 
 
 Sorrow treads heavily, and leaves behind 
 A deep impression e en when she departs ; 
 
 While joy trips by with steps light as the wind, 
 And scarcely leaves a trace upon our hearts 
 
 Of her faint footfalls : only this is sure, 
 
 In this world nought save suffering can endure. 
 
 Yet thou art a kind monitor ; and we 
 
 In thee may trace the progress of our lives : 
 
 My spring-time is yet new ; I ne er may see 
 The summer ; and the fruits that autumn gives 
 
 For me may never ripen o er my brow 
 
 Ere then the grass may rustle. Be it so ! 
 
 SUNSET. 
 
 AREWELL, farewell, thou setting sun ! 
 
 I love thy gentle ray, 
 Thus brightening, when thy task is done, 
 The dying day s decay ; 
 It seems the pardoning smile of Heaven 
 O er errors past and sins forgiven.
 
 120 POEMS. 
 
 Twas neath such glowing skies as this, 
 In fancy s high-wrought hour, 
 
 That first the living soul of song 
 O erwhelmed me with its power ; 
 
 Aye, from thy ray was drawn the fire 
 
 That lit my heart s funereal pyre. 
 
 O, many a change since then has past 
 Across this wayward heart ; 
 
 Then I could almost weep to see 
 Thy gentle light depart ; 
 
 But now I love thy fading ray, 
 
 For with it sinks another day. 
 
 Farewell, farewell, thou setting sun ! 
 
 Thy last faint smile is gone ; 
 Thou goest to make another clime 
 
 A bright and smiling dawn. 
 But ah ! too soon thy morning beam 
 Will wake me from soft slumber s dream. 
 
 Farewell, farewell, thou setting sun ! 
 
 I will not thus complain, 
 What though thy dawning light will wake 
 
 My heart to thoughts of pain ? 
 Will it not wake my spirit, too ? 
 Are there no duties left to do ? 
 
 Farewell, farewell, thou setting sun ! 
 I love thy gentle ray,
 
 SABBATH MORNING. 
 
 When thus calm feelings can look back 
 
 Upon a well-spent day, 
 And bid me seek new strength from Him 
 Before whose brow thy light is dim. 
 
 SABBATH MORNING. 
 
 HERE is a quiet beauty on the sky, 
 A balmy freshness in the tranquil air, 
 That fills my mind with holiest thoughts, my 
 
 heart 
 
 With gentlest feelings ; e en the glorious sun 
 With softer splendor seems to usher in 
 The peaceful Sabbath. Well may it be called 
 A day of rest, when it thus sweetly stills 
 Not merely the wide city s busy hum, 
 But the fierce warfare of the human heart. 
 O, how could passion wake in this calm hour ? 
 E en my proud soul is humbled, and I lift 
 Mine eye to Heaven, not now in wild reproof, 
 Murmuring at its decrees, but with the deep 
 And calm submission of a wounded spirit, 
 Praying for strength to suffer. Well I know 
 My lot is sorrow ; pain, and sickness, aye, 
 The sickness of the heart, and early death, 
 These fill the measure of my destiny. 
 And O, how often do my feelings rise 
 In vain rebellion, when with weary limb 
 I press the couch of sickness ! or when pain, 
 The worst of pain, wrings my lone heart, how oft
 
 122 POEMS. 
 
 Does my worn spirit pray that soon may come 
 
 The rest too long delayed ! but when I feel 
 
 The fragrant breath of heaven, e en though as now 
 
 It fans a feverish brow, or stirs across 
 
 A cheek that tears have faded, it awakes 
 
 My slumbering energies. The Power that stills 
 
 The raging of the swelling seas, can stay 
 
 The wild tempestuous waves of earthly feeling, 
 
 And teach me calm endurance. 
 
 DEVOTION. 
 
 INE eyes are pained with watching, for the brow 
 Of heaven has lost its crown of starry light, 
 And soon upon my dim and dazzled sight 
 The gladdening morn will come with all its glow 
 Of new-born loveliness ; then let me bow 
 The knee to Heaven, and lift my heart in prayer, 
 Ere earth with all its vain and troublous care 
 Comes back upon my spirit, ere the flow 
 Of holy thought be stayed : yet tis for thee 
 That I would pray, beloved one, for thy lot 
 I dare to question God s untold decree, 
 And ask the bliss my own heart knoweth not ; 
 Be thy path marked with light ! enough for me 
 If in thy glory s hour I be not quite forgot.
 
 LINES. 
 
 123 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON READING, IN A SHORT POEM BY F. G. HALLECK, THE 
 FOLLOWING STANZAS : 
 
 " Bid thy thoughts hover o er that spot, 
 Boy-minstrel, in thy dreaming hour, 
 And know, however low his lot, 
 A poet s pride and power. 
 
 " And if despondency weigh down 
 
 Thy spirit s fluttering pinions then, 
 Despair thy name is w-ritten on 
 The roll of common men." 
 
 !INSTREL, full oft thy varied song 
 
 Has waked the echoes of my heart, 
 And gloomy fancies cherished long 
 Have fled before thy art, 
 And now thou comest with holier power 
 
 To nerve the spirit s wearied wing, 
 And o er its path, where tempests lower, 
 Reflected light to fling. 
 
 Though heaven-born inspiration ne er 
 
 Breathe o er my melancholy strain, 
 Yet with a poet s heart I bear 
 
 A poet s lot of pain ; 
 And hard it is to bring the soul 
 
 Back to the low pursuits of earth, 
 When where the stars in beauty roll 
 
 It seeks its place of birth.
 
 124 POEMS. 
 
 While all on earth grew dark beside, 
 
 I ve lived but on the hope that fame, 
 Since happiness was now denied, 
 
 In death would bless my name ; 
 Vain hope ! when men upon whose brow 
 
 The hand of Heaven has set his seal, 
 Whose souls with God s own spirit glow, 
 
 The world s neglect must feel. 
 
 Yet is it cherished, I would lie 
 
 This moment on the bed of death, 
 Calm as a wearied child, nor sigh 
 
 To yield my failing breath ; 
 And dear as are affection s ties, 
 
 Strong as is friendship s holier charm, 
 Gladly I d grasp the richer prize, 
 
 And barter life for fame. 
 
 FILIAL LOVE. 
 
 Y father, weep not that my cheek 
 Has lost health s roseate glow, 
 And look not thus with mournful gaze 
 Upon my wasted brow. 
 Tis hard to die in early youth, 
 
 When hope fills every breath ; 
 But only when I look on thee, 
 I feel the sting of death.
 
 FILIAL LOVE. 125 
 
 Long since I knew it would be thus : 
 
 Upon my sleeping ear 
 Came the stern voice of death, in words 
 
 Of anguish and of fear ; 
 And mid my waking visions, too, 
 
 Within my silent heart, 
 There dwelt the secret consciousness 
 
 That I must soon depart. 
 
 How lovely seemed the world around, 
 
 Whene er I thought of this ! 
 The very air and light of heaven 
 
 Seemed redolent of bliss ; 
 And O, how fondly have I gazed 
 
 Upon earth s flower-decked face, 
 When I remembered it would soon 
 
 Smile o er my burial-place ! 
 
 All those sweet feelings that within 
 
 A woman s bosom dwell, 
 And throw o er life s most desert scene 
 
 Love s soft bewitching spell, 
 Were in my heart. How could I turn 
 
 From all this light and bloom, 
 To think upon the dark things hid 
 
 Within the silent tomb ? 
 
 Nay, weep not, father; I have learned 
 
 To bow my stubborn will : 
 The Power that calms the swelling seas, 
 
 The rebel heart can still ; ,
 
 126 POEMS. 
 
 Now I can look with fearless eye 
 On mine approaching fate ; 
 
 But O how can I bear to die, 
 And leave thee desolate ? 
 
 THE EXCUSE. 
 
 HE tribute of a passing lay, 
 
 The song that stranger eyes may see, 
 Not such the homage I would pay, 
 My own dear love, to thee ; 
 No ! poesy s less fragile flowers, 
 The riches of affection s mine, 
 And all the spirit s loftier powers 
 Are offered on thy shrine. 
 
 When on the wing of fancy borne, 
 
 My spirit soars to realms of bliss, 
 And seeks those joys which ne er adorn 
 
 A world of pain like this, 
 Tis only that I would illume 
 
 The temple where mine idol dwells 
 With heaven s own light, and chase the gloom 
 
 Of earth s bewildering spells. 
 
 Though oft I feel that could I bind 
 
 Around my brow fame s fadeless wreath, 
 Filled with the power and pride of mind 
 My soul would smile at death ;
 
 TO MY HARP. 127 
 
 Yet tis but for thy sake I claim 
 The honors of the poet s lot ; 
 
 For why should glory be my aim 
 If thou couldst share it not? 
 
 TO MY HARP. 
 
 1 N vain ! in vain ! my hand no more 
 
 Thy charm of silence now can break 
 No longer wilt thou deign to pour 
 The music I was wont to make. 
 In vain with wooing touch I fling 
 My fingers o er each radiant string ; 
 Still all are hushed, or but reply 
 In strains of broken melody. 
 
 Have I, then, lost the power to sway 
 Thy magic chords with former skill ? 
 
 Or art thou wearied to obey 
 The impulse of a wayward will ? 
 
 This feeble hand has now new power 
 
 In painful study s toilsome hour, 
 
 This wayward will no longer strays 
 
 Mid passion s wild and devious ways. 
 
 Where, then, my lonely harp, has gone 
 
 The sweetness of thy early tone ? 
 
 Ah ! well I know ; thou wert not made 
 Neath pleasure s sunny light to dwell, 
 
 Tis only in dark sorrow s shade 
 
 Thy song can wake its powerful spell ;
 
 128 POEMS. 
 
 Thou wast but formed with gentle art 
 To charm the desolated heart. 
 
 And now that o er my wearied soul 
 
 The light of happiness is shed, 
 No more thou yield st to my control, 
 
 Thy soul of melody is fled. 
 Well be it so I will not seek 
 That thou in tones of joy shouldst speak ; 
 But ah ! too soon the clouds of woe 
 Their darkness o er my soul will throw, 
 Then will I woo thy soothing strain 
 To cheer my saddened hours again ; 
 And when despair s fell demons throng 
 I will invoke thy gentle song 
 The fearful shadows to dispel : 
 Till then, loved harp, farewell, farewell. 
 
 THE FAREWELL. 
 
 " It was a peasant girl s, whose soul was given 
 To one as far above her as the pine 
 Towers o er the lowly violet." 
 
 L. E. L. 
 
 , dearest one ; nor think my heart will ever 
 
 breathe a sigh 
 Because it never now can share thy glorious 
 
 destiny. 
 
 My love has never sought reward ; twas joy enough for 
 me 
 
 To pass my life in loneliness, and cherish thoughts of 
 thee.
 
 THE FAREWELL. 129 
 
 While yet a child, I freely gave affection s untold wealth ; 
 Since then I ve known the swift decay of hope, and joy, 
 
 and health, 
 And murmured not at Heaven s decree, though thus of 
 
 all bereft ; 
 How could I mourn ? whilst thou wert mine a world of 
 
 bliss was left. 
 
 Though other ties may bind thee, clear, though we are 
 
 doomed to part, 
 
 Yet still it is not sin to hide thine image in my heart ; 
 So pure, so holy was the spell which love around us cast, 
 That even now I would not wake, although the charm 
 
 be past. 
 
 And in thy memory by-past days will leave their gentle 
 
 grace ; 
 Not all the fondness of a wife those bright tints can. 
 
 efface. 
 
 Her lot may be of happiness beyond stern fate s control ; 
 But / have known a purer joy the union of the soul. 
 
 Farewell, beloved one ; when thy brow the laurel crown 
 
 shall bind, 
 And when adoring crowds shall own the sovereignty of 
 
 mind, 
 Then think of one who looks on thee with more than 
 
 woman s pride, 
 And glories in the thought that she has been thy spirit s 
 
 bride. 
 9
 
 130 POEMS. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 =ASS on, stern Time ! I know thy shadowy wing 
 Is bearing youth, and health, and hope away ; 
 Then swiftly fleet, and bring th appointed day 
 When this worn spirit may no longer cling 
 To earth-born vanities, but gladly fling 
 Its weight of clay aside. My wearied soul 
 Pines neath the fetters of the world s control, 
 Sick of the thousand petty cares that sting 
 The heart almost to madness. I have sought 
 My joy in dreams ; alas ! its end was pain, 
 And hope s unreal fancies and deep thoughts 
 Cherished in solitude have been my bane ; 
 But now upon my lone couch I could lie, 
 Calm as a wayward, wearied child, and die ! 
 
 SPRING BREEZES. 
 
 joyous breezes, I trace your way 
 O er the meadows decked in their bright array ; 
 The flow rets are bending your steps to greet, 
 New blossoms are springing beneath your feet, 
 While the rosebud her freshest fragrance flings, 
 And woos ye to rest your wearied wings. 
 
 But on ye pass ; for no charm ye stay ; 
 Still onward ye hold your gladdening way.
 
 SPXLVG BREEZES. 131 
 
 Your breath has rippled the mountain stream, 
 And a thousand suns from its surface gleam ; 
 Your voice has wakened the wild bird s note, 
 And fragrance and melody round you float. 
 
 Ye joyous breezes, still on ye go ; 
 Your breath is passing o er Beauty s brow ; 
 Your wings are stirring her radiant hair; 
 Your kiss is brightening her cheeks so fair ; 
 And the innocent thoughts of her heart rejoice 
 With the mirthful tones of your wild sweet voice. 
 
 " Though flowers may gladden our path to-day, 
 When to-morrow we come, they are passed away ; 
 And the cheerful smile and the rosy hue, 
 From the cheek of beauty have faded too ; 
 And our gentle whispers no more impart 
 A feeling of joy to her youthful heart. 
 
 "Is our path then marked by so much of mirth? 
 Alas for the folly and blindness of earth ! 
 Is there not mingled a voice of wail 
 With the sweetest tones of the young spring gale ? 
 If like infancy s joyous laugh we rise, 
 Pass we not onward like manhood s sighs ? 
 
 "We but do the will of our Master here, 
 Our joy is found in a holier sphere : 
 We are born in heaven ; can our purer breath 
 Pass mirthfully over the fields of death ? 
 And what is earth with its transient bloom 
 And fading charms, but a flower-decked tomb?"
 
 132 POEMS. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 JAY, spring is not now fair ; I cannot now 
 Greet its glad wakening, though I oft have loved 
 To watch its coming when its breezes moved 
 Like music o er my spirit, and my brow 
 Was bright with hope and health. The joyous glow 
 Of nature s new-born loveliness to me 
 Is fraught with pain ; for ere the budding tree 
 Shall put forth all its beauty, ere the snow 
 Melts from the mountain summits, we must part, 
 Mine own dear friend ! Thou o er the trackless sea, 
 Borne by spring s earliest gales, wilt leave my heart 
 To mourn in loneliness, bereft of thee, 
 While to thy memory I shall only seem 
 The half-traced image of a pleasant dream. 
 
 CONFIDENCE IN HEAVEN. 
 
 T is in vain the weary spirit strives 
 With that which doth consume it : there is 
 
 born 
 
 A strength from suffering which can laugh to scorn 
 The stroke of sorrow, even though it rives 
 Our very heart-strings ; but the grief that lives 
 Forever in the heart, and day by day 
 Wastes the soul s high-wrought energies away, 
 And wears the lofty spirit down, and gives
 
 THE TRANSPLANTED FLOWERS. 133 
 
 Its own dark hue to life, O ! who can bear ? 
 
 Yet, as the black and threatening tempests bring 
 
 New fragrance to earth s flowers and tints more fair, 
 
 So beneath sorrow s nurture virtues spring. 
 
 Youth, health, and hope may fade, but there is left 
 
 A soul that trusts in Heaven, though thus of all bereft. 
 
 THE TRANSPLANTED FLOWERS. 
 
 AY, hold, sweet lady, thy cruel hand, 
 O ! sever not thus our kindred band, 
 And look not upon us with pitiless eye, 
 As on flow rets born but to blossom and die. 
 
 Together we drank the morning dew, 
 And basked in the glances the sunbeams threw, 
 And together our sweets we were wont to fling, 
 When Zephyr swept by on his radiant wing. 
 
 When the purple shadows of evening fell, 
 Twas sweet to murmur our low farewell, 
 And together with fragrant sighs to close 
 Our perfumed blossoms in calm repose. 
 
 But now with none to respond our sigh, 
 In a foreign home we must droop and die ; 
 The bonds of kindred we once have known, 
 And how can we live in the world alone ?
 
 134 POEMS. 
 
 O, lady, list to the voice of mirth 
 By childhood wakened around thy hearth, 
 And think how lonely thy heart would pine 
 Should fortune the ties of affection untwine. 
 
 E en now, in the midst of that circle blest, 
 There are lonely thoughts in thine aching breast, 
 And how wouldst thou weep if, bereft of all, 
 Thou shouldst sit alone in thy empty hall ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 HOU art amid the festive halls 
 
 Where beauty wakes her spell for thee ; 
 Where music on thy spirit falls 
 Like moonlight on the sea ; 
 But now while fairer brows are smiling, 
 And brighter lips thy heart beguiling, 
 Thinkest thou of me ? 
 
 Fair forms and faces pass thee by 
 
 Like bright creations of a dream ; 
 And love-lit eyes, when thou art nigh, 
 
 With softer splendors beam : 
 Life s gayest witcheries are round thee ; 
 But now while mirth and joy surround thee, 
 
 Thinkest thou of me ?
 
 SONNET. 135 
 
 LOVE UNSOUGHT. 
 
 [HEY tell me that I must not love, 
 
 That thou wilt spurn the free 
 And unbought tenderness that gives 
 Its hidden wealth to thee. 
 It may be so ; I heed it not, 
 Nor would I change my blissful lot, 
 When thus I am allowed to make 
 My heart a bankrupt for thy sake. 
 
 They tell me when the fleeting charm 
 
 Of novelty is o er, 
 Thou lt turn away with careless brow 
 
 And think of me no more. 
 It may be so ! enough for me 
 If sunny skies still smile o er thee, 
 Or I can trace, when thou art far, 
 Thy pathway like a distant star. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 ! they may talk of conquerors, and tell 
 Of trophies that adorned a Caesar s car, 
 And spread his glory to the world afar, 
 Until his name becomes as twere a spell 
 To wake the hearts of nations. It is well 
 That men should be thus roused ; but are there not
 
 136 POEMS. 
 
 Far nobler triumphs in the humble lot 
 
 Of him who turns, when passion s hosts rebel, 
 
 Undaunted to the conflict? when the heart 
 
 Against itself in warfare must arise, 
 
 Till, one by one, the joys of life depart, 
 
 And e en the hope that nerved the spirit dies ! 
 
 Yet not to him are earthly honors given ; 
 
 Enough if conquest win th approving smile of Heaven. 
 
 THE MAIDEN TO HER REJECTED LOVER. 
 
 Y heart is with its early dream ; it cannot turn 
 
 away 
 ^ To seek again the joys of earth, and mingle 
 
 with the gay : 
 The dew-nursed flower that lifts its brow beneath the 
 
 shades of night, 
 
 Must wither when the sunbeam sheds its too resplen 
 dent light. 
 
 My heart is with its early dream ; and vainly love s soft 
 power 
 
 Would seek to charm that heart anew, in some unguarded 
 hour. 
 
 I would not that some gentle one should hear my fre 
 quent sigh : 
 
 The deer that bears its death-wound turns in loneliness 
 to die.
 
 THE REMEMBRANCE OF YOUTH IS A SIGH. 137 
 
 My heart is with its early dream ; I cannot now forget 
 The fantasy whose faded light illumes my spirit yet : 
 The summer sun may sink at once beneath the western 
 
 main, 
 But long upon heaven s dark ning brow the clouds his 
 
 light retain. 
 
 My heart is with its early dream ; yet there are mo 
 ments still 
 
 When, like a pulse within my soul, I feel joy s transient 
 thrill ; 
 
 For never can I hear unmoved the words of friendship 
 spoken ; 
 
 The blast that rends the wind-god s harp may leave 
 one string unbroken. 
 
 THE REMEMBRANCE OF YOUTH IS A SIGH. 
 
 YES, we may weep over moments departed, 
 
 And look on the past with a sorrowful eye, 
 For who, roving on through the world weary 
 
 hearted, 
 But feels " The remembrance of youth is a sigh ? " 
 
 Though earth still may wear all its verdure and flowers, 
 Though our pathway may smile neath a bright sum 
 mer sky, 
 
 Yet the serpent lies hid in life s sunniest bowers, 
 And still " The remembrance of youth is a sigh."
 
 I3 8 POEMS. 
 
 Then surely the heart whose best pleasures have van 
 ished, 
 
 As spring birds depart when cold winter draws nigh, 
 The bosom whence hope s sweet illusions are banished, 
 
 Must know " The remembrance of youth is a sigh." 
 
 Too early have faded my moments of gladness, 
 
 Ere the bloom and the spring-time of youth are gone 
 by; 
 
 Too early my days have been shrouded by sadness, 
 And to me " The remembrance of youth is a sigh." 
 
 GRATITUDE. 
 
 BELOVED one, beloved one, 
 When in thine eye I see 
 Thy look of placid tenderness 
 So fondly turned on me, 
 My heart rebounds with sudden joy, 
 
 Its sorrows are forgot ; 
 And all unmarked the clouds that now 
 Have gathered o er my lot. 
 
 Beloved one, beloved one, 
 When on thy glowing cheek 
 
 I see a pleasant smile again, 
 Of cheerful fancies speak, 
 
 Methinks I hear Hope s siren voice ; 
 She whispers that the hour
 
 SOA T A ET. 139 
 
 \\ ill come at length when peace may shed 
 O er both her pitying power. 
 
 Beloved one, beloved one, 
 
 Whene er thy soft caress 
 Is proffered in the gentle hour 
 
 Of tranquil tenderness, 
 My heart o erflows with grateful joy ; 
 
 Love s pent-up streams once more 
 O er all my life s swift fading flowers, 
 
 Their dews of freshness pour. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 ^ LAS ! alas, for those fresh feelings now 
 
 That shed such sweetness o er my early days ! 
 Alas for that bright fancy whose rich rays 
 E en o er earth s darkest moments threw a glow 
 Like heaven s own light, and tinged all things below 
 With hues of paradise. My spirit s gaze, 
 Like the young eaglet s, hung upon the blaze, 
 Of glory s sun undazzled, and my brow 
 Brightened with fame s proud hope ; the poet s crown 
 Was all I sought, and thou, beloved, wert nigh 
 To cheer my heart when pained by fortune s frown. 
 O ! hearken to my melancholy cry ; 
 Behold my spirit in the dust cast down, 
 And let me once more drink new being from thine 
 eye.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 THE WEARY DAY. 
 
 HE weary clay, the weary day, 
 
 Its endless round I trace, 
 And vainly seek with tale and song 
 The heavy hours to chase ; 
 But in thy absence, idle all 
 
 Such arts, beloved, must be, 
 The hours but fly on eagles wings 
 When I am near to thee. 
 
 Un waked by thy sweet voice, my lute 
 
 Has lost its wonted tone, 
 Or if perchance I touch its strings, 
 
 It breathes of pain alone! 
 Unlighted by thy sun s bright smile, 
 
 My wild flower wreath is dead ; 
 Too worthless now its faded bloom 
 
 To deck thy gentle head. 
 
 But when the lengthened shadows fall 
 
 To close the drooping flowers, 
 No longer do I vainly chide 
 
 The slowly lagging hours. 
 For ere the dews of evening shed 
 
 On earth their fragrance sweet, 
 I know that my impatient heart 
 
 Thy beauty, love, shall greet.
 
 THE DYING POET. 141 
 
 THE DYING POET. 
 
 J ^ 2^5 IS over! life s bewildering dream is fading from 
 
 & And soon my weary heart shall rest in death s 
 
 untroubled night ; 
 
 To-morrow s setting sun will gleam upon the icy brow 
 Of him who turns with failing eyes to watch its glories 
 now. 
 
 Thou setting sun ! how oft on thee I ve gazed in early 
 
 years, 
 
 Until my infant eyes have filled with soft delicious tears ! 
 Alas ! I little knew such tears from those deep fountains 
 
 sprung, 
 That since o er all the flowers of life their venomed 
 
 sweets have flung. 
 
 My thoughts were not as others thoughts, for Nature 
 ever spoke 
 
 A deeper language to my heart, and sweeter feelings 
 woke ; 
 
 The glorious sun, the flower-decked earth, the moun 
 tain s rushing stream, 
 
 Each filled my wild and restless thought with some en 
 rapturing dream. 
 
 O ! ne er can I forget the hour, the blissful hour when 
 
 first 
 O er Castaly s pure fount I bent to quench my spirit s 
 
 thirst ;
 
 142 POEMS. 
 
 When dazzled by my glorious dreams, o ermastered by 
 
 a throng 
 Of thoughts too beautiful for speech, I poured them forth 
 
 in song. 
 
 And then, too, came the voice of praise, whose all-resist 
 less spell 
 
 Upon my burning fancy sweet as dews of evening fell. 
 
 Alas ! as night-dews fall alike to freshen weeds and 
 flowers, 
 
 Thus, while it \vakened loftier thoughts, it roused dark 
 passion s powers. 
 
 With fearless foot I dared to climb ambition s dizzy way, 
 For by its own resplendent light my soul was led astray. 
 I lived but on the breath of fame ; the gentler hopes 
 
 of life 
 Were all unheeded while I gave myself to envious strife. 
 
 Yet there was one, a gentle girl, whose look had power 
 
 to still 
 
 The busy demon in my heart and mould me to her will ; 
 But ah ! she feared to share with me a poet s wayward 
 
 fate, 
 She could not prize a minstrel s love, and I am desolate. 
 
 Yet not unblest has been my lot ; my song has had 
 
 high power 
 To cheer the heavy thoughts of woe in many a weary 
 
 hour ;
 
 THE FADED PASSION-FLOWER. 143 
 
 And many a gentle heart has ceased to feel its own 
 distress, 
 
 While bending o er the page that told the poet s wretch 
 edness. 
 
 My lot has been a lonely one, and now unwept I die, 
 Strangers will close my glazing eyes, and bear my latest 
 
 sigh ; 
 Yet they will write upon the stone that marks my lonely 
 
 grave, 
 " Joyless and lone he passed his life, but joy to others 
 
 gave." l 
 
 THE FADED PASSION-FLOWER. 
 
 E, keep the flower; tis faded now, 
 And all unmeet to deck thy brow ; 
 But though of beauty thus bereft, 
 How much of sweetness still is left ! 
 
 Aye, keep the flower ; and if it grieves 
 Thy heart to see its faded leaves, 
 Forget it ever was more fair, 
 And think its fragrance still is there. 
 
 Aye, keep the flower ; another eye 
 Might heedless pass the blossom by; 
 
 l " Joyless I lived but joy to others gave." Delitte.
 
 144 POEMS. 
 
 But will it not far dearer be 
 
 When wakes its perfume but for thee ? 
 
 Aye, keep the flower ; and shouldst thou seek, 
 An emblem of my faded cheek, 
 Thou lt find it there from Heaven s own light 
 Came both its beauty and its blight. 
 
 Aye, keep the flower ; and it may seem 
 An emblem of my bosom s dream ; 
 Joy s brilliant hue not long could last ; 
 But when, O ! when shall love be past ? 
 
 LOVE S VIGIL. 
 
 slumbered, and unseen I gazed 
 Upon her gentle brow ; 
 The eye, where so much brightness blazed 
 Was closed in darkness now ; 
 And yet its glories scarce were hid 
 Beneath that soft and shadowy lid. 
 
 She slumbered, and her velvet lip 
 
 Was like the folded rose, 
 Ere yet the bee its sweets could sip, 
 
 Or mar its calm repose ; 
 O ! language were too cold and weak, 
 Its silent eloquence to speak.
 
 TO . 145 
 
 She slumbered ; o er her placid face 
 
 A gleam of softness came, 
 And while I . watched its winning grace, 
 
 I heard her breathe my name ; 
 Blest be the heart that thus could keep 
 Love s vivid memories e en in sleep. 
 
 TO 
 
 iHY glorious smile, thy glorious smile 
 
 Beams as twas wont to do, 
 When o er my youthful feelings first 
 Love s summer light it threw : 
 Then it was worshipped from afar, 
 But still it was my guiding star. 
 
 Thy gentle voice, thy gentle voice, 
 
 O, still it has high power 
 To rouse joy s echoes in my soul, 
 
 As in the blessed hour 
 When first I heard the low-breathed tone 
 That made my childish heart its own. 
 
 Thy sunbright eye, thy sunbright eye, 
 
 Once more it turns on me 
 The sweetness of its early look, 
 
 And mingles tenderly 
 Affection s moonbeams, pure and bright, 
 With intellect s refulgent light. 
 10
 
 146 POEMS. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 " I did love once 
 As youth, as woman, genius loves." 
 
 L. E. L. 
 
 KNOWEST thou, dear one, the love of youth, 
 With its wayward fancies, its untried truth ; 
 Yet cloudless and warm as the sunny ray 
 That opens the flowers of a summer s day, 
 Unfolding the passionate thoughts that lie 
 Mid feelings pure as an angel s sigh, 
 Till the loftiest strength of our nature wakes 
 As an infant giant from slumber breaks 
 O, knowest thou, clear, what this love may be ? 
 In earlier days such was mine for thee. 
 
 O, knowest thou, dear one, of woman s love, 
 
 With its faith that woes but more deeply prove ; 
 
 Its fondness wide as the limitless wave, 
 
 And chainless by aught than the silent grave ; 
 
 With devotion as humble as that which brings 
 
 To his idol the Indian s offerings ; 
 
 Yet proud as that which the priestess feels, 
 
 When she nurses the flame of the shrine while she 
 
 kneels 
 
 O, knowest thou, dear, what this love may be ? 
 Such ever has been in my heart for thee. 
 
 O, knowest thou the love of a poet s soul, 
 
 Of the mind that from heaven its brightness stole ;
 
 STANZAS. 147 
 
 When the gush of song, like the life-blood, springs 
 
 Unchecked from the heart, and the spirit s wings 
 
 Are nerved anew in a loftier flight 
 
 To seek for its idol a crown of light ; 
 
 When the visions that wake beneath fancy s beam, 
 
 But serve to brighten an earthly dream 
 
 O, knowest thou, dear, what this love may be ? 
 
 Such long has been in my heart for thee. 
 
 O, tell me, dear, can such love decay 
 Like the sapless weed in the morning ray ? 
 Can the love of earlier, brighter years 
 Be chased away like an infant s tears? 
 Can the long-tried faith of a woman s heart 
 Like a summer bird from its nest depart ? 
 Can affection nursed within fancy s bowers, 
 Find deadly herbs mid those fragrant flowers ? 
 O ! no, beloved one, it cannot be : 
 Such end awaits not my love for thee. 
 
 Youth s pure fresh feelings have faded now, 
 
 But not less warm is love s summer glow ; 
 
 Dark frowns may wither, unkindness blight 
 
 The heart where thou art the only light; 
 
 And coldness may freeze the wild gush of song, 
 
 Or chill the spirit once tameless and strong ; 
 
 And the pangs of neglected love may prey 
 
 Too fatally, dear, on this fragile clay: 
 
 But never, O never, beloved, can it be 
 
 That my heart should forget its deep fondness for thee.
 
 148 POEMS. 
 
 LOVE RETURNED. 
 
 JNE arm around her silent harp was flung; 
 Her brow was bending o er it, and its chords 
 Were twined with her dark tresses. Wrapt in 
 
 thought, 
 
 She stirless sat ; and when the soft breeze fanned 
 The ringlets from her cheeks, a glow was there, 
 Like the rich hue that decks the Florence rose, 
 While the sweet smile that hovered round her lip 
 Was bright as April sunlight ; in her eye 
 Was hope with sadness blended, as if joy 
 Had been so long a stranger to her heart 
 That now she scarce dared welcome it. 
 
 She spoke ; 
 
 And the low accents of her voice were sweet, 
 Yet melancholy as the moaning wave : 
 
 " Love must win love O, were not these the words, 
 The blessed words he uttered ? While my heart 
 With life and feeling throbs, I must remember 
 How like the freshening dews of heaven they came, 
 Waking new hopes, renewing faded dreams, 
 And thrilling all my frame with sudden joy." 
 
 She paused ; and her light fingers touched the harp, 
 Calling out low and plaintive symphonies ; 
 Then, as with bolder touch she swept the strings, 
 Her voice broke forth responsive, and she sung :
 
 LOVE RETURNED. 149 
 
 Love must win love : " believest thou aught of this ? 
 
 O ! then no more 
 
 My heart o er early faded dreams of bliss, 
 Its wail shall pour. 
 
 Give me this hope, though only from afar 
 
 It sheds its light, 
 And like yon dewy, melancholy star, 
 
 With tears is bright. 
 
 Let me but hope a heart with fondness fraught. 
 
 That could not sin 
 Against its worshipped idol e en in thought, 
 
 Thy love may win. 
 
 Let me but hope the changeless love of years, 
 
 The tender care 
 That fain would die to save thine eye from tears, 
 
 Thy heart may share. 
 
 Or let me dream, at least, that when no more, 
 
 My voice shall meet 
 The ear that listens only to think o er 
 
 Tones far more sweet 
 
 When never more my weary steps of pain 
 
 Around thee move, 
 When loosed forever is thy heavy chain 
 
 " Love will win love."
 
 150 POEMS. 
 
 SONG OF MORNING. 
 
 COME, I come from the fields of light ; 
 
 My herald-star chases the shadows of night ; 
 
 The dew of the evening lies thick on the grass 
 Still gemming the pathway my footstep must pass ; 
 While the wild flower joyously raises its head, 
 And breathes its rich sweets neath my echoless tread. 
 
 O er gardens just waking from slumber I fling 
 The perfumes of heaven from my noiseless wing ; 
 My breath is crisping the silent lake, 
 Till its gentle wavelets in brightness break ; 
 And the soft air is mingled with music and glee, 
 By the song of the lark and the voice of the bee. 
 
 But man, who alone of all creatures may raise 
 
 To the glories of heaven his uplifted gaze 
 
 Is joy in his heart ? does delight fill his eye 
 
 When he sees my glad footsteps in brightness pass by? 
 
 Like the song of the bird and the bee, does his voice 
 
 In the pride of new life and new vigor rejoice ? 
 
 O, no ; for too often my earliest glance 
 But rouses his soul from sleep s bright-visioned trance ; 
 And coldly he turns from the sweet dreams of night 
 To the splendors that waken with morning s glad light ; 
 And the sunbeam small pleasure to him can impart, 
 When it wakes to new sorrows his slumbering heart.
 
 THE MORAVIAN BURIAL-GROUND. 151 
 
 How often has burst forth the weariful sigh, 
 As the bloom and the freshness of morning came by, 
 Outshining the light of the student s pale lamp, 
 But chilling the ardor no darkness could damp ; 
 While with loathing he looks on the glorious ray 
 That calls him from intellect s treasures away. 
 
 How oft have the sweets of my perfumed breath 
 Fanned the clustering locks on the forehead of death, 
 And played in the folds of the snow-white vest 
 That encircled the form for the earth-worm dressed, 
 Till it seemed to the mourner s bewildered eye 
 As if moved by the life-pulse again strong and high ! 
 
 And they who in dreams see the gentle smile 
 
 That never their waking thoughts more shall beguile ; 
 
 The broken in health, and the wearied in heart 
 
 O, joy they not rather to see me depart ? 
 
 And smile they not more at night s gathering gloom, 
 
 Since another day brings them more nigh to the tomb ? 
 
 THE MORAVIAN BURIAL-GROUND. 
 
 The followirg lines are an attempt to convey an idea of the simple beauty of the 
 Moravian Burial-ground at Bethlehem, Penn. The feelings described suggested 
 themselves on the spot, and the incident alluded to actually occurred. 
 
 WAS one of those sweet days when spring awakes 
 Her gentlest zephyrs and her softest light, 
 Wooing the wild flowers in the sunny brakes, 
 And winning the young bird to joyous flight;
 
 152 POEMS. 
 
 While rose the lulling murmur of the bee 
 Mid the sweet sounds of Nature s jubilee. 
 
 Our loitering feet unconsciously we turned 
 
 Towards a green and solitary lane ; 
 A pure, calm spirit in our bosoms burned, 
 
 And feelings saddened, though unmixed with pain : 
 O ! surely we were then in fitting mood 
 To ponder on the grave s dread solitude. 
 
 Through a low gate our quiet steps we bent ; 
 
 Was this sweet, lonely spot a burial-place ? 
 Here was no urn, no sculptured monument, 
 
 But o er it spring had shed her loveliest trace ; 
 For the bright verdure and the fragrant bloom 
 Of the wild violet, decked each smiling tomb. 
 
 A lowly mound of earth, an humble stone, 
 
 Traced with the name of him who lay beneath, 
 
 A name still dear to love, though never known 
 To fame, were all that spoke of dreaded death ; 
 
 Fresh grass, and flowers, and scented herbs were 
 there, 
 
 Filling with brightness earth, with odors air. 
 
 High swelled my heart as mid those graves I trod ; 
 
 I felt life s nothingness in that calm hour ; 
 My spirit knew the presence of its God, 
 
 And bowed submissive to Almighty power ; 
 While humbly now I deemed I ne er should shrink 
 To drain the cup that earthly love must drink.
 
 MORAVIAN BURIAL-GROUND. 153 
 
 I had been an idolater aye, still 
 
 My heart was vowed upon an earthly shrine ; 
 
 Though checked a moment by that holy thrill, 
 I knew my bosom never could resign 
 
 Its deep idolatry till life was past ; 
 
 Had I not cause to fear Heaven s frown at last ? 
 
 Filled with these thoughts, I turned e en from the brow 
 That most I loved, to hide my gushing tears, 
 
 And gazing on the humble graves where low 
 Lay buried many a love of other years, 
 
 I threw myself beside a grassy mound j 
 
 With reverence, for I felt twas holy ground. 
 
 For there, with eyelids closed in changeless night, 
 The mother and her sinless infant lay ; 
 
 In the same hour death breathed o er both his blight, 
 And in one pang their spirits passed away : 
 
 The all of mother s feelings she had known 
 
 Were the keen throe, the agony alone. 
 
 Alas for earthly joy, and hope, and love, 
 
 Thus stricken down e en in their holiest hour ! 
 
 What deep, heart- wringing anguish must they prove 
 Who live to weep the blasted tree and flower ! 
 
 O, woe, deep woe, to earthly love s fond trust, 
 
 When all it once has worshipped lies in dust ! 
 
 There was one hillock decked beyond the rest, 
 Where rue, and thyme, and violets were sighing ; 
 
 No trace of earth defaced its verdant breast ; 
 The wild bee o er the sunny flowers was flying,
 
 154 POEMS. 
 
 Or hiding, mid the odorous buds and leaves, 
 Beneath the dewy veil the evening weaves. 
 
 There slept the patriarch of fourscore years, 
 Whose long life like an April day had closed 
 
 In smiles and sunshine after clouds and tears ; 
 Now calm in death his aged form reposed ; 
 
 While oft affection s pearly tears bedewed 
 
 The flowers that decked his peaceful solitude. 
 
 Lo ! while we gazed, with slow and noiseless tread 
 A female form drew nigh ; her right hand bore 
 
 A water-urn and o er th unconscious dead 
 Lowly she bent, its freshening dews to pour, 
 
 Till the flowers brightly neath the sun gleamed up, 
 
 Each bearing a rich gem within its cup. 
 
 Ten years had passed since he who slumbered there 
 Had cast aside the weight of clay, and yet 
 
 His grave still fondly claimed a daughter s care ; 
 Still was it visited with deep regret : 
 
 Such was the love of hearts o er which no trace 
 
 Of earth had passed affection to efface. 
 
 Then with tumultuous feelings all subdued 
 By death s undreaded presence, I awoke 
 
 My song s low murmurs in that solitude, 
 And thus my half-breathed whispers softly broke : 
 
 When in the shadow of the tomb, 
 This heart shall rest,
 
 THE MINSTREL S LAST SONG. 155 
 
 O, lay me where spring-flowerets bloom 
 On earth s green breast. 
 
 But ne er in vaulted chambers lay 
 
 My lifeless form ; 
 Seek not of such poor, worthless prey 
 
 To cheat the worm. 
 
 In some sweet city of the dead 
 
 I fain would sleep, 
 Where flowers may deck my narrow bed, 
 
 And night-dews weep. 
 
 And raise not the sepulchral urn 
 
 To mark the spot ; 
 Enough if but by love alone 
 
 Tis ne er forgot. 
 
 THE MINSTREL S LAST SONG. 
 
 INCE childhood s hour 
 
 Song was the natural language of my heart 
 O let me pour forth all its thrilling power 
 Once more ere I depart. 
 
 To that far land 
 
 Which gave my spirit birth it hastens now ; 
 How doth it long its pinions to expand, 
 
 And soar to Heaven s high brow.
 
 156 POEMS. 
 
 How doth it strive 
 
 To burst from all its earthly bonds away, 
 Unheeding all the fearful pangs that rive 
 
 Its tenement of clay. 
 
 Alas, alas, 
 
 Why comes thy gentle image, my sweet wife, 
 Slaying my spirit in the darksome pass 
 
 That lies twixt death and life. 
 
 Those accents dear 
 
 Awoke too much of earthly tenderness ; 
 Life has too many charms when thou art near, 
 
 My lonely heart to bless. 
 
 Much hast thou borne 
 
 Of sorrow and deep suffering since thy lot 
 Was joined with mine, yet meekly hast thou worn 
 
 Thy chain, and murmured not. 
 
 The smile that shone 
 On thy sweet lip is faded, and the light 
 That sparkled in thy star-like eyes is gone : 
 
 My love has been thy blight. 
 
 I would have poured 
 
 My life-blood forth like water but to gain 
 One hour of joy for thee, my own adored, 
 
 Or spare thy heart one pain.
 
 THE MINSTREL S LAST SONG. 157 
 
 Yet my hand fixed 
 
 Within thy gentle breast grief s deathless sting, 
 And for thy lip affliction s chalice mixed, 
 
 Drawn from my life s dark spring. 
 
 Mine eyes are dim ; 
 
 The dews of death are chill upon my brow, 
 The frosts of death are stealing o er each limb, 
 
 And the grave calls me now. 
 
 Aye, this is death ; 
 
 For never yet my heart so faintly stirred 
 When on my cheek I felt thy balmy breath, 
 
 Or thy sweet accents heard. 
 
 When I am laid 
 
 Within the earth, to the dark worm a prey, 
 Let not my image from thy memory fade, 
 
 Like April clouds, away. 
 
 The strain is done ; 
 
 My swan-like song is ended ; let me dwell 
 Amid thy kindliest thoughts, my gentle one j 
 
 One kiss, sweet love, farewell.
 
 158 POEMS. 
 
 "PRAY FOR YOUR QUEEN." 
 
 " Endue her plenteously with heavenly gifts : grant her, in health and wealth, long 
 to live, .... And, finally, after this life, may she attain everlasting joy and felicity, 
 through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen." Liturgy. 
 
 RAY for your Queen ; upon your sovereign s brow 
 Youth lingers still ; nor has experience there 
 Written her duties in the lines of care. 
 The hand that holds fair England s sceptre now 
 Is but a gentle maiden s ; can it clasp 
 That mighty symbol with a steady grasp? 
 Dark clouds are lowering o er our sunny sky ; 
 If they should gather, could that fragile form 
 " Ride on the whirlwind, and direct the storm ? " 
 Wisdom, strength, energy are from on high ; 
 
 Wouldst thou enrich her with these blessings? Pray! 
 One reigns above, whom heaven and earth obey. 
 
 Pray for your Queen : hers is a woman s heart, 
 
 And woman s perils lurk around her way ; 
 
 Pleasure may lead her heedless steps astray, 
 Or flattery soothe when conscience wings its dart. 
 
 Love, that sweet well-spring of domestic joy, 
 
 Scarce rises in a court without alloy, 
 And woman s sorrows may be hers to share ; 
 
 Sunshine has beamed upon her path thus far, 
 
 But this bright scene one sudden storm would mar, 
 And England s rose might droop, though now so fair. 
 
 Say, wouldst thou shield her from these perils ? Pray ! 
 
 Strength shall be granted equal to her day.
 
 CHARADE. 159 
 
 CHARADE. 
 
 (MOCKING-BIRD.) 
 
 HE boldest heart that ever yet 
 
 Was cased in mortal clay, 
 Rather than hear my first would face 
 An armed host s array ; 
 For by brute sufferance alone 
 The body s pains are borne, 
 But e en the mind s unbending strength 
 Quails neath the sting of scorn. 
 
 My second comes wilh all things fair, 
 
 Spring sunshine, dews, and flowers, 
 And though it shuns the leafless bough, 
 
 Loves well the summer bowers. 
 Full many love its matin song, 
 
 But more its vesper hymn, 
 When twilight s gentle breezes wake 
 
 And the sunset s light grows dim. 
 
 My whole is born in southern clime, 
 
 Where summer rules the year ; 
 Oft in the wilderness its strains 
 
 Delight the traveller s ear. 
 But like a patriot, stern and true, 
 
 It brooks no foreign shore, 
 And ere it reach a stranger land 
 
 Its life and song are o er.
 
 160 POEMS. 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 " La rose cueillie et le coeur gagn6 ne plaisent qu un jour." 
 
 HE maiden sat at her busy wheel, 
 
 Her heart was light and free, 
 And ever in cheerful song broke forth 
 Her bosom s harmless glee. 
 Her song was in mockery of love, 
 
 And oft I heard her say, 
 " The gathered rose and the stolen heart 
 Can charm but for a day." 
 
 I looked on the maiden s rosy cheek, 
 
 And her lip so full and bright, 
 And I sighed to think that the traitor love, 
 
 Should conquer a heart so light : 
 But she thought not of future days of woe, 
 
 While she caroled in tones so gay, 
 " The gathered rose and the stolen heart 
 
 Can charm but for a day." 
 
 A year passed on, and again I stood 
 
 By the humble cottage-door ; 
 The maid sat at her busy wheel, 
 
 But her look was blithe no more ; 
 The big tear stood in her down-cast eye, 
 
 And with sighs I heard her say, 
 " The gathered rose and the stolen heart 
 
 Can charm but for a day."
 
 TIME. 161 
 
 O ! well I knew what had dimmed her eye, 
 
 And made her cheek so pale ; 
 The maid had forgotten her early song, 
 
 While she listened to love s soft tale. 
 She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup, 
 
 It had wasted her life away : 
 And the stolen heart, like the gathered rose, 
 
 Had charmed but for a day. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 " We take no note of time but by its loss." 
 
 jOLL on, roll on, unfathomable Ocean ! 
 
 On whose dark surface years are but as waves* 
 Bearing us onward with resistless motion, 
 Till in some deep abyss we find our graves ; 
 While scarce a bubble breaks to mark the spot 
 Where sunk the bark that bore a mortal s lot. 
 
 What myriad heaps of countless wealth have lain 
 Entombed for centuries beneath thy tide ! 
 
 Ruins of empires, kingdoms reared in vain, 
 Temples and palaces, man s faith and pride ; 
 
 Trophies of times when things of mortal birth 
 
 Amid their fellows walked like gods on earth. 
 
 What is the lore of ages ? Wrecks upthrown, 
 
 Torn fragments of the wealth thou hast despoiled,
 
 1 62 POEMS. 
 
 Records of nations to our race unknown 
 
 Men who, like us, once lived, and joyed, and toiled, 
 Yet whom as men we know not, for their kings 
 Alone flit by us dim and shadowy things. 
 
 And what is science but a beacon light, 
 Revolving ever in the same small round, 
 
 Shedding upon the wave a lustre bright, 
 
 Yet scarcely seen beyond its narrow bound ? 
 
 While o er the trackless waste its shifting ray 
 
 Too often leads the voyager astray. 
 
 What is philosophy? A chart ill traced, 
 
 An antique map drawn by Conjecture s skill; 
 
 There many a fair Utopia has graced 
 
 The vacant canvas which truth could not fill : 
 
 Like vain researches for the fount of youth 
 
 Must be man s quest for speculative truth. 
 
 Vainly, O Time, we seek thy mystic source, 
 We hope, believe, but nothing can we know ; 
 
 And still more vainly would we trace thy course, 
 And learn what shore receives thy ebbs and flow. 
 
 We know it is Eternity what then ? 
 
 What is Eternity to finite men ? 
 
 Our faculties all " cabined, cribbed, confined," 
 We bear earth s soil upon our spirit s wings, 
 
 And but by sensual images the mind 
 
 Such abstract fancies to its vision brings ; 
 
 Not all a Newton s energy could teach 
 
 Our fettered souls infinitude to reach.
 
 NAPOLEON AT SAINT HELENA. 163 
 
 Years multiplied by years, till feeble thought 
 Grows dizzy lost in calculation, maze, 
 
 Such are our vague imaginings ; we ve sought 
 Eternity, and found but length of days. 
 
 Not till we lay aside this weight of clay, 
 
 Can our dim sight bear truth s refulgent ray. 
 
 Ocean of Time ! thy tiniest wavelet bears 
 To fatal wreck some richly laden bark : 
 
 O ! but for that bright star in heaven which wears 
 A brighter glory when the storm grows dark, 
 
 But for the Star of Bethlehem, how should we 
 
 Direct our course o er thy tempestuous sea ? 
 
 NAPOLEON AT SAINT HELENA. 1 
 
 FOR thy wings, 
 
 Monarch of air ! that I might mount on high, 
 
 And find no meaner barrier than the sky ; 
 
 My spirit springs 
 
 Beyond the ties that bind it down to earth, 
 And fain, like thee, would soar, to seek its place of birth. 
 
 Away, away 
 
 To the high goal where all my wishes lead, 
 Thought rushes onward with a whirlwind s speed ; 
 
 Curse on the clay 
 
 1 Suggested by an engraving, which represented him alone on the sea-shore, watch - 
 ng the flight of an eagle.
 
 1 64 POEMS. 
 
 That, like a fetter, cumbers my soul s flight, 
 And chains me at the foot of fame s cloud-compassed 
 height ! 
 
 Bound to the rock 
 
 While vulture passions all my being waste, 
 Forbidden e en the stirring joy to taste, 
 
 Of danger s shock ; 
 
 So I am doomed the Titan s pain to know, 
 Without the conscious pride that banished half his woe. 
 
 How have I toiled 
 
 To blend my country s glory with my fame, 
 Till both should be eternal ! Shame, deep shame, 
 
 To be thus foiled ! 
 
 Thus doomed to see the robe of purple torn 
 From off her giant limbs, and trampled on in scorn. 
 
 Am I not he 
 
 Whose strong right arm the bolt of vengeance hurled ? 
 Whose name like thunder shook the echoing world? 
 
 How can it be 
 
 That like a mean and slave-born hind I lie 
 Thus manacled and spurned, forbidden e en to die ! 
 
 O God of heaven ! 
 
 Let me not perish -thus beneath thine ire ; 
 Where sleep thy lightnings ? strike ! by thine own fire 
 
 Be my heart riven ! 
 
 But leave me not thus piecemeal to decay, 
 Reft of the power to drive the earthworms from their 
 prey.
 
 LAMENT OF THE EMPRESS JOSEPHINE. 165 
 
 LAMENT OF THE EMPRESS JOSEPHINE. 
 
 HE fearful strife of feeling now is o er, 
 The bitter pang can rend my heart no more ; 
 *& A martyr s spirit now within me burns, 
 
 And love, that spurns 
 
 All thought of self, is waking, till its power 
 Can conquer e en the anguish of this hour. 
 
 Yes ; for thy sake I can resign e en thee, 
 My noble husband ! though there still may be 
 Enough of woman s weakness in my heart 
 
 To bid tears start, 
 
 Yet not one murmur of reproach shall swell 
 Amid the accents of my last farewell. 
 
 I loved thee in thy lowliness, ere fame 
 Had shed a halo round Napoleon s name ; 
 In the veiled lightnings of that falcon eye 
 
 I read the high 
 
 And godlike aspirations of a mind, 
 Whose loftiest aim was power to bless mankind. 
 
 And when thy name through all the world was known, 
 When monarchs quailed before thy triple crown, 
 When queens beheld me in mine hour of pride, 
 
 Thy glorious bride, 
 
 No selfish vanity my heart could swell 
 I shared a throne, but would have shared a cell.
 
 1 66 POEMS. 
 
 Like thine, my soul was formed for lofty fate ; 
 
 I loved thee as the eagle loves its mate ; 
 
 Nor did I seek with borrowed strength to climb 
 
 The height sublime 
 
 Where thou hadst built thine eyrie ; twas for me 
 Enough that thou wert there I followed thee. 
 
 And in thy toils, too, have I borne a part; 
 
 In scenes where might have quailed man s sterner heart, 
 
 When dark Rebellion reared his hydra crest, 
 
 My heart carest 
 
 And soothed the dreaded monster till he smiled, 
 And bowed him down submissive as a child. 
 
 Though all unskilled the warrior s brand to wield, 
 Yet went my spirit with thee to the field 
 Where charging squadrons met in fierce array ; 
 
 Nor mid the fray 
 
 Awoke one terror for a husband s life 
 Such fear were idle in Napoleon s wife. 
 
 Alas ! how has my pride become my shame ! 
 I saw thee mount the rugged steep of fame, 
 And joyed to think how soon thy mighty soul 
 
 Would reach its goal ; 
 
 But never dreamed, ambitious though thou art, 
 That thy last step would be upon my heart. 
 
 Vain sacrifice ! no second of thy race 
 Shall wield the world s dread sceptre in thy place ; 
 Rude Nature might have taught how vain must be 
 Such hope to thee :
 
 STANZAS. 167 
 
 For lofty minds but with like minds should wed ; 
 Not in the dove s soft nest are eaglets bred. 
 
 Ours was the soul s high union ; and the pain 
 That wears my spirit down, breaks not its chain ; 
 No earthly power such bonds can e er untwine; 
 
 And I am thine, 
 
 As fondly, proudly thine in exile now, 
 As when thy diadem begirt my brow. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF REICHSTADT. 
 
 r EIR of that name 
 
 Which shook with sudden terror the far earth, 
 Child of strange destinies e en from thy birth, 
 When kings and princes round thy cradle came, 
 And gave their crowns, as playthings, to thine hand 
 Thine heritage the spoils of many a land ! 
 
 How were the schemes 
 Of human foresight baffled in thy fate, 
 Thou victim of a parent s lofty state ! 
 
 What glorious visions filled thy father s dreams, 
 When first he gazed upon thy infant face, 
 And deemed himself the Rodolph of his race !
 
 1 68 POEMS. 
 
 Scarce had thine eyes 
 
 Beheld the light of day, when thou wert bound 
 With power s vain symbols, and thy young brow crowned 
 
 With Rome s imperial diadem the prize 
 From priestly princes by thy proud sire won, 
 To deck the pillow of his cradled son. 
 
 Yet where is now 
 
 The sword that flashed as with a meteor light, 
 And led on half the world to stirring fight, 
 
 Bidding whole seas of blood and carnage flow ? 
 Alas ! when foiled on his last battle plain, 
 Its shattered fragments forged thy father s chain. 
 
 Far worse thy fate 
 
 Than that which doomed him to the barren rock ; 
 Through half the universe was felt the shock 
 
 When down he toppled from his high estate ; 
 And the proud thought of still acknowledged power, 
 Could cheer him e en in that disastrous hour. 
 
 But thou, poor boy, 
 
 Hadst no such dreams to cheat the lagging hours ; 
 Thy chains still galled, though wreathed with fairest 
 flowers ; 
 
 Thou hadst no images of by-past joy, 
 No visions of anticipated fame, 
 To bear thee through a life of sloth and shame. 
 
 And where was she 
 Whose proudest title was Napoleon s wife ?
 
 STANZAS. 169 
 
 She who first gave, and should have watched thy life, 
 
 Trebling a mother s tenderness for thee. 
 Despoiled heir of empire ! on her breast 
 Did thy young head repose in its unrest ? 
 
 No ! round her heart 
 
 Children of humbler, happier lineage twined ; 
 Thou couldst but bring dark memories to mind, 
 
 Of pageants where she bore a heartless part : 
 She who shared not her monarch-husband s doom, 
 Cared little for her first-born s living tomb. 
 
 Thou art at rest, 
 
 Child of Ambition s martyr ! Life had been 
 To thee no blessing, but a dreary scene 
 
 Of doubt and dread and suffering at the best ; 
 For thou wert one whose path in these dark times, 
 Must lead to sorrows it might be to crimes. 
 
 Thou art at rest ! 
 
 The idle sword has worn its sheath away, 
 The spirit has consumed its bonds of clay ; 
 
 And they who with vain tyranny comprest 
 Thy soul s high yearnings, now forget their fear, 
 And fling Ambition s purple o er thy bier !
 
 170 POEMS. 
 
 MADAME DE STAEL. 
 
 I HERE was no beauty on thy brow, 
 
 No softness in thine eye, 
 Thy cheek wore not the rose s glow, 
 Thy lip the ruby s dye ; 
 The charms that make a woman s pride 
 
 Have never been thine own ; 
 Heaven had to thee these gifts denied, 
 In which earth s bright ones shone. 
 
 Far higher, holier gifts were thine 
 
 Mind, intellect were given, 
 Till thou wert as a holy shrine, 
 
 Where men might worship Heaven. 
 Yes ; woman as thou wert, thy word 
 
 Could make the strong man start, 
 And thy lip s magic power has stirred 
 
 Ambition s iron heart. 
 
 The charm of eloquence ; the skill 
 
 To wake each secret string, 
 And from the bosom s chords at will 
 
 Life s mournful music bring ; 
 The o ermastering strength of mind, which sways 
 
 The haughty and the free, 
 Whose might earth s mightiest one obeys, 
 
 These these were given to thee. 
 
 Thou hadst a prophet s eye to pierce 
 The depths of man s dark soul,
 
 MADAME DE STAEL. 171 
 
 And bring back tales of passions fierce, 
 
 O er which its dim waves roll ; 
 And all too deeply hadst thou learned 
 
 The lore of woman s heart ; 
 The thoughts in thine own breast that burned, 
 
 Taught thee that mournful part. 
 
 Thine never was a woman s dower 
 
 Of tenderness and love ; 
 Thou couldst tame down the eagle s power, 
 
 But couldst not chain the dove. 
 O ! love is not for such as thee ; 
 
 The gentle and the mild, 
 The beautiful thus blest may be, 
 
 But never Fame s proud child. 
 
 When mid the halls of state alone, 
 
 In queenly "pride of place," 
 The majesty of mind thy throne, 
 
 Thy sceptre, mental grace, 
 Then was thy glory felt ; and thou 
 
 Didst triumph in that hour, 
 When men could turn from Beauty s brow 
 
 In tribute to thy power. 
 
 And yet a woman s heart was thine ; 
 
 Xo dream of fame can fill 
 The bosom which must vainly pine 
 
 For sweet Affection s thrill ; 
 And O ! what pangs thy spirit wrung 
 
 E en in thine hour of pride,
 
 172 POEMS. 
 
 When all could list Love s wooing tongue 
 Save thee, bright Glory s bride. 
 
 Corinna ! thine own hand has traced 
 
 Thy melancholy fate ; 
 Though by earth s noblest triumphs graced, 
 
 Bliss waits not on the great ; 
 Only in lowly places sleep 
 
 Life s flowers of sweet perfume, 
 And they who climb Fame s mountain steep 
 
 Must mourn their own high doom. 
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 
 
 SUFFER not a cloud thy brow to darken, 
 Nor let thy spirit in deep sadness hearken 
 
 To the low knell of thy departing hours ; 
 Thou shouldst not grieve that Time still onward fleeteth, 
 For when thy steps the kindly gray-beard meeteth, 
 
 He pauses there to fling his freshest flowers. 
 Measured by thought, thou art of patriarch age, 
 
 Measured by feeling, thou art yet a boy : 
 And as thou ponderest on life s o erpast page, 
 
 Thou seest each sorrow mated by a joy. 
 Why shouldst thou, then, at Time s swift flight repine, 
 When youth, and age, and hope, to bless thy years com 
 bine ?
 
 THE CONSUMPTIVE. 173 
 
 Wouldst thou recall thy dreams of early thought, 
 The wild pulsation of a heart o erwrought 
 
 With its vain yearnings for a vague ideal ? 
 Wouldst thou, again, crowd years into a day ? 
 Again resign thy soul to passion s sway, 
 
 And grasp at rainbow joys, bright but unreal? 
 Rather rejoice that Time could thus accord 
 
 His soothing power to still each fierce emotion, 
 And bless the Heaven-directed hand that poured 
 
 The oil of peace on youth s tempestuous ocean, 
 And pointed out a beacon light to guide 
 Thy richly-freighted bark safe o er the treacherous tide. 
 
 THE CONSUMPTIVE. 
 
 RING flowers, fresh flowers, the fairest spring 
 
 can yield 
 
 The poetry of earth, o er every field 
 Scattered in rich display ; 
 
 Bring flowers, fresh flowers, around my dying bed, 
 The sweetness of the sunny south to shed, 
 Ere I am called away. 
 
 Bring flowers, fresh flowers, from every sheltered glade ; 
 I know their brilliant beauties soon will fade 
 
 Beneath my feverish breath, 
 
 But their bright hues seem to my wondering thought 
 With promises of bliss and beauty fraught, 
 
 Winning my heart from death.
 
 1 74 POEMS. 
 
 Bring flowers, fresh flowers ; ere they again shall bloom 
 I shall be lying in the narrow tomb, 
 
 Mouldering in cold decay. 
 
 Bring flowers, fresh flowers, that I may cheer my heart 
 With pleasant images, ere I depart 
 
 To tread the grave s dark way. 
 
 Bring fruits, rich fruits, that blush on every bough 
 Bending above the traveller s weary brow, 
 
 And wooing him to taste ; 
 
 Bring fruits ; methinks I never knew how sweet 
 The joys that every day our senses greet, 
 
 Till now, in life s swift waste. 
 
 Bring fruits, rich fruits ; earth s fairest gifts are vain 
 To minister relief to the dull pain 
 
 That steals upon my heart. 
 
 Yet bring me fruits and flowers ; they still have power 
 To cheer, if not prolong life s little hour ; 
 
 Bring flowers ere I depart. 
 
 THE WIDOW S WOOER. 
 
 E woos me in the honeyed words 
 
 Which women love to hear, 
 Those gentle flatteries, that fall 
 So sweet on every ear ; 
 He tells me that my face is fair, 
 Too fair for grief to shade,
 
 THE WIDOWS WOOER. 175 
 
 My cheek, he says, was never meant 
 In sorrow s gloom to fade. 
 
 He stands beside me when I sing 
 
 The songs of other days, 
 And whispers in love s thrilling tones, 
 
 The words of heartfelt praise ; 
 And often in my eyes he looks 
 
 Some answering love to see ; 
 In vain he only there can read 
 
 The faith of memory. 
 
 He little knows what thoughts awake 
 
 With every gentle word, 
 How by his every tone the founts 
 
 Of tenderness are stirred ; 
 The visions of my youth return, 
 
 Joys far too bright to last, 
 And while he speaks of future bliss, 
 
 I think but of the past. 
 
 Like lamps in Eastern sepulchres, 
 
 Amid my heart s deep gloom 
 Affection sheds its only light 
 
 Upon my husband s tomb ; 
 And, as those lamps, if brought once more 
 
 To upper air, grow dim, 
 So my heart s love is cold and dead 
 
 Unless it glow for him.
 
 1 76 POEMS. 
 
 LINES 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND ON HER DEPARTURE FOR 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 [FAR, afar o er the dark blue tide, 
 To a distant home thou art borne, fair bride ; 
 We miss thy voice mid the tones of mirth 
 That waken around our cheerful hearth ; 
 There s a void in our social circle now, 
 We have lost the smile of thy sunny brow ; 
 Thou art gone from us, and we vainly sigh 
 For the pleasant light of thy loving eye. 
 
 Thou art gone from us, on the mighty sea, 
 Where the billows are rolling all tameless and free, 
 Thou art gazing now with unquailing eye 
 And unblenching cheek, for thy lover is nigh : 
 E en the quickened pulses of fear are stilled 
 When with deep devotion the heart is filled ; 
 And this has nerved thee, fair bride, to part 
 From the matchless love of a mother s heart. 
 
 A father with quivering lip may press 
 
 On thy snowy forehead his fond caress ; 
 
 A brother in sadness may say farewell 
 
 To the gentle being long loved so well ; 
 
 And a sister s eye may be dimmed with tears 
 
 To lose the friend of her early years ; 
 
 Yet time will the course of their feelings stem, 
 
 But a mother s feelings ! O, search not them.
 
 STANZAS, I 
 
 Thou art gone from us, and though love will keep 
 
 His vigils o er thee, we yet must weep : 
 
 We know that a blissful lot is thine, 
 
 V^et bereft of thy presence our hearts must pine. 
 
 Farewell, beloved one ; when far away 
 
 Through England s green valleys thy footsteps stray, 
 
 0, think of the friends who are praying for thee, 
 
 In thy native home o er the dark blue sea. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 " How have you thought of me ? " 
 
 O\V have I thought of thee? As flies 
 
 The dove to seek her mate, 
 Trembling lest some rude hand has made 
 Her sweet home desolate ; 
 Thus doth my bosom seek in thine 
 The only heart that throbs with mine. 
 
 How have I thought of thee ? As turns 
 
 The flower to meet the sun, 
 E en though, when clouds and storms arise, 
 
 It be not shone upon ; 
 Thus, dear one, in thine eye I see 
 The only light that beams for me. 
 
 How have I thought of thee ? As thinks 
 The mariner of home, 
 
 12
 
 178 POEMS. 
 
 When doomed o er many a weary waste 
 
 Of waters yet to roam ; 
 Thus doth my spirit turn to thee, 
 My guiding star o er life s wild sea. 
 
 How have I thought of thee ? As bends 
 
 The Persian at the shrine 
 Of his resplendent god to see 
 
 His earliest glories shine ; 
 Thus doth my spirit bow to thee, 
 My heart s own radiant deity. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 LOOKED on the face of the summer-decked 
 
 earth, 
 With its gorgeous herbage, its bright-hued 
 
 flowers, 
 And it smiled as fair as when first its birth 
 
 Marked young creation s hours : 
 But a cloud passed over the sunny sky, 
 And the wind arose with a wailing cry, 
 Like a feeble infant s half-uttered moan, 
 Yet gathering strength as it speeded on, 
 Till the trees that lifted their trunks so high, 
 Like columns supporting the vaulted sky, 
 Were borne like gossamer threads on the blast, 
 And earth was laid bare as the storm swept past.
 
 STANZAS. 179 
 
 I looked on the ocean ; each little wave 
 Leaped gladly up neath the sunny ray, 
 
 And the music hid in each secret cave 
 Awoke with its magic lay : 
 
 But the tempest arose with its voice of might 
 
 And summoned the waves to a fearful fight ; 
 
 Like evil spirits each dark cloud came, 
 
 Each hurling its red bolt of living flame. 
 
 Then wildly to combat the elements rushed, 
 
 Till, spent with its fury, the tempest was hushed ; 
 
 Nor left one trace of its madness behind, 
 
 Save the throb of the ocean, the wail of the wind. 
 
 I turned to look on a nobler sight 
 The glorious tablet of manhood s brow, 
 
 Still marked with the impress of Heaven s own light, 
 Though earth-stained and faded now. 
 
 That brow was writhed with its thoughts of pain, 
 
 And passion had swollen each starting vein ; 
 
 More fearful the light of that lurid eye 
 
 Than the flashing of swords as they gleam on high, 
 
 Till passion, tamed by itself, grew mild, 
 
 And the strong man wept like a wayward child. 
 
 O what is the madness of earth and seas, 
 
 To the fearful fury of storms like these ? 
 
 The tempests of nature at length find rest, 
 
 But when sleep the storms of the human breast ?
 
 180 POEMS. 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
 
 hast left us, and forever ! 
 The light of those sweet eyes 
 Will beam upon us never, 
 Till we meet above the skies. 
 Life s sunshine was around thee, 
 
 The world looked glad and bright, 
 And the ties of love that bound thee 
 
 Might have stayed thy spirit s flight ; 
 But the bonds that earth entwineth 
 
 Are all too weak to stay, 
 When the far-off heaven shineth, 
 The spirit s upward way. 
 
 Thou hast left us, and forever ! 
 
 Thy smile of quiet mirth, 
 Thy low, sweet voice shall never 
 
 Soothe our aching hearts on earth. 
 The joys thy presence cherished, 
 
 Like morning dreams have fled, 
 And many a fair hope perished 
 
 Upon thy narrow bed. 
 For the love that we have borne thee 
 
 Thy loss we needs must weep, 
 Yet, even while we mourn thee, 
 
 We envy thee thy sleep.
 
 THE LAST VIOLET. 181 
 
 THE LAST VIOLET. 
 
 I M weary of biding the pitiless blast, 
 I m weary of lingering the lonely, the last ; 
 Too long I have pined for the soft summer 
 
 shower, 
 
 And the sunbeam to waken each slumbering flower ; 
 Too long I have drooped o er the leaf-covered bed, 
 Where my kindred so early lay withered and dead. 
 
 In vain my rich treasures of fragrance I fling, 
 They mingle not now with the breezes of spring ; 
 Too rude are the rough blasts of winter to bear 
 Such perfume as gladdens the mild summer air ; 
 And the violet, the pride of the spring-time, soon dies 
 Unknown and unwept, neath December s dark skies. 
 
 ! better, far better twould be could I fade 
 Mid the clustering locks of some pitying maid ; 
 But I listen in vain for the echoing tread 
 
 Of the young and the gay round my verdureless bed, 
 And too long I have waited the hand that might save 
 My tempest-bowed form from a snow-hidden grave. 
 
 Thou art come, thou art come ; aye, I know thee now, 
 
 By the silent step and the thoughtful brow, 
 
 By the calm, sweet smile on the lip which tells 
 
 Of a soul that in peace and purity dwells : 
 
 By the tenderness glassed in the depths of thine eye, 
 
 1 know thou wilt not pass the last violet by.
 
 1 82 POEMS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 HEN mid the festive scene we meet, 
 
 To joyous bosoms dear, 
 Though other voices fall more sweet 
 Upon thy listening ear, 
 Yet scorn not thou my ruder tone ; 
 O ! think my heart is all thine own, 
 And love me still. 
 
 When o er young Beauty s cheek of rose 
 
 Thine eye delighted strays, 
 Half proud to watch the blush that glows 
 
 Beneath thine ardent gaze ; 
 O ! think that but for sorrow s blight 
 My pallid cheek had yet been bright, 
 
 And love me still. 
 
 LINES ON AN OLD PICTURE OF A MONKISH 
 STUDENT OF THE MIDDLE AGES. 
 
 IRAVE old Student ! oft ere now 
 I ve gazed upon thy placid brow, 
 And little thought thou wouldst have power 
 
 To cheer full many a languid hour ; 
 
 But now, while on my couch I rest, 
 
 With pain and weariness opprest, 
 
 Thy calm, still brow above me bends, 
 
 And seems like some familiar friend s.
 
 LINES ON AN OLD PICTURE. 183 
 
 Grave old Student, time has laid 
 A gentle hand upon thy head ; 
 That brow and form still wear the trace 
 Of manly beauty, early grace : 
 Thy hand is marked by time s dark stain, 
 And swoln is each blue starting vein, 
 Yet still a touch of beauty lingers 
 Upon those well-turned, slender fingers ; 
 That face just lifted from the page, 
 Though marked by the deep lines of age, 
 And furrowed, it may be, with cares, 
 Still intellect s high beauty wears. 
 
 Grave old Student, has thy mind 
 New and precious truths divined ? 
 Or art thou still pondering o er 
 Knowledge ofttimes conned before ? 
 Pure and hallowed thought lies hid 
 Neath thy dark eye s down-cast lid ; 
 Thou a rt one whom time has found 
 No mere cumberer of the ground. 
 
 Grave old Student, while I gaze 
 Fancy brings back other days, 
 When learning, hid in cloistered nook, 
 Beneath the stole concealed her book ; 
 But in thy time, although she wore 
 The trappings still of monkish lore, 
 She dared to throw the cowl aside, 
 And show unveiled her brow of pride.
 
 184 POEMS. 
 
 Grave old Student, when the trace 
 Of years is left upon my face, 
 When round my furrowed temples wave 
 The snowy blossoms of the grave, 
 Fain would I hope my changeful brow 
 May then be calm as thine is now. 
 But vain such hope ; life s wintry years 
 Seal not the source of woman s tears. 
 
 STANZAS TO A FRIEND AFTER A LONG 
 SEPARATION. 
 
 HEY tell me thou art cold and changed, they 
 
 say thou hast forgot 
 The friendship that once bound our hearts, ere 
 
 sorrow crossed thy lot ; 
 
 But when on thy familiar face I fix my saddened gaze, 
 And listen to thy well-known voice, the echo of past 
 
 days, 
 The pleasant memories of youth come thronging round 
 
 my heart, 
 
 I think but of the friend thou wert, and heed not what 
 thou art. 
 
 And yet I cannot deem thou art from friendship quite 
 
 estranged, 
 Not always are the feelings chilled when most the mien 
 
 is changed ;
 
 THE REFUSAL. 185 
 
 There is a sadness in thine eye, a shadow on thy brow, 
 Which tells me that the hand of care has done its work 
 
 ere now : 
 And who by common laws would judge the heart that 
 
 deeply^ grieves ? 
 What eye may penetrate the veil that silent sorrow 
 
 weaves ? 
 
 O ! when in after life the heart from hollow friendship 
 
 turns, 
 
 How often o er its early dreams in bitterness it yearns ! 
 How oft it pines with vain regret o er memories of the 
 
 past, 
 When all the gloom that dimmed its sky by April clouds 
 
 were cast ; 
 And then, when all too late, it learns how much more 
 
 holy truth 
 Than e er again can bless our lot, was in the love of 
 
 youth. 
 
 THE REFUSAL. 
 
 ;O, dearest one, not mine the hand 
 
 To bind thy free and tameless heart 
 In fetters which thou canst not break 
 When changeful fancy bids us part. 
 Be it my task alone to bear 
 
 The daily strengthening chain, 
 And thou mayst wreathe its links with flowers, 
 But never share its pain.
 
 1 86 POEMS. 
 
 The slender fibre which unites 
 
 The young peach blossom to the bough, 
 Is not more fragile than the tie 
 
 That binds our hearts together now ; 
 Yet better to be thus, for when 
 
 The tempest comes, as come it will, 
 It can but rend the fading flower, 
 
 The branch may flourish still. 
 
 HAPPINESS. 
 
 JOT in wealth s gorgeous hall, 
 Decked out in all art s costliest arraying, 
 Where, mid tall columns, silvery fountains play 
 ing 
 
 Upon the ear like music s echoes fall ; 
 The home of pomp, the daily haunt of pride 
 Not there not there, doth Happiness abide. 
 
 Not in the humble cot 
 
 Whose walls no ray of fortune s sunshine blesses, 
 Where the dull weight of penury oppresses 
 
 The hearts that wither neath their heavy lot ; 
 The home of want, too oft the den of guilt 
 Not there has Happiness her mansion built. 
 
 Not in the quiet nook 
 
 Where the pale student his lone watch is keeping, 
 While his high thoughts, the bounds of time o erleaping, 
 
 Forgetting earth, on things immortal look ;
 
 THE FORSAKEN. 187 
 
 The home of genius, wisdom s calm retreat 
 Not even there has Happiness her seat. 
 
 O ! seek her not on earth, 
 
 Where all the brightest hopes our hearts can cherish, 
 Like flowers in desert isles, are doomed to perish, 
 
 Unknown beyond the spot that gave them birth : 
 O ! ne er on earth can aught so fair find rest ; 
 Not here shall Happiness reward thy quest. 
 
 THE FORSAKEN. 
 
 " The cure is bitterer still." 
 
 FOR one hour, one blissful hour 
 || Like those my young heart knew, 
 When all my dreams of future joy 
 From love their coloring drew ; 
 I deemed affection then might be 
 The very life of life to me : 
 Alas ! twas source of every ill, 
 But yet, "The cure is bitterer still." 
 
 I loved ! O, fearful is the strength 
 
 Of woman s love, combined 
 With all the spirit s high-wrought powers, 
 
 The energies of mind : 
 Such deep devotedness as feels 
 The Indian when he humbly kneels 
 Before his idol s car to meet 
 A death of rapture at his feet
 
 1 88 POEMS. 
 
 Such love was mine, though fraught with ill ; 
 " The cure the cure is bitterer still." 
 
 O grief beyond all other griefs ! 
 
 To feel the slow decay 
 Of love and hope within the heart, 
 
 Ere youth be past away : 
 To know that life must henceforth be 
 A voyage o er a tideless sea, 
 No ebb or flow of hopes and fears 
 To vary the dull waste of years ; 
 O ! love may be life s chiefest ill, 
 But ah! The cure is bitterer still." 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 CHASE that dusky shadow from thy brow, 
 My own beloved one ! though a threatening 
 
 cloud 
 
 May seem the future scenes of life to shroud, 
 Though, like a way-benighted traveller, now 
 Thou wanderest on with painful steps and slow, 
 Yet thou dost bear a soul too high and proud 
 To be by earthly suffering crushed and bowed. 
 Bear up awhile ! E en as from every blow 
 That felled the fabled Titan to the earth, 
 
 He rose with strength redoubled to the strife,
 
 STANZAS.. 189 
 
 So shall thou find thy very griefs give birth 
 
 To strength sufficient for the ills of life ; 
 Thou st stood unblenched mid passion s fearful war, 
 Then let not sorrow now thy soul s bright sunshine mar. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 TWAS but for thy sake I taught 
 
 My harp a louder tone, 
 
 And checked its low-breathed murmurs fraught 
 With love for thee alone ; 
 Thou badest me with a bolder hand 
 
 Awake a lofty strain, 
 And when, dear love, did thy command 
 Fall on my ear in vain ? 
 
 Yet hard the task ; each trembling string 
 
 Was formed but to express 
 The gentle thoughts from love that spring, 
 
 The dreams of tenderness ; 
 They cannot breathe of dark remorse, 
 
 Of souls untamed and wild, 
 Of passions to whose fearful force 
 
 The tempest s wrath is mild. 
 
 But of the pure and stainless soul 
 
 That keeps its onward way, 
 Though storms and clouds before it roll, 
 
 And lightnings round it play,
 
 190 POEMS. 
 
 The soul that with an eagle s wing 
 Soars up to truth s bright beam 
 
 Of such, beloved one, I may sing 
 For thou art then my theme. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 queenly Night approaches, her dark 
 robe 
 
 Gemmed thick with stars ; and, while her gen 
 tle touch 
 
 Opens the sun-sealed fountains of the dew, 
 Her fragrant breath is passing o er the earth, 
 Closing the flowers in slumber. Beautiful, 
 And strong as beautiful art thou. The child 
 Who lifts his tiny hands in joy to see 
 The crescent on thy brow, is not more fair; 
 And the stern king at whose dread name men shrink, 
 Is scarce more powerful. Thy soft whisper lulls 
 Whole cities to forgetfulness, and sheds 
 The sweets of slumber o er the armed host 
 No less than o er the busy insect tribes 
 That hum their hour away ; till silence reigns 
 Unmoved, save by the melancholy song 
 Old Ocean wakes within his hollow caves. 
 
 Night, queenly Night, like woman s holy love, 
 Thy blessed influence breathes on all around,
 
 BYRON IN THE CERTOSA CEMETERY. 19 1 
 
 And fills the earth with gentleness and peace. 
 
 O ! who, while gazing on thy placid brow, 
 
 Thou first-born of eternity ! can feel 
 
 The weight of earthly vanities ? Tis thine 
 
 To loose the fetters which the world has twined 
 
 Around the spirit s eagle wings, and give 
 
 Free flight to daring thought, till the proud soul 
 
 O erleaps the narrow bounds of time and sense 
 
 To pierce the glorious mysteries of Heaven. 
 
 BYRON IN THE CERTOSA CEMETERY. 
 
 " I found such a pretty epitaph, or rather two ; one was, Martini Luigi, itn- 
 plora pace. The other Lucrezia Picini, implora eterna quiete. That was all, but 
 it appeared to me that these two or three words comprise and compress all that can 
 be said on the subject. They contain doubt, hope, and humility. Let me have the 
 Implora pace, and nothing else, for my epitaph." 
 
 Letter of Byron to Mr. Hoppner in 1819. 
 
 ;M FLORA PACE!" tis the cry 
 
 Of some meek child of want and care 
 Whose life has been a long, long sigh, 
 A weary struggle with despair. 
 " Implora Pace ! " tis the prayer 
 
 Low breathed from out a contrite heart, 
 When, turning from the things that are, 
 Through death s dark shadows to depart. 
 
 " Implora Pace ! " hark ! the groan 
 
 Bursts from the quivering lip of one
 
 192 POEMS. 
 
 Who proudly stands on earth alone, 
 
 Mid many stars the only sun. 
 He bends above the lonely tomb ; 
 
 Dark thoughts have dimmed his flashing eye, 
 His brow wears sorrow s heaviest gloom ; 
 
 Then list his agonizing cry : 
 
 " Implora Pace ! I have quaffed 
 
 From pleasure s wine-cup mantling high, 
 But never in the maddening draught 
 
 Was found the peace for which I sigh. 
 In love, earth s best deceit, I sought 
 
 The rest for which my bosom pined ; 
 With bliss, deep bliss, the dream was fraught, 
 
 Its madness still remains behind. 
 
 "Implora Pace! I have lun 
 
 With speed unslackened glory s race ; 
 In the world s wondering sight have won 
 
 Its bays my boyish brow to grace ; 
 My name is heard from every tongue, 
 
 My words on every heart imprest, 
 My strains in every clime are sung, 
 
 Yet fame brings not my spirit rest. 
 
 " Implora Pace ! I have tried 
 
 All that earth knows of joy or pain, 
 Its bliss, its woe, its hopes, its pride, 
 All, all alike, are worse than vain. 
 Withered and old in heart I stand 
 Upon the brink of death s dark wave,
 
 STANZAS ON READING "CORINNA." 193 
 
 And hope, aye hope no better land 
 Awaits the soul beyond the grave. 
 
 " Implora Pace ! all I seek 
 
 Is rest the soul s eternal rest. 
 Thou mouldering clay beneath me, speak ! 
 
 Say, will death satisfy my quest ? 
 Thou canst not tell I dare not think 
 
 Child-like at phantom forms I quake ; 
 Yet fain of death s dark stream would drink, 
 
 My feverish spirit s thirst to slake." 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 WRITTEN" AFTER THE SECOND READING OF " CORINNA." 
 
 CHILDHOOD S glad smile was on my lip, life s 
 
 sunshine on my brow, 
 When first I looked upon the page that lies 
 
 before me now ; 
 Twas mystery all I had not learned the love of 
 
 woman s heart, 
 
 No meaning to my spirit could its thrilling words im 
 part. 
 
 Years fleeted on ; the sunny smile had faded from 
 
 my face, 
 Upon my brow was graved the sign which pain alone 
 
 can trace ; 
 13
 
 194 POEMS. 
 
 Youth still was mine, but not the youth of childhood s 
 
 laughing day, 
 Youth still was mine, but early hope and joy had passed 
 
 away. 
 
 O, then no mystery was the page that told Corinna s 
 
 woe, 
 Too deeply had my spirit learned such bitter truth to 
 
 know ; 
 Mine own wild heart ! did I not read thy secret sorrow 
 
 there, 
 Thy lofty dreams, thy fervent love, thy bliss, and thy 
 
 despair ? 
 
 Feelings that long had wrestled on within my inmost 
 soul, 
 
 Thoughts that had ne er found voice, and dreams that 
 spurned at truth s control, 
 
 Love far too pure and deep to pour on aught of mor 
 tal mould, 
 
 All that my heart so long had hid, Corinna s passion 
 told. 
 
 O ! none but woman s tongue such tales of woman s 
 
 heart could tell, 
 
 Its varied perils when the tides of passion wildly swell, 
 Its hopes, its fears, its visions wild, its weakness, and 
 
 its power 
 The reed when wooed by zephyr s breath, the oak when 
 
 tempests lower.
 
 TO MY SISTER. 195 
 
 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 " Her lot is on you, silent tears to weep, 
 
 And patient smiles to wear in suffering s hour, 
 And sumless riches from affection s deep, 
 
 To pour on broken reeds a wasted shower, 
 To make them idols and to find them clay, 
 And to bewail that worship therefore pray ! 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 , mark the strain, sweet sister watch and 
 
 Wean thy young, stainless heart from earthly 
 
 things ; 
 
 O, wait not thou, till life s bright morning ray 
 Only o er blighted hopes its radiance flings, 
 But give to Heaven thy sinless spirit now, 
 Ere sorrow s tracery mar that placid brow. 
 
 Sinless and pure thou art, yet is thy soul 
 
 Filled with a maiden s vague and pleasant dreams ; 
 
 Sweet fantasies that mock at thought s control, 
 Like atoms round thee float in fancy s beam ; 
 
 But trust them not, young dreamer, bid them flee ; 
 
 They have deceived all others, and will thee. 
 
 Well can I read thy dreams ; thy gentle heart 
 
 (Already woman s in its wish to bless) 
 Now longs for one to whom it may impart 
 
 Its untold wealth of hidden tenderness, 
 And pants to know the meaning of the thrill 
 That wakes when fancy stirs affection s rill.
 
 196 POEMS. 
 
 Thou dreamest, too, of happiness the deep 
 And placid joy which poets paint so well : 
 
 Alas ! man s passions, even when they sleep, 
 
 Like ocean s waves are heaved with secret swell, 
 
 And they who hear the frequent, low-breathed sigh, 
 
 Know tis the wailing of the storm gone by. 
 
 Vain, vain are all such visions ! couldst thou know 
 The secrets of a woman s weary lot 
 
 O ! couldst thou read upon her pride-veiled brow, 
 Her wasted tenderness, her love forgot, 
 
 In humbleness of heart thou wouldst kneel down, 
 
 And pray for strength to wear her martyr crown. 
 
 But thou wilt do as all have done before, 
 
 And make thy heart for earthly gods a shrine, 
 
 There all affection s priceless treasures pour, 
 
 There hope s best flowers in votive garlands twine ; 
 
 And thou wilt meet the recompense all must 
 
 Who place in earthly love their faith and trust. 
 
 TO MY FIRST-BORN. 
 
 2Y own, my child, with strange delight I look 
 
 upon thy face, 
 And press thee to my throbbing heart in a 
 
 mother s fond embrace ; 
 
 Each breath that stirs thy little frame can a thrill of joy 
 impart,
 
 TO MY FIRST-BORN. 197 
 
 And the clasp of thy tiny hand is felt like a pulse 
 
 within my heart. 
 
 Thy little life lies but within the compass of a dream, 
 And yet how changed does every scene of my existence 
 
 seem ! 
 
 For over e en its dreariest path in freshening gushes roll 
 Feelings that long, like hidden springs, slept darkly in 
 
 my soul. 
 
 My own, my child, what magic power is in that simple 
 
 word ! 
 The very depths of tenderness by its sweet sound are 
 
 stirred, 
 And, like Bethesda s heaven-blessed pool, give out a 
 
 healing power ; 
 For how can sorrow dwell with thee, fair creature of an 
 
 hour ? 
 Though from my breast had died away each spark of 
 
 hope s pure flame, 
 Though pain and anguish wrung my heart as erst they 
 
 racked my frame, 
 Yet would each pang seem light compared with the 
 
 deep rapturous glow 
 That thrilled each nerve when first I gazed upon thy 
 
 baby brow. 
 
 My own, my child, fain would I draw the shadowy veil 
 
 that shrouds 
 
 The future from my view, with all its sunshine and its 
 clouds, 
 
 To learn what storms must gather yet around thy sin 
 less head,
 
 198 POEMS. 
 
 And gaze upon the varied path which thou through life 
 
 must tread. 
 It may not be ! no human skill these mysteries may 
 
 divine, 
 The God who led my erring steps will surely watch 
 
 o er thine ; 
 Enough if to thy mother s hand the blessed power be 
 
 given, 
 To shield thy heart from passion s strife and fix its 
 
 hope on Heaven. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 : Je serai enchante, si ma chfere amie me presente de nouveaux vers." 
 
 |F it be true, as some have said, 
 
 That they who court the muses smile 
 Must ne er allow the joys of earth 
 Their feelings to beguile ; 
 If it be true that love ne er blooms 
 
 For those who to such gifts aspire, 
 That they must joy but in the song, 
 
 Must live but for the lyre, 
 Then surely, dear one, I may not 
 E er hope to share a poet s lot. 
 
 If it be true, as some have said, 
 
 That they who rove in fancy s bowers, 
 
 Must never turn their steps aside 
 To pluck earth s fragile flowers ;
 
 STANZAS. 199 
 
 If it be true that they must yield 
 
 The treasures of affection s mine, 
 And all the spirit s high-wrought powers 
 
 To deck the muses shrine, 
 Then surely ne er for me can glow 
 The wreath that binds the poet s brow. 
 
 If it be true, as some have said, 
 
 That love is all a woman s power, 
 That tenderness and truth alone 
 
 Are woman s richest dower ; 
 If it be true that though she ne er 
 
 May win the meed of deathless fame, 
 She yet may teach some gentle heart 
 
 To treasure up her name, 
 Then tell me, dear one, may I not 
 Contented share a woman s lot? 
 
 If it be true, as some have said, 
 
 That woman s heart alone can teach 
 The way to that pure happiness 
 
 Which genius scarce may reach, 
 If this be true, O ! ask me not 
 
 To seek a poet s lofty name ; 
 I would not give my cherished love 
 
 To win undying fame, 
 And dearer far one smile from thee 
 Than hopes of immortality.
 
 200 POEMS. 
 
 STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER. 
 
 SEEP for the dead ! tis meet that tears should 
 
 consecrate the spot 
 Where sleep the loves of better years, the hopes 
 
 that cheered our lot ; 
 When the once peopled heart is left all desolate and 
 
 lone, 
 
 Tis meet that tears should gem the trace of each de 
 parted one ; 
 Yet not in hopeless grief we mourn, we know that 
 
 they are blest, 
 
 " Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary 
 are at rest." 
 
 Weep for the dead! a vacant place is left beside our 
 hearth, 
 
 We miss a low and gentle voice with its tones of quiet 
 mirth ; 
 
 The meek and placid face that seemed a moonlight ray 
 to shed, 
 
 Now, veiled forever from our view, rests with the dream 
 less dead ; 
 
 Yet not in hopeless grief we mourn -that spotless 
 soul is blest, 
 
 " Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary 
 are at rest."
 
 STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER. 201 
 
 Weep for the dead ! as summer showers refresh the 
 thirsting earth, 
 
 So on the scathed heart fall the tears that mourn de 
 parted worth ; 
 
 And virtues, all unseen before, neath their pure influ 
 ence rise, 
 
 As summer s fairest flowers are nursed by April s weep 
 ing skies. 
 
 Surely the dead may claim our tears, e en though we 
 know them blest, 
 
 " Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary 
 are at rest." 
 
 Weep for the dead ! the bounteous God who gave us 
 
 hearts to feel, 
 Meant not that we their hidden founts of tenderness 
 
 should seal ; 
 How could we learn our mighty debt of gratitude to 
 
 pay 
 For blessings left, if nought we recked of blessings 
 
 snatched away ? 
 Yes! we may weep the sainted dead, e en though we 
 
 know them blest, 
 " Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary 
 
 are at rest."
 
 POEMS. 
 
 THE WIFE S SONG. 
 
 HEY told me that, when time had sped on 
 
 rapid wing away, 
 Such fervent tenderness as mine must sink by 
 
 slow decay ; 
 
 That, springing thus mid earth-born cares, love s pre 
 cious buds would fade ; 
 Such passion flowers were all too frail to bear the 
 
 world s cold shade. 
 
 It may be so with some ; my love is like that north 
 ern flower 1 
 Which blooms in beauty though unnursed by sun, or 
 
 earth, or shower ; 
 
 The breath of heaven is all it needs to call it into life, 
 As heedless of the summer sky as of the tempest s strife. 
 
 They told me that when days had passed, and found 
 
 my task the same, 
 
 On the Penates lowly shrine to trim the sacred flame, 
 And to that humble service bend the spirit that of yore 
 Within the muses glorious fane was wont its gifts to 
 
 pour 
 They told me I would spurn the toil, and grieve that 
 
 I had turned 
 From the high dreams of fame with which my youthful 
 
 fancy burned ; 
 They little know that pleasant toil has given my soul 
 
 new power 
 To realize the dreams it formed in youth s enchanted hour. 
 
 1 The Air Plant.
 
 ADIEU OF THE EMPRESS AMELIA. 203 
 
 They told me that when time had made my bosom s 
 
 idol seem 
 
 Familiar to my daily sight as to my nightly dream, 
 That charm by charm would be dispelled, and my sick 
 
 heart would pine 
 For those high attributes which once it fondly fancied 
 
 thine ; 
 
 It may be so with some, but I could tell another tale ; 
 I would but point to thee, and show how fancy s tints 
 
 may fail, 
 And teach them that full many a year of wedded love 
 
 may be 
 Still marked by all the fervent faith of youth s idolatry. 
 
 ADIEU OF THE EMPRESS AMELIA OF BRAZIL 
 TO THE INFANT EMPEROR. 
 
 The following stanzas are little more than a poetical version of the farewell which 
 the Empress is said to have uttered by the couch of her adopted son, the infant Em 
 peror, who was lying asleep when the ex-Imperial family embarked to place them 
 selves under the protection of an English ship of war. 
 
 AREWELL, farewell, child of my love joy of 
 
 mine eyes, farewell ! 
 Thou canst not know the bitter pangs that in 
 
 my bosom swell ; 
 Thou sleepest, while above thy couch my deep lament 
 
 I pour, 
 
 Thou sleepest ah ! my lip shall greet thy wakening 
 smile no more !
 
 204 POEMS. 
 
 Calmly thou liest, my beautiful how strangely doth 
 
 Heaven show 
 Its power by such weak instruments to work our weal 
 
 or woe ; 
 
 Thou liest in infant helplessness, yet on that baby brow 
 Ere long the splendors of a crown, earth s deadliest 
 
 gift, must glow. 
 
 A throne is thine, and yet how sweet thy cradled rest, 
 my boy ! 
 
 A crown is thine yet in thy hand is grasped a sim 
 ple toy ; 
 
 The robe of royalty is but an infant s mantle now, 
 
 The ruler of a mighty realm a helpless babe art thou ! 
 
 ! wert thou mine by nature s right as well as love s 
 
 strong claim, 
 
 Couldst thou but lisp, in holy truth, a mother s sacred 
 name, 
 
 No power on earth should turn my feet, beloved one, 
 from thy side, 
 
 Still would I live thy menial slave if all else were de 
 nied. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! Heaven never gave so rich a boon to me ; 
 My duty to my lord is vowed how can he turn from 
 thee? 
 
 1 go, his lone and weary life of exiled grief to share, 
 To find a home in foreign climes a home ! and 
 
 thou not there !
 
 ADIEU OF THE EMPRESS AMELIA. 205 
 
 Brazilian mothers ! ye who bend o er your fair boys 
 with love, 
 
 As o er her tender nursling broods the patient turtle 
 dove, 
 
 O ! bless the Power that gave you sons of humbler, 
 happier birth, 
 
 And take the crowned orphan boy home to your hearts 
 and hearth. 
 
 Strew o er his couch the fadeless leaves of Freedom s 
 stately tree, 
 
 And, when the crown upon his brow a weary weight 
 shall be, 
 
 Then twine the sweet vanilla bud, the rose, the jas 
 mine fair, 
 
 A diadem of nature s gems best suits that golden hair. 
 
 Far from his cradled slumbers chase the dark-winged 
 
 bird of prey, 
 The viper, and, more poisonous still, the courtier chase 
 
 away ; 
 And should foul treason rear its crest, then rouse all 
 
 to the field, 
 Valor s strong arm his sure defense, woman s soft breast 
 
 his shield. 
 
 Teach his young lips the voice of love, of mercy, and 
 
 of truth, 
 Teach him on Freedom s holy shrine to consecrate his 
 
 youth ;
 
 206 FOE MS. 
 
 Teach him to love his own fair land, and let his boy 
 ish glee 
 
 Be sometimes saddened by a thought, a yearning thought 
 of me. 
 
 Pure, beautiful as Eve s first-born, I give him to your 
 
 care ; 
 The germ of future bliss or woe, a nation s hope is 
 
 there. 
 He slumbers still ; O ! wake him not ! his look would 
 
 rend my heart ; 
 His lips are bright with sunny smiles he smiles, and 
 
 I depart ! 
 
 Farewell, young victim ! thou wert born too noble to be 
 blest ; 
 
 A peasant boy might still repose upon his mother s 
 breast, 
 
 But thou, poor orphaned Emperor ! O words are vain 
 to tell 
 
 Thy mother s mortal agony ! one kiss beloved, fare 
 well ! 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE SUMMER FRIENDS WHOM 
 I MET AT WEST POINT. 
 
 S>E shall meet no more on the green hill-side, 
 
 We shall gaze no more on the wild cascade, 
 Nor e er shall our feet range far and wide 
 The rugged cliff and the sunny glade ;
 
 FAREWELL TO FRIENDS. 207 
 
 We shall look not again on the glorious sun, 
 As he wends his way to the glowing west, 
 
 And pauses to smile, ere his task is done, 
 On a scene so fair, as he sinks to rest. 
 
 We shall roam not again by the mountain stream, 
 
 As it dashes down on its rocky way, 
 Through the deep, dark glen where the sun s glad beam 
 
 Scarce touches its wave with a noontide ray ; 
 We shall meet no more on the mountain height 
 
 Where the mouldering fort in its ruin stands, 
 While our hearts are thrilling with proud delight 
 
 As we think on the deeds of our patriot bands. 
 
 We shall wander no more amid nature s wealth, 
 
 The gold- broidered field and the silver rill ; 
 We shall meet not again as we woo sweet health 
 
 In the shady dell, on the breezy hill ; 
 Like the passing shade on the mountain s brow, 
 
 Which fleets with the cloud that gave it birth, 
 Are the joys that in this world around us glow, 
 
 And the transient friendships of changing earth.
 
 208 POEMS. 
 
 LINES ON HEARING MY CHILDREN SING. 
 
 HOSE clear, ringing voices ! how simple the spell 
 That sends my sad thoughts, prisoned, back to 
 
 their cell ! 
 
 Dark phantoms of ill cease around me to throng 
 While I list to the tones of my children s sweet song. 
 
 Not an impulse to-day in my chilled heart had stirred, 
 Yet how wildly it bounds to each innocent word ! 
 The stream of affection seemed frozen for aye, 
 But already the ice chains are melting away. 
 
 Those clear, ringing voices ! my lone bosom feels 
 New hopes spring to life as the melody steals 
 On the calm evening breeze, and I hail it a token 
 Of joys yet to come, of sweet ties all unbroken. 
 
 Alas ! for the heart with its fond, foolish trust, 
 And its hopes that are born but to crumble to dust ! 
 Full many a joy that my young heart once cherished, 
 Like violets in winter, have budded and perished. 
 
 Those clear, ringing voices ! I could not live on 
 Mid the discords of earth if those voices were gone, 
 Yet I tremble when listening to echoes so glad, 
 For life s music must ever be dirge-like and sad.
 
 A LAMENT. 209 
 
 A LAMENT. 
 
 | ER the wide waters of the swelling sea, 
 
 Whose mystic music once I loved to hear, 
 But whose low moaning now must ever be 
 The voice of death and sorrow to mine ear, 
 Echoed by many a wild and restless wave, 
 I pour my wail above a brother s grave. 
 
 Not on the lap of gentle mother earth, 
 
 Whose worn and wearied children come to lay 
 
 Their aching heads on her who gave them birth, 
 Glad to forget life s long and toilsome day 
 
 Not on her quiet bosom didst thou close 
 
 Thine eyes, my brother, in their last repose. 
 
 Thine was a death of agony a brief 
 
 And mortal struggle with the foaming deep ; 
 
 Yet, while we mourn with unavailing grief, 
 
 Thou, pillowed on the shifting surge, dost sleep 
 
 As tranquilly as if spring s earliest bloom 
 
 Was showered in roses on thy early tomb. 
 
 I weep for thee ; but wherefore ? Thou didst drink 
 One draught of bitterness, then put aside 
 
 The cup forever ; better thus to sink 
 
 Beneath the raging ocean s whelming tide, 
 
 Than live till cares had gnawed thy heart away, 
 
 And left thee nought to hope for but decay. 
 14
 
 ro POEMS. 
 
 What is our life ? I know not but I feel 
 That tis a scene of suffering at the best ; 
 
 Nor know I what is death yet when I kneel 
 In prayer to Heaven, I hope that death is rest ; 
 
 O ! then how selfish are the tears we shed 
 
 Upon the grave of the untimely dead ! 
 
 And yet thou wert so full of hope, so young, 
 Thy visions of the future were so bright, 
 
 Joy s mirthful accents ever on thy tongue, 
 
 And pleasure lending to thine eye its light 
 
 O ! why wert thou thus snatched away, ere truth 
 
 Had blent its bitter with the sweet of youth ? 
 
 It may have been in mercy it may be 
 That thou wert taken from the ill to come ; 
 
 The hollow murmur of the moaning sea 
 
 I fain would deem thy welcome to a home ; 
 
 And though my heart may inly bleed, no more 
 
 My wild repinings would I idly pour. 
 
 Thou art at rest! the peace for which all pine 
 Through many an hour of weariness and woe, 
 
 Too soon, perhaps, for thy young hopes, is thine : 
 And, though my selfish tears for thee may flow, 
 
 The Power that stays the mighty deep can still 
 
 The restless murmurs of my wayward will.
 
 STANZAS TO A FRIEND. 
 STANZAS 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND ON HER MARRIAGE. 
 
 O voice but that of gladness 
 
 Should meet thine ear to-day, 
 Yet only in deep sadness 
 Can I love s tribute pay ; 
 Unbidden tears are springing, 
 
 Their source thy heart can tell : 
 Of joy I should be singing, 
 I can but sigh Farewell ! 
 
 When from life s fairy garland 
 
 Has fallen a precious gem, 
 Can I smile to see it glisten 
 
 In another s diadem ? 
 Could I hear thy deep vow spoken 
 
 Without a thought of pain, 
 When I felt the best link broken 
 
 In friendship s golden chain ? 
 
 Yet mine is selfish sorrow, 
 
 Which love should hush to rest, 
 And my heart should solace borrow 
 
 From the thought that thou art blest ; 
 Where hope once claimed dominion, 
 
 Joy holds his revel bright, 
 And thy spirit s drooping pinion 
 
 Waxes strong in love s pure light.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 I know that thou art happy ! 
 
 O may affection s glass 
 With its diamond sparkles measure 
 
 Life s changes as they pass. 
 Could friendship s gentle magic 
 
 Rule thy horoscope of doom, 
 Not a moment e er should meet thee 
 
 In sadness or in gloom. 
 
 Farewell, farewell, beloved one, 
 
 Though destined far to roam, 
 When thoughts come crowding on thee 
 
 Of thy distant native home 
 The home from whence has vanished 
 
 One dear familiar face, 
 And the hearth whence joy was banished 
 
 When thou left a vacant place 
 
 When memory s mournful music 
 
 Awakes thy pleasant tears, 
 O ! let one chord still vibrate 
 
 To the friend of early years. 
 I ve loved thee in thy sorrow, 
 
 I ll love thee still in joy : 
 Time could not change our friendship, 
 
 Shall absence it destroy ?
 
 STANZAS TO MY FATHER. 213 
 
 TO MY PARENTS. 
 
 he who, travelling through a lengthened day, 
 Reaches at summer eve some green hill-side, 
 1 And, looking back, sees veiled in twilight gray 
 The dreary path through which he lately hied, 
 While o er his onward path the setting sun 
 
 Sheds its sweet light on every wilding flower, 
 Till he forgets the weary labors done 
 
 And his heart tastes the quiet of the hour, 
 Father and mother ! be it thus with you ! 
 
 While memory s pleasant twilight shades the past, 
 May hope illume the path you still pursue, 
 
 And each new scene seem brighter than the last ; 
 Thus wending on t wards sunset ye may find 
 Life s lengthening shadows ever cast behind. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 ADDRESSED TO MY FATHER ON NEW YEAR S DAY. 
 
 EAR not, dear father, looks of gloom upon this 
 
 festal day, 
 Nor yield thy soul to pensive thoughts when 
 
 all around are gay ; 
 Why shouldst thou pause and sadly gaze through time s 
 
 dim vista back, 
 
 When so much sunshine gathers yet above thine on 
 ward track ?
 
 214 FORMS. 
 
 What though the sun of life declines from its meridian 
 height, 
 
 Since thus it sheds upon thy path a softer, mellower 
 light ? 
 
 Across its morning beam full oft the tempest cloud was 
 driven, 
 
 But all undimmed is now the ray that lights thy even 
 ing heaven. 
 
 O, look not on these festive hours as monitors unkind, 
 That mark how much of life s short road thy steps 
 
 have left behind ; 
 Rather, like green and shady spots along our weary 
 
 way, 
 They offer rest to those who bear the burden of the 
 
 day. 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 "The Lord will bless his people with peace." 
 
 SEEK her not in marble halls of pride, 
 |j Where gushing fountains fling their silver tide, 
 Their wealth of freshness toward the summer 
 
 sky; 
 
 The echoes of a palace are too loud, 
 They but give back the footsteps of the crowd, 
 
 Who throng about some idol throned on high, 
 Whose ermined robe and pomp of rich array, 
 But serve to hide the false one s feet of clay.
 
 PEACE. 215 
 
 Nor seek her form in poverty s low vale, 
 
 Where, touched by want, the bright cheek waxes pale, 
 
 And the heart faints with sordid cares opprest ; 
 Where pining discontent has left its trace 
 Deep and abiding in each haggard face. 
 
 Not there, not there Peace builds her halcyon nest : 
 Wild revel scares her from wealth s towering dome, 
 And misery frights her from a lowly home. 
 
 Nor dwells she in the cloister, where the sage 
 Ponders the mystery of some time-stained page, 
 
 Delving with feeble hand the classic mine ; 
 O, who can tell the restless hope of fame, 
 The bitter yearnings for a deathless name, 
 
 That round the student s heart like serpents twine ! 
 Ambition s fever burns within his breast ; 
 Can Peace, sweet Peace, abide with such a guest ? 
 
 Search not within the city s crowded mart, 
 Where the low, whispered music of the heart 
 
 Is all unheard amid the clang of gold ; 
 O ! never yet did Peace her chaplet twine 
 To lay upon base mammon s sordid shrine, 
 
 Where earth s most precious things are bought and 
 
 sold ; 
 
 Thrown on that pile, the " pearl of price " would be 
 Despised, because unfit for merchantry. 
 
 Go ! hie thee to God s altar ; kneeling there, 
 List to the mingled voice of fervent prayer 
 
 That swells around thee in the sacred fane, 
 Or catch the solemn organ s pealing note
 
 POEMS. 
 
 When grateful praises on the still air float, 
 
 And the freed soul forgets earth s heavy chain; 
 And learn that Peace, sweet Peace, is always found 
 In her eternal home on holy ground. 
 
 THE FAREWELL. 
 
 P E met as strangers, lady, not as strangers do 
 
 we part ; 
 Long will thy memory remain enshrined within 
 
 my heart ; 
 
 Else would not these unbidden tears beneath mine eye 
 lids swell, 
 
 As standing on the pebbly shore, I breathe my sad 
 farewell. 
 
 We met as strangers, but that heart must be as winter 
 
 cold, 
 Which asks revolving years before love s blossoms can 
 
 unfold ; 
 A look, a word, a simple tone, oft wakes the spirit s 
 
 strings, 
 And calls forth all the melody from sympathy that 
 
 springs. 
 
 The chambers of mine imagery an added treasure show ; 
 Thy graceful form is pictured there, thy calm and cloud 
 less brow :
 
 THE THOUGHTLESS WORD, 217 
 
 Traced by affection s skillful hand, illumed by memory s 
 
 light, 
 Fadeless those tints will still be found when years 
 
 have sped their flight. 
 
 O ! dark indeed would be this world, did we not some 
 times find 
 
 That best of all earth s fairy gifts, a gentle kindred 
 mind ; 
 
 And though we only meet to part, yet pleasant thoughts 
 remain 
 
 To cheer our onward path when time has strewed that 
 path with pain. 
 
 Farewell, sweet friend ; I speak the word with vain but 
 
 fond regret ; 
 It may be long ere we shall meet again as we have 
 
 met ; 
 
 But at the quiet evening hour, O ! let my memory seem 
 The half traced image of a past and not unpleasing 
 
 dream. 
 
 THE THOUGHTLESS WORD. 
 
 " Why should you weep at a thoughtless word ? " 
 
 HEN like a fairy scene in youth 
 
 The untried world is spread before us, 
 When fancy wears the garb of truth, 
 And sunny skies are smiling o er us,
 
 2l8 POEMS. 
 
 When never yet one thought of woe 
 The heart s deep tenderness has stirred, 
 
 How little then our spirits know 
 The evils of a thoughtless word. 
 
 When one by one our joys depart, 
 
 When hope no more each bright hour measures, 
 When like a Niobe the heart 
 
 Sits lonely mid its perished treasures, 
 When far from human aid we turn, 
 
 The voice of comfort rarely heard, 
 O then how bitterly we learn 
 
 The anguish of a thoughtless word. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE SOME VERSES, AT A BRIDAL 
 PARTY. 
 
 NEVER mid the lighted halls 
 
 Where glad and gay ones throng, 
 Upon my wayward spirit falls 
 The gentle power of song ; 
 For there too much of brightness dwells, 
 
 Too much of reckless mirth, 
 And fancy will not weave her spells 
 Amid the scenes of earth. 
 
 The voice of pleasure in my heart 
 Awakes an answering tone,
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN IN A BIBLE. 219 
 
 But, when those joyous sounds depart, 
 
 The echo, too, is gone ; 
 Tis only o er my lonely hours 
 
 Bright dreams of beauty come ; 
 Then cloth my harp awake its powers, 
 
 To cheer my quiet home. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BIBLE PRESENTED 
 TO A BRIDE. 
 
 T mine the gift 
 
 Of glittering gem or gold, by sordid hands 
 Dug from the dirty mine. I would not be 
 Remembered only in thy festal hours, 
 Recalled to mind by some bright jewel s flash, 
 As, decked in fashion s costliest array, 
 Thou threadest the mazes of the giddy dance 
 I would be linked with holier memories. 
 When, in reflection s lonely hour, thy heart 
 Turns from the turmoil of the busy world 
 To commune with itself, then let my gift 
 Be thy companion. Earthly friends may fail, 
 The voice of sympathy may cease to pour 
 Its music in the leaden ear of sorrow, 
 Yet in this casket wilt thou find a balm 
 For every suffering. As thou ponderest o er 
 The precious truths of God s most holy book,
 
 20 POEMS. 
 
 O may they be upon thy soul imprest, 
 
 Teaching thee grateful love in hours of joy, 
 
 Giving sweet solace in thine hour of sorrow, 
 
 Offering the only hope that can outlast 
 
 The things of time and sense, till thou hast learned 
 
 Above all other earthly good to prize 
 
 My humble marriage gift. 
 
 VIOLETS. 
 
 EARLY I love those simple flowers, 
 
 Half hidden in their dark green nest, 
 Yet decked in more than regal pride, 
 With purple robe and golden vest. 
 
 Dearly I love them ; they to me 
 
 With cherished memories are fraught, 
 
 And borne upon their perfumed breath 
 
 Comes many a sweet and pleasant thought. 
 
 Within our garden s quiet bounds 
 
 Those flowers in wild profusion grew, 
 
 And wandered over walk and bed, 
 As if their privilege they knew. 
 
 Uprooted was each noxious weed, 
 Well trained the lily and the rose, 
 
 The violets alone were left 
 
 To wander wheresoe er they chose.
 
 VIOLETS. 221 
 
 My little one a dark-eyed child, 
 
 Whose cheek the rose of health had fled, 
 
 Learned well to love the purple gems, 
 And cull them from their lowly bed. 
 
 Her little hands with graceful skill 
 
 A simple garland would entwine, 
 And then she laughed in childish glee, 
 
 To see them in her dark locks shine. 
 
 At morn when dew-drops decked the grass, 
 At sunset s bright and gorgeous hours, 
 
 Still mid the violets was she seen, 
 
 And so we named them " Anna s flowers." 
 
 Yet O ! how oft my heart was wrung 
 While watching o er her fading bloom ; 
 
 Alas ! I feared another spring 
 
 Might strew those flowers upon her tomb. 
 
 But, Heaven be thanked ! my fears were vain ; 
 
 Again the rose bedecks her cheek, 
 Again her light and bounding step 
 
 The garden s vagrant child can seek. 
 
 And when beside me oft she sits 
 
 With apron full of those sweet flowers, 
 Singing some mirthful melody, 
 Or picturing scenes of future hours
 
 POEMS. 
 
 I look on her, and inly pray 
 
 That violet-like her life may prove ; 
 
 The fragrance of a gentle heart 
 Her undisputed claim to love. 
 
 TO EMMA, THREE YEARS OLD. 
 
 Y youngest and my loveliest, my darling little 
 
 one, 
 E en to a stranger s eye thy face is fair to 
 
 look upon ; 
 With thy bright locks, thy snowy brow, thine eyes so 
 
 clearly blue, 
 
 And thy soft velvet lip that seems a rosebud moist 
 with dew. 
 
 But to a mother s heart how dear is every childish 
 
 grace ; 
 How do I love each opening germ of loveliness to 
 
 trace ; 
 To hear thee lisp each new-found word, or gaze with 
 
 sweet surprise 
 On all the wonders that each day discovers to thine 
 
 eyes. 
 
 Yet sweeter to a mother s hope, my little one, to see 
 That look of gentle gravity steal o er thy face of glee ;
 
 THE AUTUMN WALK. 223 
 
 It tells the hidden wealth o er which thy young glad 
 
 thoughts now flow, 
 As quiet streams reveal how deep their current runs 
 
 below. 
 
 THE AUTUMN WALK. 
 
 WRITTEN TO ILLUSTRATE A PICTURE IN A JUVENILE 
 ANNUAL. 
 
 , sister Clara, let me take 
 Your skipping rope away ; 
 I m tired of marbles, top, and ball, 
 I want a walk to-day. 
 
 Go, get your hat, the autumn sun 
 Shines out so warm and bright, 
 
 That you might almost think it spring 
 But for the swallow s flight. 
 
 In the old woods I found, this morn, 
 
 A drawing-room complete : 
 A Persian carpet made of leaves, 
 
 A mossy sofa s seat ; 
 
 And through the many-colored boughs 
 
 The cheerful sunlight beams, 
 More beautiful, by far, than when 
 
 Through silken blinds it gleams.
 
 224 POEMS. 
 
 In the twined branches overhead 
 The squirrel gambols free, 
 
 Dropping his empty nutshells down 
 Beneath the chestnut tree. 
 
 And now and then the rustling leaves 
 Are scattered far and wide, 
 
 As the scared rabbit hurries past, 
 In deeper shades to hide. 
 
 Among the leafless brushwood, too, 
 You sometimes may espy, 
 
 Peering so cautiously about 
 
 The wood-rat s bright black eye. 
 
 Come, let us to that sunny nook, 
 
 I love to wander so, 
 Among the quiet autumn woods ; 
 
 Dear sister, shall we go ? 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 HE time has been when in the wildest dreams 
 
 Of gay romance my soul could find delight, 
 When, till the stars grew pale in the morn s 
 
 glad beams, 
 
 I reveled oft in tales of wondrous knight, 
 And rude misshapen dwarf, and peerless ladye bright.
 
 STANZAS. 225 
 
 But then my harp was voiceless ; my young hand 
 No music from its tuneless chords awoke, 
 
 The soul of song breathed not at my command, 
 Thought had not yet its early trammels broke, 
 
 And fancy but in tones of lisping childhood spoke. 
 
 Yet ah ! when but a child in years, my heart 
 Grew woman s in its tenderness it yearned 
 
 Its deep and restless feelings to impart ; 
 
 And then my harp its earliest language learned, 
 
 Taught by affection s power to breathe the words that 
 burned. 
 
 Then were the dreams of chivalry forgot, 
 
 No more could knight or dame my feelings move ; 
 
 My heart but brooded o er its lonely lot, 
 
 And my harp mocked the meanings of the dove, 
 
 For but one tone it knew, and that it learned of love. 
 
 Long years since then have past ; a deeper tone 
 Now murmurs from its strings, and as it caught 
 
 Its inspiration from the heart alone, 
 
 So to my many dreams of painful thought 
 
 My harp responsive breathes in tones with sadness 
 fraught. 
 
 And whether now I pour the fancied lay, 
 Or weave the old world tales of ages past, 
 
 Still does my soul its fancies dark display, 
 Still o er my song the spell of sorrow cast, 
 
 And the strain dies away in cadence sad at last. 
 15
 
 226 POEMS. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 WRITTEN FOR A CHARACTER IN A TALE. 
 
 HAVE no heart ! I know not where 
 
 The wild and restless thing has fled 
 It lives not in a mortal breast, 
 Nor is it with the dead. 
 
 I have no heart ! love, hope, and joy ; 
 
 Stir not the current of my life, 
 Nor know I aught of rapture s thrill, 
 
 Nor passion s fearful strife. 
 
 I have no heart ! too early chilled 
 It slumbered ne er to wake again, 
 
 E en as the frozen traveller sleeps 
 Through all life s parting pain. 
 
 I have no heart ! no power can wake 
 My spirit from its heavy trance ; 
 
 Alike to me are love s sweet looks, 
 Or hatred s withering glance. 
 
 I have no heart ! nor would I call 
 The restless thing to life once more, 
 
 E en if a wish could give me all 
 I sought in days of yore.
 
 STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF MISS CLINCH. 227 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MISS CLINCH, BETTER KNOWN AS 
 "THYRZA." 
 
 NEVER looked upon thy face, 
 
 I know not whether it was fair, 
 Or whether mind alone had set 
 _.- glorious impress there ; 
 Thy form has never met mine eye 
 
 Amid the passing crowd, 
 Yet few can feel as I do now 
 To know thee in thy shroud. 
 
 No tone from thy young lip that came 
 
 Has ever dwelt upon mine ear, 
 And yet how oft my heart has thrilled 
 
 Thy spirit s voice to hear ; 
 For thou wert one to whom was given 
 
 The minstrel s holy power, 
 The power to commune with our thoughts 
 
 E en in the lonely hour. 
 
 I knew that thou wert young, for ne er 
 
 The worn and world-seared soul may know 
 Such visitings of fancy s light 
 
 As in thy sweet strains glow ; 
 And well I knew the priceless gift 
 
 Of intellect was thine, 
 E en though mine eyes ne er gazed upon 
 
 Thy spirit s earthly shrine.
 
 228 POEMS. 
 
 Surely it is no marvel then 
 
 That I should mourn thy early doom, 
 And pour a passing stranger s wail 
 
 Above thy lowly tomb ; 
 Thou wert of those high-gifted ones 
 
 Who to the world belong, 
 For not alone the social hearth 
 
 May claim the child of song. 
 
 Farewell, young minstrel, thou hast shunned 
 
 Perchance a darker, sterner fate, 
 For rarely does a thornless path 
 
 The steps of genius wait ; 
 The finer faculties of mind 
 
 That to the bard are given, 
 Forbid his heart to find its rest 
 
 Beneath its native heaven. 
 
 Farewell, though thou wert snatched away 
 
 Too soon to win undying fame, 
 Yet many a gentle thought shall wait, 
 
 Young minstrel, on thy name ; 
 And while beloved ones weep thy doom 
 
 With many a fruitless tear, 
 A stranger s hand would fling its wreath 
 
 Of wild flowers on thy bier.
 
 SOA G. 229 
 
 SONG. 
 
 HEN the summer sunlight closes, 
 And each weary flower reposes, 
 When the evening breezes move, 
 Like whispers of a spirit s love, 
 Then to Heaven your voices raise, 
 Tis the hour of prayer and praise. 
 
 When the tempest cloud is breaking, 
 And the thunder s voice is waking, 
 When across the brow of night- 
 Lurid lightning flashes bright, 
 Then to Heaven in heart draw near, 
 Tis the hour of holy fear. 
 
 Offer not your vows in sadness, 
 Raise the exulting song of gladness ; 
 To the world God s works are shown, 
 To the world his praise be known ; 
 Sound with harp and timbrel free, 
 The glories of the Deity.
 
 23 POEMS. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 ^HENCE come this painful heaviness of soul, 
 
 These dark presentiments of coming ill, 
 These dreams that spurn at reason s sage con 
 trol, 
 
 And these thick-gathering fantasies, that thrill 
 The spirit with deep fearfulness, and chill 
 
 The heart with sudden terror ? Are they sent 
 As portents of the future to fulfill 
 
 The dark decrees of fate ? or only meant 
 To sap the strength of mind, man s noblest battlement ? 
 
 We know not whence they come, nor can we tell 
 
 Whither they flee ; we only feel their power 
 Withering our hearts by some mysterious spell, 
 
 And stealing o er us even in the hour 
 When hope and joy are brightest, till we cower 
 
 Before these shadows, as the warrior steed 
 Undaunted braves the battle s iron shower, 
 
 And yet will quiver like a shaken reed, 
 If through a moonlit wood his onward pathway lead. 
 
 O, man ! how strange a mystery thou art, 
 The noblest yet the weakest of creation ; 
 
 Unable to subdue thine own proud heart, 
 Yet swaying oft the fortunes of a nation.
 
 SONNET. 231 
 
 God-like in thy high attributes and station, 
 
 Worm-like in each groveling desire, 
 Yet even in thy lowliest degradation, 
 
 Showing forth glimpses of that heavenly fire 
 Which, though earth-stained and dim, can never quite 
 expire. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 BORROW has changed all nature to my view, 
 
 The woods are still as green, the fields as 
 
 s a y, 
 
 The stars are still as bright, the sky as blue, 
 
 As when they charmed me in my childhood s day ; 
 But now in all their beauty I can see 
 
 Something that ever minds me of decay, 
 Some leafless branch deforms the stately tree, 
 
 Some blight still lingers on the buds of May, 
 The starry watchers wear a softened light 
 
 As if I gazed on them through gathering tears ; 
 But when I turn to yon pure sky, a bright 
 
 And glorious vision to my mind appears, 
 Making this earth seem dull beyond compare, 
 Since only heaven above is changeless as tis fair.
 
 232 POEMS. 
 
 THE HYMN IN THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Mr. Wesley, in his Journal, speaks in terms of the highest commendation respecting 
 twenty-six Germans, members of the Moravian Church, who came to America in the 
 same ship with himself. He continues, " There was now an opportunity of trying 
 whether they were delivered from the spirit of fear as well as from that of pride, anger, 
 and revenge. In the midst of the psalm wherewith their service began, the sea broke 
 over, split the mainsail in pieces, covered the ship, and poured in between the decks 
 as if the great deep had already swallowed us up. A terrible screaming began among 
 the English. The Germans calmly sung on. I asked one of them afterwards, 
 Were you not afraid ? He answered, I thank God, no. I asked, But were 
 not your women and children afraid ? He replied mildly, No, our women and 
 children are not afraid to die. " WATSON S Life of Wesley. 
 
 .TRANGE forms and stranger minds and hearts 
 
 were met 
 
 In the frail bark which bore a precious freight 
 To the new land of promise. Men had left 
 The scenes of childhood and the marts of wealth 
 To seek a home in the dim forest s shades, 
 Where, all unchecked by man s misguided power, 
 Their prayers might rise unfettered to their God. 
 Twas one of those bright days when nature seems 
 To hold her quiet sabbath, when the earth 
 And sea are hushed in silence. The dark waves 
 Scarce laved the sides of the tall ship, and played 
 Around the keel in sportiveness. There stood 
 Within the humble cabin a small band 
 Of Hernhuth s lowly children ; and thus rose 
 Their hymn of pure thanksgiving : 
 
 Ancient of Days ! 
 
 With meek and lowly hearts we come 
 To pour the exulting hymn of praise
 
 THE HYMN IN THE TEMPEST. 233 
 
 To thee, who led st us from the home 
 Where our feet were wont to roam, 
 O er the wild untrodden deep 
 Where the scaly monsters sleep. 
 
 Thy mighty will 
 Thy children in their peril saves, 
 
 The rushing winds are hushed and still, 
 And slumber bound the tumbling waves 
 Whose deep abysses yawn like graves. 
 To an infant world we bring 
 Tidings of a Heavenly King, 
 Wonders of thy power and grace, 
 Saviour of a fallen race ! 
 
 Glory to God ! 
 For within the trackless wild 
 
 Where foot of man has never trod, 
 Where never heaven-sent peace has smiled 
 On scenes by pagan rites defiled, 
 Soon our hymns with grateful note 
 On the fragrant breeze shall float, 
 And upon the air shall swell 
 That sweetest sound the sabbath bell. 
 
 Hark ! a loud crash, 
 A sudden wrenching of the lofty masts, 
 A burst of mighty winds and mountain waves. 
 On came the sea : gathering new strength it came, 
 Till on the reeling vessel full it broke, 
 Rending its very seams. Between the decks
 
 234 POEMS. 
 
 It rushed in fury, pouring its full tide, 
 
 Sweeping all things before it; then arose 
 
 The shriek of woman s terror, and the groan 
 
 That told man s sterner agony. Unmoved 
 
 The meek Hernhuthers stood : woman was there 
 
 With her calm placid brow ; and childhood, too, 
 
 With sunny smiles yet lurking on its lip, 
 
 Though softened to that pleasant gravity 
 
 Which speaks the reverence of an unstained heart. 
 
 A vague and indistinct, but holy fear : 
 
 Yet not an eyelid trembled, not a cheek 
 
 Blanched at this sight of terror ; mothers prest 
 
 Their infants to their bosoms, as the wave 
 
 Curled foaming round their feet ; and sires, too, raised 
 
 Their bright-haired boys above the briny stream ; 
 
 But not a murmur rose. The hymn went on ; 
 
 A moment it had paused, then rose again 
 
 The low, sweet voice, the deep, full tone but changed 
 
 The spirit of the hymn: 
 
 Maker of heaven and earth ! 
 In peril s fearful hour we call on thee ; 
 
 From thee the mighty elements have birth, 
 Thou mad st, and thou canst still the raging sea. 
 
 Father, which art in heaven ! 
 We are thy children, fashioned by thy hand, 
 
 This fleeting breath of life by thee was given, 
 As. suppliants now before thy face we stand. 
 
 Son of the Father God ! 
 Thou who didst walk unharmed upon the wave,
 
 THE HYMN IN THE TEMPEST. 235 
 
 Thou who, for us, didst kiss the avenging rod, 
 Hear now thy children s prayer, O ! hear and save ! 
 
 Redeemer of the world ! 
 If thou hast doomed us to this bitter death, 
 
 If in the boiling strife of waters hurled, 
 We must resign to thee our struggling breath 
 
 Grant us thy holy power 
 To turn unmoved from all that binds the heart, 
 
 To give ourselves to thee in peril s hour, 
 And as in faith we live, in faith depart ! 
 
 The tempest-cloud had passed ; the sudden burst 
 
 Of elemental fury had gone by ; 
 
 And the waves leaped against the vessel s side 
 
 With a low moaning, like the murmured sounds 
 
 That mar the quiet slumbers of a child 
 
 Wearied with its waywardness. The hour 
 
 Of peril was forgotten ; but one heart 
 
 Was troubled with its many doubts and fears, 
 
 And to the humble pastor of the flock 
 
 That looked so fearless on the face of death, 
 
 He came with anxious air : " Had you no fear 
 
 That thus your song was poured upon the winds, 
 
 When its wild rush was like the knell of death ? " 
 
 "God rides the tempest; wherefore should we fear?" 
 
 Was the meek answer. " But your wives, your babes, 
 
 Have they no terrors ? " " Surely not : they know 
 
 That God their Father rules the winds and waves ; 
 
 They know that death but points the way to Him ; 
 
 And who would shrink to meet a parent s face ? "
 
 236 POEMS. 
 
 LINES 
 
 SUGGESTED BY ACCIDENTALLY MEETING WITH AN OLD 
 COPY OF THE " MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO." 
 
 ULL twenty years have past since last my look 
 Was left upon thy page, bewitching book ! 
 Aye, twenty years ; how very strange it seems 
 Through such a vista to behold youth s dreams, 
 To wander so far back o er life s past ways, 
 And see what shadows charmed our childish days. 
 
 Scarce nine short summers had I seen, when first 
 Radcliffe s deep horrors on my vision burst ; 
 How well do I remember the lone room 
 Where first I reveled in her awful gloom ; 
 Twas a deserted chamber, which o erhung 
 A wild neglected garden, where flowers sprung, 
 Wasting their perfumed beauty on the air 
 No eye save mine to heed that they were fair. 
 Old cherry-trees with dark green foliage, made 
 Across the casement there a pleasant shade, 
 While at the sunset hour the gorgeous beams 
 Pierced the thick branches with their golden gleams. 
 There till the sunset deepened into gray, 
 And twilight into night, oft would I stay, 
 Pondering o er many a tale of wild romance, 
 And tasting all the bliss of youth s first trance. 
 In that sweet solitude I learned the wild, 
 Mysterious fortunes of St. Hubert s child,
 
 STANZAS. 237 
 
 Rapt mid Udolpho s horrors until night 
 Shut all its fearful pictures from my sight ; 
 Then sat in trembling silence, half afraid 
 To look within the chamber s deepening shade. 
 The very leaves of the tall trees then stirred 
 With music such as spirits might have heard, 
 While in each darkened corner seemed to stand 
 Spectres with mournful look and beckoning hand ; 
 Filling my inmost soul with pleasant fear, 
 Till some familiar voice fell on my ear, 
 Breaking the spell that held me in its chain, 
 And bringing me to common life again. 
 
 O many an hour I spent in that lone spot, 
 
 All else on earth for those wild tales forgot, 
 
 While wise ones shook their heads and said in scorn, 
 
 " From such weak dreams is hopeless madness born." 
 
 Had their blood flowed less sluggish in each vein 
 
 They had not murmured thus at fancy s reign ; 
 
 Her gentle rule is felt in every heart 
 
 Till passion bids the vanquished queen depart, 
 
 And oft we deeply rue the fatal day 
 
 That broke her sceptre for his iron sway. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 IS done! my pleasant home of happy years 
 Has now become the stranger s heritage ; 
 The home endeared to me by hopes and fears, 
 Where first I studied life s eventful page,
 
 238 POEMS. 
 
 And, pondering o er another s heart, was shown 
 The unsuspected mystery of my own. 
 
 Home of my changeful and my brightest days ! 
 
 How can I coldly look my last on thee, 
 When thus, where er I turn, my saddened gaze 
 
 Beholds some object dear to memory ? 
 The wife s sweet ministry, the mother s care, 
 Love s costliest gifts, have all been offered there. 
 
 Within this room how oft have I carest 
 The playful children sporting at my knee ; 
 
 In this, ah! here my trembling lip first prest 
 The little one who fills our halls with glee : 
 
 Through brighter scenes perchance my steps may roam, 
 
 But none will be like this the wife s first home. 
 
 My passionate existence has gone by, 
 
 Imagination now has lost its power, 
 The feelings that within my bosom lie 
 
 Are colored only by the present hour, 
 For gentle fancy can no more impart 
 To life s frail flowers the freshness of the heart. 
 
 And, therefore, do I feel that never more 
 Another home like this to me will seem, 
 
 Association s magic spell is o er, 
 
 Truth has destroyed each wild romantic dream ; 
 
 I hear no angel voices in the breeze 
 
 Houses are now but houses, trees but trees.
 
 THE MOTHER S SOLACE. 239 
 
 Yet am I happier far than when in youth, 
 
 I gave my heart to fantasies unreal, 
 My lot has been to find the world of truth 
 
 Brighter and lovelier than the world ideal ; 
 Nor would I give for fancy s brightest glow 
 The joys that now my waking senses know. 
 
 To thee, my pleasant home, were linked my last 
 And sweetest memories ; no more I bind 
 
 My thoughts to things inanimate, or cast 
 My tenderness abroad upon the wind ; 
 
 Wherever Love erects his shrine shall be 
 
 Henceforth the dearest, happiest home to me. 
 
 THE MOTHER S SOLACE. 
 
 When the Stoic philosopher was informed of the death of his beloved son, he calmly 
 replied, " I always knew that he was mortal ; " but how much more reason has a 
 Christian parent to be resigned under such an affliction, when she can look on the 
 lifeless form of her child, and in the language of undoubting faith, exclaim, " I know 
 that this mortal shall put on immortality/ 
 
 KNEW that thou wert mortal ! aye, my heart 
 Thrilled with vague terror, even while the 
 
 beams 
 
 Of thy soft, loving eyes could still impart 
 A joy as sinless as thine own pure dreams ; 
 Thou wert too like a thing of heavenly birth 
 To tarry long upon this darkened earth.
 
 240 POEMS. 
 
 I knew that thou wert mortal ; the blue vein 
 Whose delicate tracery adorned thy brow, 
 
 I knew might bear the rushing tide of pain, 
 Instead of life s pure current, in its flow, 
 
 I knew disease thy rosy cheek might pale, 
 
 And the hour come when flesh and heart should fail. 
 
 I knew that thou wert mortal ; yet my tears 
 Have flowed in rivers o er thy lowly bed ; 
 
 The joys of life, the hopes of coming years, 
 
 Were crushed when thou wert numbered with the 
 dead, 
 
 And life itself must cease ere I forget 
 
 The bitter yearnings of my vain regret. 
 
 I knew that thou wert mortal ; but the God 
 Who filled with deathless love a mother s heart, 
 
 Meant not that she should kiss the chastening rod 
 Without one feeling of its anguished smart. 
 
 Can it be sin to bow the mourning head 
 
 When even Jesus wept o er Lazarus dead ? 
 
 I knew that thou wert mortal ; but can naught 
 Bring solace to the soul in sorrow s hour ? 
 
 Is there not consolation in the thought 
 
 That Christ has robbed the grave of half its power? 
 
 Not without hope, beloved one, do I weep, 
 
 Thou yet shall waken from thy dreamless sleep. 
 
 I knew that thou wert mortal ; but the bright 
 And glorious beauty of thine earthly face
 
 A UTUMN E VENING. 2 4 1 
 
 Would seem all dim beside the radiant light 
 
 Which crowns thy spirit now with cherub grace : 
 I know thee now immortal, and I trust 
 To meet thee yet again, though dust return to dust. 
 
 AUTUMN EVENING. 
 
 "And Isaac went out to meditate in the field at the even-tide." 
 
 forth at morning s birth, 
 When the glad sun, exulting in his might, 
 & Comes from the dusky, curtained tents of 
 
 night, 
 
 Shedding his gifts of beauty o er the earth ; 
 When sounds of busy life are on the air, 
 And man awakes to labor and to care, 
 Then hie thee forth go out amid thy kind, 
 Thy daily task to do, thy harvest sheaves to bind. 
 
 Go forth at noontide hour, 
 Beneath the heat and burden of the day 
 Pursue the labors of thine onward way, 
 
 Nor murmur if thou miss life s morning flower ; 
 Where er the footsteps of mankind are found 
 Thou still mayst find some spot of hallowed ground, 
 Where duty blossoms even as the rose, 
 Though sharp and stinging thorns the beauteous bud 
 inclose. 
 
 16
 
 242 POEMS. 
 
 Go forth at even-tide, 
 
 When sounds of toil no more the soft air fill, 
 When e en the hum of insect life is still, 
 
 And the bird s song on evening s breeze has died ; 
 Go forth, as did the patriarch of old, 
 And commune with thy heart s deep thoughts untold, 
 Fathom thy spirit s hidden depths, and learn 
 The mysteries of life, the fires that inly burn. 
 
 Go forth at even-tide, 
 The even-tide of summer, when the trees 
 Yield their frail honors to the passing breeze, 
 
 And woodland paths with autumn tints are dyed ; 
 When the mild sun his paling lustre shrouds 
 In gorgeous draperies of golden clouds, 
 Then wander forth mid beauty and decay, 
 To meditate alone, alone to watch and pray. 
 
 Go forth at even-tide, 
 
 Commune with thine own bosom and be still, 
 Check the wild impulses of wayward will, 
 
 And learn the nothingness of human pride ; 
 Morn is the time to act, noon to endure, 
 But O, if thou wouldst keep thy spirit pure, 
 Turn from the beaten path by worldlings trod ; 
 Go forth at even-tide, in heart to walk with God.
 
 BALLAD. 243 
 
 BALLAD. 1 
 
 NEVER shall I forget the song 
 I heard in the north countrie, 
 Crooned forth by an old and withered crone 
 As she sat neath a blasted tree. 
 
 Her back was bowed with the weight of years, 
 
 Her locks were silvery white, 
 And the ghastly glare of her light-blue eye 
 
 Seemed a church-yard s ominous light. 
 
 Slowly she rocked to and fro, 
 
 With hands clasped over her knee, 
 And sang, " The world is passing away, 
 
 But God has forgotten me ! 
 
 " Twice fifty years have these dim eyes seen, 
 
 And a weary lot I dree, 
 The days of man are threescore and ten, 
 But God has forgotten me ! 
 
 " Tis a fearful thing to behold the graves 
 
 Where our bosom s treasures lie, 
 To feel alone in this weary world, 
 And know that we cannot die. 
 
 1 Founded on a story, which appeared in a newspaper, of a woman in Hungary, 
 who, at the age of one hundred years, committed suicide from the fear that God had 
 forgotten her.
 
 244 POEMS. 
 
 " O, dark and evil my life has been, 
 
 And lonely it still must be, 
 But the heaviest thought in my heavy heart 
 Is that God has forgotten me ! 
 
 " O, many and many a year agone 
 
 This foul visage was passing fair, 
 And the fisherman s child felt a queenly pride 
 As she braided her raven hair. 
 
 " But youth and beauty have withered away, 
 
 Like flowers on a blasted lea ; 
 Men turn in scorn from my wrinkled brow, 
 And God has forgotten me ! 
 
 " Full fifty years neath the cold grave-stone 
 
 Lies he who once called me bride ; 
 And O ! how oft have I made my moan, 
 And prayed to lie by his side ! 
 
 " Four boys, four brave and stately boys, 
 
 Once cheered my lonely hearth, 
 But none are left to weep o er their graves 
 Save her who gave them birth. 
 
 " Alone, alone in this weary world, 
 I look on man s grief or glee, 
 Alike unheeding their smiles or tears, 
 For God has forgotten me ! 
 
 " Death garners up the golden sheaves 
 For heaven s rich granary,
 
 STANZAS. 245 
 
 But I am left like a worthless weed ; 
 O ! God has forgotten me ! " 
 
 On the blast was borne that fearful cry, 
 
 As onward in haste I sped ; 
 I came again the old crone was there, 
 
 But no longer she envied the dead. 
 
 From a knotted branch, in mid air she hung 
 
 (For such fruit a fitting tree), 
 And her life s last deed, like her latest word, 
 
 Said, " God has forgotten me ! " 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Life s enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim." Byron. 
 
 [LAS ! for the bard, who thus murmured, while 
 
 tasting 
 The sweetest draught fame e er gave mortal 
 
 to sip, 
 
 Who thus his regrets o er the bubble was wasting, 
 Though the bright wine beneath it was wooing his 
 lip. 
 
 Alas ! for the bard, whose green laurels, distilling 
 A poison so deadly, embittered life s draught ; 
 
 Far happier the few for whom love s hand is filling 
 A cup which in age, as in youth, may be quaffed.
 
 246 POEMS. 
 
 For me life has been, as years onward have glided, 
 A beaker o erflowing with brilliant champagne ; 
 
 The first effervescence has long since subsided, 
 But the sparkle and flavor, I know, yet remain. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 OME to the vintage feast ! 
 The west wind sighs mid the stately flowers 
 That deck so brightly our garden bowers, 
 
 Flowers which awoke as the summer died, 
 
 To rival her many-colored pride, 
 
 Flowers whose rich tint and gorgeous dye 
 
 An eastern monarch s pomp outvie. 
 
 Come to the vintage feast ! 
 The sun shines out, but a soft mist lies 
 Like a gossamer veil o er the autumn skies, 
 The air has stolen its sweet perfume 
 From the crimson clover s rich beds of bloom, 
 And the insect hum is as musical still 
 As if summer yet ruled over valley and hill. 
 
 Come to the vintage feast ! 
 The vine bends down with its purple fruit, 
 The foliage lies thick round its gnarled root, 
 For the leaves are dropping as if to show 
 The purple clusters that lie below,
 
 THE WIFE S OFFERING ON THE NEW YEAR. 247 
 
 And the tendrils close round the lattice twine, 
 As if asking support for the burdened vine. 
 
 Come to the vintage feast! 
 In Hebe s temple is spread the board 
 With the golden treasures of autumn stored ; 
 The sun of our native skies has shed 
 O er the ripened fruitage its glowing red ; 
 But the grapes that grow neath a warmer heaven 
 The sparkling wine to our feast has given ; 
 Then come and awaken the choral hymn, 
 While the bead-drop foams on the beaker s brim. 
 
 THE WIFE S OFFERING ON THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 " Aye, years may pass, but yet Time s rapid flight 
 
 Would be unheeded, were it not he flings 
 A cloud o er all youth s hopes and fancies bright ; 
 
 Alas ! he bears upon his shadowy wings 
 Darkness, distrust, and sorrow ; and the mind 
 Pines mid the gloom to which it is consigned." 1 
 
 UCH was my song when my young heart was 
 
 like an untried lute, 
 
 Full of earth s sweetest melodies, but all un 
 touched and mute ; 
 And, like the lute when swept at eve by zephyr s weary 
 
 wings, 
 
 Sometimes a broken melody would murmur from its 
 strings. 
 
 1 See page nS.
 
 248 POEMS. 
 
 I knew my heart had richer tones ; I felt it had the 
 
 power 
 To pour a deep and thrilling note in love s impassioned 
 
 hour ; 
 I longed, yet feared, to wake such strains, for ah ! full 
 
 well I knew 
 The hand that called its music forth might rend its 
 
 frail chords too. 
 
 Heaven s blessings on thee, dear one ; thou first touched 
 my silent heart, 
 
 And bade it strains of hope and joy, as well as love 
 impart ; 
 
 Like Memnon s harp, it could not wake beneath a 
 meaner light, 
 
 Its perfect tones were only poured to greet the sun 
 beam bright. 
 
 Years have passed by since first I gave my youthful 
 heart to thee, 
 
 Yet still it breathes its early song in love s sweet mel 
 ody ; 
 
 But deeper is its music now the mother and the 
 wife 
 
 Has learned with better skill to frame the harmonies 
 of life. 
 
 My early joys ! O what were they to those that thrill 
 
 me now, 
 When thus with calm, deep tenderness I gaze upon thy 
 
 brow,
 
 THE PASSING YEAR. 249 
 
 Or listen to the lisping tones that fill our home with 
 
 glee, 
 And in our children s sunny looks still find a trace of 
 
 thee? 
 
 Thrice have we watched together, dear, the dying year s 
 
 decay ; 
 Thrice have our eyes together met the New Year s 
 
 opening day ; 
 
 Yet every hour that glided on toward the shadowy past, 
 But found me at thy side, beloved, still happier than 
 
 the last. 
 
 Heaven s blessings on thee, clear one ; time may sweep 
 
 my joys away ; 
 The bliss that fills my spirit now may know no second 
 
 day; 
 Yet will I kneel in thankfulness, resigned to Heaven s 
 
 high will, 
 And mid the wreck of hope rejoice, so thou art left 
 
 me still. 
 
 THE PASSING YEAR. 
 
 T passes on, the fading year, with its dim and 
 
 shadowy train, 
 
 Its vanished hours, and by-past days of pleas 
 ure and of pain ;
 
 250 POEMS. 
 
 It passes on, with solemn step, toward that shoreless 
 
 sea 
 Whose tideless waters only stir to whelm mortality. 
 
 It passes on ; among the tombs its weary feet have trod, 
 Too often has its pathway led across the burial sod ; 
 And many a melancholy eye that marks its swift decay 
 Is weeping o er the cherished joys and hopes it bears 
 away. 
 
 It passes on ; and shall it fade without one parting 
 song 
 
 From one around whose sunny path unnumbered bless 
 ings throng ? 
 
 What have I done to merit such exemption from the 
 doom 
 
 That shrouds full many a worthier heart in sorrow s 
 darkest gloom ? 
 
 It passes on ; and yet its steps crush not a single 
 
 flower 
 That blossoms in my joyous way or cheers my quiet 
 
 bower. 
 
 It passes on ; and though its trace is left upon my brow, 
 Yet never was my spirit filled with deeper bliss than 
 
 now. 
 
 It passes on ; a few brief hours its last farewell will see ; 
 Then let me breathe my heart s deep thoughts, my own 
 best love, to thee.
 
 THE PASSING YEAR. 251 
 
 Where shall I find the thrilling words which ought alone 
 
 to tell 
 The grateful tenderness and love that in my bosom 
 
 swell ? 
 
 Since thou first taught my youthful mind to know its 
 
 latent powers, 
 Thy kindness, dearest one, has been the measure of my 
 
 hours ; 
 
 And not a single day has past without its precious store 
 Of gentle looks and words that made my cup of joy 
 
 run o er. 
 
 It passes on ; when last I watched the sunset of the 
 
 year, 
 My heart, e en while it thrilled with joy, shook with a 
 
 sudden fear; 
 I dared not hope another year would see such blessings 
 
 last; 
 Yet has another fleeted on, far happier than the last. 
 
 It passes on, the fading year, and leaves me at thy side, 
 Regarding thee with woman s love and more than 
 
 woman s pride ; 
 Would that affection s hidden thoughts upon thy life 
 
 could shed 
 Such blessings, dear one, as thy care pours ever on my 
 
 head !
 
 252 POEMS. 
 
 THE WIFE S SONG ON THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 " Since my first days of passion, grief, or pain, 
 
 Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, 
 And both may jar ; it may be that in vain 
 I would essay as I have sung to sing." 
 
 Childe Harold. 
 
 harp has lost no string, love, but rust is on 
 
 its chords, 
 And when I seek its melody no answer it 
 
 affords ; 
 
 It has alone a single tone, and that is like the dove s, 
 It will not wake to any touch unless the hand be love s. 
 
 My harp has lost no string, love, but still its voice is 
 
 mute, 
 
 And said I rust was on the chords of my neglected lute ? 
 Ah, no ! tis but the rosy wreaths that happiness has 
 
 hung 
 Too thickly o er it, which have thus the chain of silence 
 
 flung. 
 
 My harp has lost no string, love, but ever in mine ear 
 The voice of calm contentment breathes a melody more 
 
 dear ; 
 
 And I forget the witching tales that poesy once told, 
 While listening to the sweeter ones which truth can now 
 
 unfold. 
 
 My heart has lost no string, love, for thou hast watched 
 it well ;
 
 THE WIFE S SONG ON THE NEW YEAR. 253 
 
 Thy gentle hand has guarded it from sorrow s wasting 
 
 spell ; 
 
 And lightly do its chords reply to every impulse now, 
 Aye, far more lightly than when youth was written on 
 
 my brow. 
 
 My heart has lost no string, love, it bounds thy voice 
 
 to meet, 
 
 And vibrates as exultingly thy coming step to greet, 
 As when in girlhood s sunny hour it gave itself to thee, 
 And poured in strains unskilled and rude its deep idol 
 atry. 
 
 My heart has lost no string, love, though sometimes it 
 
 may jar, 
 The harmonies of life too oft a careless touch may 
 
 mar ; 
 But when attuned by thy dear hand, not one discordant 
 
 tone 
 Breaks the full tide of grateful song it pours for thee 
 
 alone. 
 
 And yet in vain I seek, love, to sing as I have sung ; 
 The visions have departed now that once around me 
 
 hung 
 The doubt, the fear, the sickening pang of love and 
 
 hope deferred, 
 These were the wild emotions that my youthful spirit 
 
 stirred. 
 
 I sing not as I sung, love, grief has full many a strain; 
 And poesy delights to shed her balm o er hours of pain ;
 
 254 POEMS. 
 
 But I have known too much of joy ; she will not deign 
 to shed 
 
 The balsam that might soothe despair, upon the flower- 
 decked head. 
 
 I sing not as I sung, love, yet must I weave again 
 My early song of gratitude, though wearisome the strain : 
 How can I vary such a lay ? I would not change the 
 
 theme 
 For all the brightest fantasies that ever poets dream. 
 
 I sing not as I sung, love, yet shall the new-born year 
 Find me without my morning gift for one so more than 
 
 dear ? 
 
 Humble the gift, yet who would bid the votary depart 
 When offering at her idol s shrine her all, a faithful 
 
 heart ? 
 
 TO 
 
 does my spirit yet retain 
 Enough of minstrelsy 
 
 Drea th once more its wonted strain 
 Of grateful love to thee ? 
 Though silence broods with heavy wing 
 
 O er my neglected lute, 
 Yet when for thee, love, I would sing, 
 How can my heart be mute? 
 
 By fancy s vague, uncertain ray, 
 Or memory s lamp alone,
 
 TO . 
 
 Are seen the shadowy forms that play 
 
 Round poesy s far throne ; 
 How, then, may I e er hope to be 
 
 Blessed with a poet s sight? 
 The chambers of mine imagery 
 
 Are failed with earthly light. 
 
 Hope, fancy, memory, what are they 
 
 To one whose heart can find 
 In every blissful, passing day, 
 
 The joys of all combined ? 
 Thou hast fulfilled mine every hope ; 
 
 The past is nought to me ; 
 And Fancy in her wildest scope 
 
 Can bring back nought like thee. 
 
 The love that once was proudly shrined, 
 
 And worshipped with the lyre, 
 An humbler, happier home can find 
 
 Beside our household fire. 
 He asks not now for minstrel songs 
 
 With passion s fervor fraught, 
 When every word to him belongs, 
 
 And every gentle thought. 
 
 I look, beloved, upon thy face, 
 And tears my fond eyes fill, 
 
 No changes there time s hand can trace, 
 Fadeless in beauty still ; 
 
 Thy smiles, the sunshine of my heart, 
 Still o er me brightly beam, 
 
 2 55
 
 256 POEMS. 
 
 And, as I watch the years depart, 
 Life seems a summer dream. 
 
 But yet to-night my spirit quails 
 
 Before some shadowy fear, 
 And e en thy sweet voice, dear one, fails 
 
 My drooping soul to cheer ; 
 I listen to the solemn knell 
 
 Of the departing year, 
 As if it were a passing bell 
 
 Above some loved one s bier. 
 
 The hand of pain is on my brow, 
 
 My spirit s glow is dim ; 
 I cannot meet thee, clearest, now 
 
 With love s accustomed hymn ; 
 Yet, trust me, though I cannot greet 
 
 With song the opening year. 
 Ne er did my heart more warmly beat, 
 
 Ne er wert thou half so dear. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 a mournful strain is all the New 
 Year s gift I bring, 
 For images of by-gone years throng round me 
 
 as I sing ; 
 
 My spirit s joyousness is gone, I can no longer fling 
 The sunshine of a happy heart o er every earthly thing.
 
 STANZAS. 257 
 
 A shadow lies upon my path which naught can chase 
 
 away, 
 Save the great Sun of Righteousness with healing in 
 
 its ray ; 
 A shadow from the mountain dark o er which our feet 
 
 must tread, 
 To meet again our loved of yore, our treasures of the 
 
 dead. 
 
 That shadow lies upon my path, and pleasures neath 
 its gloom, 
 
 Like flowerets grown in darkness, now have lost their 
 brilliant bloom ; 
 
 My clays of buoyant happiness have with my youth been 
 spent, 
 
 Yet will I strive, whate er my lot, therewith to be con 
 tent ! 
 
 Alas ! the magic cup of life but sparkles near the brim ; 
 The music of this weary world is but a morning hymn ; 
 And like a winged dream of night our youthful days 
 
 depart, 
 Leaving but half-traced images within the saddened 
 
 heart. 
 
 Yes, all our joys in after years are like Egyptian feasts, 
 
 Where Memory s veiled and shrouded form sits first 
 amid the guests ; 
 
 In vain the gay laugh circles round, the wine-cup man 
 tles high, 
 
 The glitter but of unshed tears lights up the listless eye. 
 17
 
 258 POEMS. 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 AIR : " Benedetta sia la madre." 
 
 HEN the summer sun declineth 
 
 T ward the glowing western sea, 
 When the star of evening shineth, 
 Then my thoughts are thine, Marie ; 
 For at such an hour I ve wandered 
 
 On the pebbly shore with thee, 
 And o er many a bright dream pondered, 
 By thy side, my own Marie. 
 
 When the autumn wind is stealing 
 
 The green garb from each tree, 
 Then my heart throbs with a feeling 
 
 Which is thine, all thine, Marie ; 
 For twas autumn when thy gladness 
 
 Filled my quiet home with glee, 
 And memory s pleasant sadness. 
 
 Brings thine image back, Marie. 
 
 TWELVE YEARS AGO. 
 
 WELVE years ago ! how strange it seems 
 
 To wander so far back, 
 And see so many mile-stones stand 
 Along life s o erpast track !
 
 TWELVE YEARS AGO. 259 
 
 Twelve years ago my steps were light 
 
 Beneath youth s bright sunshine, 
 For then I was but seventeen, 
 
 Xow I am twenty-nine. 
 
 Twelve years ago I loved to pore 
 
 O er tales of wild romance 
 (Those tales that lull the heart so soon 
 
 In passion s rapturous trance), 
 And pined to meet on this dull earth 
 
 With beings so divine ; 
 My longings have been long since done, 
 
 For I am twenty-nine. 
 
 I loved Miss Landon s poetry then, 
 
 Hung o er each witching strain, 
 And, could my lips have coined such words. 
 
 Had answered such again ; 
 Xo empty phrases then I saw, 
 
 I marked no rugged line 
 But something more than sentiment 
 
 I seek at twenty-nine. 
 
 I did not then sit coldly down 
 
 To learn an author s style, 
 Fancy and feeling these alone 
 
 My taste could then beguile ; 
 I pondered o er the dreams which youth 
 
 Can feel but not define ; 
 I can describe, not feel them now, 
 
 Since I am twenty-nine.
 
 260 FOEMS. 
 
 Twelve years ago I loved to sit 
 
 At sunset s gorgeous hour, 
 And image in the rosy clouds 
 
 My own bright summer bower. 
 But who when gazing through lunettes 
 
 Air-castles could design? 
 My chateaux now are built on earth, 
 
 Since I am twenty-nine. 
 
 No more ethereal in my tastes, 
 
 I ve learned, as I m a sinner, 
 To make a breakfast on hot rolls, 
 
 And eat beefsteaks for dinner ; 
 And sometimes, too, I sip a glass 
 
 Of good old racy wine ; 
 I never did such vulgar things 
 
 Ere I was twenty-nine. 
 
 Tis not a pleasant thing to know 
 
 That we are growing old, 
 For no one likes to watch Time s glass, 
 
 E en when its sands are gold. 
 My days of young romance are past, 
 
 Yet why should I repine ? 
 No dream in youth was half so sweet 
 
 As truth at twenty-nine.
 
 " TOUJOURS PERDRIX." 261 
 
 "TOUJOURS PERDRIX." 
 
 ,THE LAMENT OF A MAN ABOUT TOWN. 
 
 M sick of balls, soirees, and parties, 
 
 And long from such scenes to be free ; 
 Flirtation, I own, is quite pleasant, 
 But I m weary of " toujours perdrix." 
 
 I go to a wedding on Monday, 
 
 White satin and blushes I see ; 
 A blue-coated groomsman is carving 
 
 The bride-cake still, "toujours perdrix." 
 
 On Tuesday a party awaits me ; 
 
 Oysters pickled and stewed there may be, 
 With champagne and creams for the ladies, 
 
 But still it is " toujours perdrix." 
 
 A soiree comes next ; tis the banquet 
 
 Of reason, not sense ; so you see 
 We have little to eat, but the folly 
 
 And flirting are "toujours perdrix." 
 
 I go to a ball, and much marvel 
 
 To see with what infinite glee 
 The dancers enjoy the dull music 
 
 Which I ve heard till tis " toujours perdrix." 
 
 I ll post to the country, and bury 
 My vexation beneath some old tree,
 
 262 POEMS. 
 
 And try whether life in the wildwoods 
 Can ever be "toujours perdrix." 
 
 I ll flirt with some fair country maiden 
 (To woman s heart I have a key), 
 
 And try whether rustic flirtation 
 
 Like the city s is "toujours perdrix." 
 
 I ve tried the experiment fairly 
 No more rural pleasures for me ; 
 
 Give me back the refinement of cities, 
 E en though it be " toujours perdrix." 
 
 The sun in the country has baked me ; 
 
 From dust not a pathway is free ; 
 The milkmaids are horribly freckled, 
 
 And as wild as if all were " perdrix." 
 
 If I must eat of one dish forever, 
 And no longer a novelty see, 
 
 Why, rather than greens and fat bacon, 
 I think I like "toujours perdrix." 
 
 LINES ON A PORTRAIT. 
 LOVED thee not ; yet mournful thoughts are 
 
 mm r rushin s 
 
 vQl&v Upon my heart while gazing on that face, 
 And tears unbidden to mine eyes are gushing 
 
 Tears, whose deep source to memory s fount I trace ;
 
 LINES ON A PORTRAIT. 263 
 
 Yet why should I lament thy hapless lot? 
 
 For thou wert naught to me I loved thee not. 
 
 I loved thee not ; yet intellect was thine, 
 
 And lofty aspirations after fame ; 
 For honor in thy soul had found a shrine, 
 
 And thou didst hope to win a deathless name ; 
 But thou art dead, unnoticed, and forgot; 
 Yet what is this to me ? I loved thee not. 
 
 I loved thee not; and haclst thou died in age, 
 With troops of tender friends around thy bed, 
 
 Had love been there thy sufferings to assuage, 
 Had some kind breast upheld thy aching head, 
 
 I had not then remembered thee ; no spot 
 
 In memory s waste was thine I loved thee not. 
 
 I loved thee not ; yet when thy spirit passed 
 Thus in thy manhood s prime from earth away, 
 
 When those thou lovedst forsook thee at the last, 
 And none beside thee knelt to weep and pray, 
 
 My heart did thrill in pity for the lot 
 
 Of one so gifted, though I loved thee not.
 
 264 POEMS. 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG ARTIST. 
 
 shall -we mourn thee, gifted one ? how wail 
 The fate that snatched thee thus in youth 
 
 away, 
 Ere in life s wreath one rose-bud had grown pale, 
 
 Ere one dark cloud had dimmed thine early day ? 
 How speak the sorrow that our bosoms thrilled, 
 When death the pulses of thy warm heart stilled ? 
 
 How shall we mourn thee ? Thou wert of the few 
 Who walk the earth in majesty of mind ; 
 
 Genius had given its treasures to thy view 
 The painter s eye, the poet s thought combined, 
 
 The soul to image all things pure and bright, 
 
 The skill to give them to our daily sight. 
 
 Alas ! that hand its cunning has forgot, 
 
 That eye is closed upon all earthly things ; 
 
 On thy dull ear the voice of praise falls not, 
 Thy heart is cold to love s soft whisperings. 
 
 Called from life s feast too soon, thou hast but quaffed 
 
 Of love, joy, fame, one deep and final draught. 
 
 Like the Olympian victor, thou hadst won 
 The goal of all thy hopes ; and in the hour 
 
 When toil was past and glory had begun, 
 
 Then came the King of Terrors in his power, 
 
 And at his touch thou didst in dust lay clown 
 
 The youthful head girt with its laurel crown.
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG ARTIST. 265 
 
 All earthly gifts were thine save length of days ; 
 
 And dare we ask why God denied thee this ? 
 Haply the grave that shuts thee from our gaze, 
 
 Closing upon thee in thine hour of bliss, 
 Was meant to save thee all the varied woe 
 That waits the weary wayfarer below. 
 
 " Thy sun went down at noon," but not in clouds ; 
 
 And while we watch in tears its swift decline, 
 We know that though death s awful shadow shrouds 
 
 Its brightness now, yet it shall once more shine 
 Among the host of heaven ; and we, who bear 
 Life s lessons in our hearts, may hope to greet thee there.
 
 SONGS, FROM CONSTANCE LATIMER. 
 
 S thy cheek fair, my brother ? 
 
 Are thine eyes bright ? 
 Hast thou the smile of our mother, 
 Her remembered smile of light? 
 Art thou like the gentle vision 
 
 That comes to my sleeping eye, 
 When my heart in dreams elysian 
 Meets its lost one in yonder sky ? 
 
 Vainly I ask, my brother ; 
 
 No lip can tell ; 
 The imaged form of another 
 
 In my memory still must dwell ; 
 In vain with impatient fingers 
 
 Thy features I seek to trace, 
 His look in my soul still lingers, 
 
 And in thine I find Julian s face. 
 
 [HEY tell me Spring is coming 
 
 With her wealth of buds and flowers, 
 But I hear no wild bees humming 
 Amid the leafy bowers ;
 
 SONGS, FROM CONSTANCE LA TIMER. 267 
 
 And till the birds are winging 
 
 With music from each tree, 
 Till the insect tribes are singing, 
 
 Spring is not spring to me. 
 
 They tell me spring is waking 
 
 Glad Nature from her sleep, 
 That streams, their ice-chains breaking, 
 
 Once more to sunshine leap ; 
 But the mountain brook rejoices 
 
 In music through the lea 
 Till I hear Earth s many voices, 
 
 Spring is not spring to me. 
 
 ARTH speaks in many voices ; from the roar 
 Of the wild cataract whose ceaseless din 
 
 Shakes the far forest and resounding shore, 
 To the meek rivulet which seems to win 
 Its modest way amid spring s pleasant bowers, 
 Singing its quiet song to charm earth s painted flowers. 
 
 Earth speaks in many voices ; from the song 
 
 Of the free bird which soars to heaven s high porch, 
 
 As if on joy s full tide it swept along, 
 
 To the low hum that wakens when the torch 
 
 Summons the insect myriads of the night 
 
 To sport their little hour and perish in its light. 
 
 Earth speaks in many voices ; music breathes 
 In the sweet murmur of the summer breeze
 
 268 POEMS. 
 
 That plays amid the honeysuckle s wreaths, 
 
 Or swells its diapason mid the trees, 
 When eve s cold shadow steals o er lawn and lea, 
 And day s glad sounds give place to holier minstrelsy. 
 
 Earth speaks in many voices ; and to me 
 Her every tone with melody is fraught ; 
 
 Her harmony of tints I may not see, 
 
 But every breath awakes some pleasant thought ; 
 
 While to mine ear such blissful sounds are given, 
 
 My spirit dwells in light, and dreams of yonder heaven, 
 
 ADY, they tell me thou art fair, 
 
 They say the rose blooms on thy cheek. 
 s=P The rose s blush I have forgot, 
 Its breath alone to me can speak. 
 
 Lady, they say thine eye s soft blue 
 With heaven s own tint is flashing bright. 
 
 Alas ! I have forgot that hue, 
 
 My sky is always clothed in night. 
 
 Lady, they tell me thou art good, 
 
 Thy heart in virtue s cause beats high. 
 
 I know this tale, at least, is true, 
 Mine ear assists my darkened eye. 
 
 Little I know of beauty s form, 
 
 The dimpled mouth, the snowy skin,
 
 SOA GS, FROM CONSTANCE LA TIMER. 269 
 
 But I can learn, from step and voice, 
 If gentle be the heart within. 
 
 I know thou rt one whom all may love, 
 Though thy fair brow I ne er may see, 
 
 And can I doubt thou wilt allow 
 The blind girl s claim to sympathy ? 
 
 [IKE the wind-harp whose melody slumbers, 
 
 Unwakened by mortal hand, 
 Till the soft breeze calls forth its sweet numbers, 
 Like tones from a seraph s land ; 
 So my lips ever echo the feelings 
 
 Which nature alone may impart ; 
 I know naught of passion s revealings, 
 Then wake not my slumbering heart. 
 
 Like a lake lying far on the mountain, 
 
 Where foot of man scales not its height, 
 Fed only by heaven s pure fountain, 
 
 And only reflecting heaven s light ; 
 So my soul s quiet depths give back only 
 
 The feelings where childhood has part ; 
 Blessed with friendships my life is not lonely, 
 
 Then wake not my slumbering heart.
 
 THE POETIC IMPULSE. 
 
 WAY, vain yearnings, for a wild ideal ! 
 
 Why tempt ye me like visions from above ? 
 Why throng round one who dwells amid things 
 
 real, 
 Who quaffs the cup of earthly grief and love ? 
 
 Away, away, and leave me still to follow 
 The varied path God gives me to pursue, 
 
 The joys of fancy are but false and hollow, 
 They shall not win me to forget the true. 
 
 Away, nor tempt me with thy bright revealings 
 
 Of Poesy s sweet fairy-land of dreams ; 
 Better for me to nurse the gentler feelings 
 
 Which light my home with calm contentment s beams. 
 
 Away, away, ye make my footsteps falter, 
 
 When o er my lowly way your fair forms come ; 
 
 To her who serves at the Penates altar, 
 The Delphic oracles must still be dumb.
 
 PRAGMENT. 271 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 
 " The joy untasted." 
 
 Byron. 
 
 : YE, it is ever thus : in every heart 
 
 Some thirst unslaked has been a life-long 
 
 pang, 
 Some deep desire in every soul has part, 
 
 Some want has pierced us all with serpent fang ; 
 For who from such a brimming cup has quaffed 
 That not one drop was wanting to life s draught ? 
 
 It comes to us in youth that pining thirst, 
 
 And then we seek to quench it at Love s spring, 
 
 Cheating the soul with fancies that at first 
 Seem bright and glorious as an angel s wing, 
 
 Till time and change o ershadow them, and leave 
 
 The heart in deeper loneliness to grieve. 
 
 Tis with us in our later life ; in vain 
 
 We win the sweetest draughts of wealth and fame ; 
 Still in the bosom dwells the unquiet pain, 
 
 Still burns unquenched, unquenchable the flame ; 
 The joy is still untasted, and we wear 
 Our lives away in hope which brings despair. 
 
 And various as the bosoms where it dwells 
 Is this vain yearning for some untried bliss ;
 
 272 POEMS. 
 
 We little know the secret pang that swells 
 
 The masker s bosom in a world like this, 
 For vainly in our fellow-man s calm face 
 We seek the yearnings of the soul to trace. 
 
 SONNETS TO THE HON. MRS. NORTON. 
 
 jEAUTY, transcendent beauty, such as fills 
 The passion-stricken heart with dreams of 
 heaven, 
 
 Genius to whom such magic power is given 
 That its least word our inmost spirit thrills ; 
 These, lady, are thy gifts, and life for thee 
 
 Should have sped onward like a summer s day, 
 
 Each moment gilded by affection s ray, 
 Till pleasure s light was quenched in death s calm sea ; 
 This should have been thy fate, fair child of song, 
 
 Were happiness the meed of high deserving. 
 Alas ! what skill may paint the griefs that throng 
 
 Around thy soul, its lofty powers unnerving ? 
 Lonely, bereaved, and wronged, yet thou dost borrow 
 A crowning grace from woe the majesty of sorrow. 
 
 HERE was old England s chivalry, when thou, 
 Peerless in beauty and in genius, felt 
 The unvenomed shaft of calumny ? where dwelt 
 The spirit that of old inspired the vow
 
 SPIRITUAL BEAUTY. 273 
 
 To guard the right, and battle for the weak, 
 
 When thou didst bow thy glorious head in shame, 
 As the dark mildew fell on thy fair fame, 
 And Slander hinted what she dared not speak? 
 Where were the hearts that should have wakened then, 
 When thou wast struck down from thy pride of place, 
 Thou bird of song and beauty ? That bright face 
 In ruder times had called forth noble men 
 To champion thy distress : such times are o er, 
 And selfish interest rules where honor reigned before. 
 
 SPIRITUAL BEAUTY. 
 
 HERE is a form that visits me in dreams 
 A form of delicate and maiden grace ; 
 And o er my slumbers bends a gentle face, 
 Where the soul s speaking brightness ever beams : 
 Tis not a face of beauty, yet sweet gleams 
 
 Of pure and holy thought are in her eyes, 
 And her lip wears a smile that ever seems 
 To light the circling air like sunset skies. 
 Alas ! tis but in dreams she comes ; no more 
 
 That gentle friend shall bless my waking sight, 
 Until life s changeful April day is o er, 
 
 And mine eyes close in death s untroubled night : 
 Then may I hope my lost one s face to see, 
 And share in happier worlds her immortality. 
 18
 
 274 - POEMS. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 ^OULD friends have stayed the dart of death, 
 
 Thou hadst not sure have died ; 
 Could love recall life s fleeting breath, 
 Thou still wert at our side ; 
 But thou wert hurried to the tomb 
 In all the flush of beauty s bloom, 
 
 In all thy youthful pride ; 
 Affection, powerless to save, 
 Could only weep above thy grave. 
 
 Twas not the touch of slow disease, 
 
 Sapping life s hidden springs, 
 Weaning the soul, by slow degrees, 
 
 From all to which it clings ; 
 Twas not a summons long delayed, 
 And still reluctantly obeyed, 
 
 Called thee from earthly things : 
 A few brief days alone were given 
 To win thy thoughts from earth to heaven. 
 
 The world for thee was glad and bright, 
 
 Thy path was strewn with flowers, 
 And Pleasure shed her rosiest light 
 
 Upon youth s smiling bowers ; 
 Yet no base fear was in thy heart 
 When called from all most loved to part, 
 
 E en in life s morning hours ;
 
 TO . 275 
 
 For in thy soul was Heaven s own grace, 
 And angel brightness on thy face. 
 
 Fame slants no laurel o er the tomb 
 
 Where thou dost calmly sleep, 
 But gentle memories round it bloom, 
 
 And love there bends to weep : 
 Thou wert of those the world knows not ; 
 Thou art of those, the unforgot, 
 
 Who in our hearts we keep ; 
 A mother s love O ! more than fame 
 A mother s tears embalm thy name. 
 
 TO 
 
 STRAIN of the heart s music ! yet one more, 
 Though it be low and broken in its tone, 
 And blended with the old year s dying moan, 
 
 For thee, beloved, I pour. 
 
 A strain of the heart s music, full of love, 
 Tender and grateful, love the tried and true ; 
 Yet mingled with a touch of sadness too, 
 Like voice of turtle-dove. 
 
 For past is now life s glad and joyous spring, 
 When every breeze my busy pulses stirred, 
 And my heart caroled like a forest bird, 
 Rising on new-plumed wing.
 
 276 POEMS. 
 
 Now through life s summer-time we journey on, 
 Bearing the heat and burden of the day, 
 Finding, at every footstep of the way, 
 Some loved companion gone. 
 
 Hope weaves no more her wild fantastic measure, 
 But wraps herself in Memory s mantle gray, 
 And chants with quiet voice Truth s simple lay 
 Of mingled pain and pleasure. 
 
 Yet in my bosom joy cloth still abide, 
 
 Aye, joy the purest earth has ever proved ; 
 For am I not still loving and beloved ? 
 Still, dear one, at thy side ? 
 
 The happiness we have together known, 
 The bitter tears we have together shed, 
 The gentle memories of our blessed dead, 
 Cherished by us alone, 
 
 These are the links that bind our wedded hearts, 
 These are the thoughts that make me love thee more, 
 As years, like spent waves, die upon life s shore, 
 And youth departs.
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 277 
 
 COME TO ME, LOVE. 
 
 ^OME to me, love ; forget each sordid duty 
 
 That chains thy footsteps to the crowded mart j 
 Come, look with me upon earth s summer beauty 
 And let its influence cheer thy weary heart : 
 Come to me, love ! 
 
 Come to me, love ; the voice of song is swelling 
 From nature s harp in every varied tone, 
 
 And many a voice of bird and bee is telling 
 A tale of joy amid the forests lone : 
 
 Come to me, love ! 
 
 Come to me, love ; my heart can never doubt thee, 
 Yet for thy sweet companionship I pine ; 
 
 O, never more can joy be joy without thee ; 
 My pleasures, even as my life, are thine : 
 Come to me, love ! 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 f was a lady young and fair 
 
 Who sung that mournful strain ; 
 Her brow wore not a shade of care, 
 Her cheek no trace of pain ;
 
 278 POEMS. 
 
 Yet sung she, e en as one who knows 
 
 How youthful hearts are torn, 
 " Love s first step is upon the rose, 
 His second finds the thorn." 
 
 Bright jewels bound her raven hair, 
 
 And sparkled on her hand, 
 For earth held nought of rich or rare 
 
 Her wealth might not command ; 
 Yet mark how sad the music flows 
 
 From lips curved half in scorn : 
 " Love s first step is upon the rose, 
 
 His second finds the thorn." 
 
 No brighter, lovelier face appears 
 
 In pleasure s crowded mart ; 
 That proud eye was not made for tears, 
 
 No blight should touch that heart ; 
 Yet, as she sings, some memory throws 
 
 Its shadow o er life s morn : 
 " Love s first step is upon the rose, 
 
 His second finds the thorn." 
 
 Alas ! it is a weary task 
 
 To trace life s hidden cares ; 
 Seek not to raise the smiling mask 
 
 Which maiden pride still wears ; 
 A quaint old rhyme may oft disclose 
 
 How much the heart has borne : 
 " Love s first step is upon the rose, 
 
 His second finds the thorn."
 
 STANZAS. 279 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 OURNFULLY my spirit turns 
 
 To dreams of olden time, 
 And oft my heart within me burns 
 When I hear some old-world rhyme ; 
 And ever has Poesy been to me 
 The Atlantis of Time s wide sea ; 
 I have steered full often my weary bark 
 For that green isle on the waters dark ; 
 But never my foot might press its shore, 
 And I turn to actual life once more 
 Mournfully, O, mournfully ! 
 
 Mournfully doth my bosom pine 
 
 For the fantasies of youth ; 
 And I would that fancy now could shine 
 
 With a light like that of truth ; 
 I would lift my worldly laden thought 
 To the realms with so much beauty fraught, 
 I would catch again the glorious gleam 
 That filled my soul with its heavenly beam 
 Ere my earthly hopes and earthly fears 
 Brought my feelings back to this vale of tears, 
 Mournfully, O, mournfully ! 
 
 Mournfully do my tear-drops fall 
 
 On the poet s pictured page, 
 And fain would I the dreams recall 
 
 That gladdened life s golden age j
 
 280 POEMS. 
 
 But I bartered those treasures long, long ago, 
 For happiness such as few can know, 
 Nor would I recall the feverish past, 
 With its wild unrest and its pang at last ; 
 Yet the voice of song has a magic still, 
 And its gentle tones can my spirit thrill, 
 Mournfully, O, mournfully ! 
 
 THE ENGLISH RIVER. 
 
 A FANTASY. 
 
 jT floweth on, with pleasant sound, 
 
 A vague and dream-like measure, 
 And singeth to the flowers around 
 A song of quiet pleasure ; 
 No rugged cliff obstructs the way 
 Where the glad waters leap and play ; 
 Or, if a tiny rock look down 
 In the calm stream with mimic frown, 
 The gentle waves new music make, 
 As at its base they flash and break. 
 It speedeth on, like joy s bright hours, 
 Traced but by verdure and by flowers ; 
 But whether sunbeams on it rest, 
 Or storm-clouds hover o er its breast, 
 Still in that green and shady glen, 
 Beside the busy haunts of men, 
 The river singeth on.
 
 THE ENGLISH RIVER. 281 
 
 It floweth on, past tree and flower, 
 
 Until the stream is laving 
 The ruins of Strathallen s tower, 
 
 With ivy banners waving. 
 Methinks the river s pleasant chime 
 Tells me a tale of olden time, 
 When mail-clad knights were often seen 
 Upon its banks of living green, 
 And gentle dames of lineage high, 
 With jeweled brow and flashing eye ; 
 While many a squire, whose humble name 
 Was yet unheralded by fame, 
 Here wove his dreams of high emprise, 
 While musical as lovers sighs, 
 The river singeth on. 
 
 It floweth on, this gentle stream, 
 
 And seems to tell the story 
 Of old-world heroes, and their dream 
 
 Of fame and martial glory ; 
 The war-cry on its banks has pealed, 
 Blent with the clang of lance and shield ; 
 Waked to new life by war s alarms, 
 Bold knights, and squires, and men-at-arms, 
 Have sallied forth in proud array 
 With hearts impatient for the fray ; 
 While the clear streamlet still gave back 
 The glittering sheen that marked their track. 
 Though nature s voice is all unheard 
 When pulses are thus madly stirred, 
 The river singeth on.
 
 282 POEMS. 
 
 Yet over e en the sunniest fate 
 
 Hangs the dark cloud of sorrow, 
 And sadder scenes the fancy wait, 
 
 Since dreams from truth we borrow ; 
 A well worn path, now grass-o ergrown, 
 And hid by many a fallen stone, 
 To yonder roofless chapel led, 
 Where sleep Strathallen s buried dead ; 
 Full often that pure stream has glassed 
 The funeral train as slow it passed : 
 Hark ! as the cowled monks repeat 
 The Requiescat low and sweet, 
 The river singeth on. 
 
 The vision fades, the phantoms flee, 
 
 And nought of all remaineth ; 
 The river runneth fast and free, 
 
 The wind through ruins plaineth ; 
 The feudal lord and belted knight, 
 And spurless squire and lady bright, 
 Long since have shared the common lot, 
 All, save their haughty name, forgot; 
 The line is ended, there is none 
 To prize the fame his fathers won. 
 The ivy wreathes the ruined shrine, 
 And flaunts beneath the glad sunshine ; 
 The fallen buttress, ruined wall, 
 And crumbling battlements are all 
 That still are left to tell the tale 
 Of those who ruled o er that fair vale ;
 
 THE AMERICAN RIVER. 283 
 
 Nature resumes her lonely sway, 
 And flowers and music mark the way 
 The river singeth on. 
 
 THE AMERICAN RIVER. 
 
 A REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 ! T rusheth on in fearful might, 
 
 That river of the west, 
 Through forest dense, where seldom light 
 Of sunbeam gilds its breast ; 
 Anon it dashes wildly past 
 The wide-spread prairie, lone and vast, 
 Without a shadow on its tide, 
 Save the long grass that skirts its side ; 
 Again its angry currents sweep 
 Beneath the tall and rocky steep 
 Which frowns above the darkened stream, 
 Till doubly deep its waters seem. 
 No rugged cliff may check its way, 
 No gentle mead invite its stay ; 
 Still with resistless, maddening force, 
 Following its wild and devious course, 
 The river rusheth on. 
 
 It rusheth on ; the rocks are stirred, 
 
 And echoing far and wide 
 Through the dim forest aisles is heard 
 
 The thunder of its tide ;
 
 284 POEMS. 
 
 No other sound strikes on the ear 
 Save when, beside its waters clear, 
 Crashing o er branches dry and sere, 
 Comes bounding forth the antlered deer ; 
 Or when, perchance, the woods give back 
 The arrow whizzing on its track, 
 Or deadlier rifle s vengeful crack. 
 No hum of city life is near, 
 And still uncurbed in its career, 
 
 The river rusheth on. . 
 
 It rusheth on ; no fire-bark leaves 
 
 Its dark and smoking trail 
 O er the pure wave, which only heaves 
 
 The bateau light and frail ; 
 Long, long ago the rude canoe 
 Across those sparkling waters flew ; 
 Long, long ago the Indian Brave 
 In that clear stream his brow might lave ; 
 But seldom has the white man stood 
 Within that trackless solitude. 
 Yet onward, onward, dashing still, 
 With all the force of untamed will, 
 The river rusheth on. 
 
 It rusheth on ; no changes mark 
 How many years have sped 
 
 Since to its banks, through forests dark, 
 Some chance the hunter led ; 
 
 Though many a season has passed o er 
 
 The giant trees that gird its shore,
 
 STANZAS. 285 
 
 Though the soft limestone mass, impressed 
 
 By naked foootstep on its breast, 
 
 Now hardened into rock appears 
 
 By work of indurating years, 
 
 Yet tis by grander strength alone 
 
 That Nature s age is ever known. 
 
 While towers decay and nations fall, 
 
 And Thebes shows but a ruined wall, 
 
 Time in the wilderness displays 
 
 Th ennobling power of length of days. 
 
 The crumbling buttress tells the tale 
 
 Of man s vain pomp and projects frail ; 
 
 But in the forest s trackless bound, 
 
 Type of Eternity, is found 
 
 The river rushing on. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 " Clean forgotten, as a dead man out of mind." 
 
 Psaltns. 
 
 is this, then, the common lot? 
 The end of earthly love and trust ? 
 To be by cherished ones forgot 
 When the frail body sleeps in dust ? 
 Shall hearts which now with love run o er, 
 
 Retain for us no deeper trace 
 Than leaves the footprint on the shore, 
 Which the next wavelet may efface ?
 
 286 POEMS. 
 
 Shall those who only seemed to live 
 
 Within the sunshine of our smile, 
 To whom existence could not give 
 
 A joy unshared by us the while, 
 Shall they mid other joys live on, 
 
 And form anew affection s tie, 
 When we from earth s delights are gone, 
 
 Forever hid from human eye ? 
 
 Aye ; thus it is th eternal laws 
 
 That rule our nature are obeyed. 
 Not in mid conflict may we pause 
 
 To linger long where love is laid ; 
 We pile the sod above the breast 
 
 Which pillowed oft our aching head, 
 Then turn, and leave unto its rest 
 
 Our loved, but half-forgotten dead. 
 
 Tears, the heart s desolating rain, 
 
 Awhile upon our path may fall, 
 But hope s sweet sunbeam smiles again, 
 
 And grief can ne er the past recall ; 
 Anon the dirge s mournful measure 
 
 Is changed to some less saddening strain, 
 And soon the echoing voice of pleasure 
 
 Tells grief and love alike were vain. 
 
 We form new schemes of future bliss, 
 New flowers spring up to cheer our way, 
 
 And scarcely from our side we miss 
 The partners of life s earlier day ;
 
 SONNET TO W. C. BRYANT. 287 
 
 Alas ! how vain our noblest feelings, 
 
 How idle would affection seem, 
 Did not God give us bright revealings 
 
 Of life where love is not a dream ! 
 
 SONNET 
 
 TO WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY 
 AFTER THE PERUSAL OF HIS POEMS. 
 
 :Y thanks are thine, most gifted one ; to thee 
 I owe an hour of intellectual life, 
 A sweet hour, rescued from the noise, and strife, 
 And turmoil of the world, which but to see 
 Or hear of, from afar, is pain to me. 
 
 I thank thee for the rich draught thou hast brought 
 To lips that love the well-springs of pure thought, 
 Which from thy soul gush up so plenteously. 
 The hymnings of thy prophet voice awake 
 Those nobler impulses that, hushed and still, 
 Lie hidden in our breast, till some wild thrill 
 Of spirit-life has power their chains to break ; 
 Then from our long inglorious dream we start, 
 As if an angel s tone had stirred the slumbering heart.
 
 288 POEMS. 
 
 A LITANY. 
 
 >HEN the sun of joy shines brightest, 
 And our steps on earth are lightest ; 
 When to songs of quiet pleasure 
 
 Every pulse keeps joyful measure ; 
 
 When no storm-cloud hovers o er us, 
 
 And no darkness lies before us 
 
 Then from dangers lurking nigh, 
 
 All unmarked by human eye ; 
 
 From the serpent in life s bowers, 
 
 Coiled beneath the fairest flowers ; 
 
 From the evil thoughts that hide 
 
 Even most where joys abide, 
 
 Good Lord, deliver us ! 
 
 When a rugged path we tread, 
 And the heart grows faint with dread ; 
 When o er waters wild and dark 
 Drifts our lone and helmless bark, 
 While the stars wax dim and pale, 
 And our hopes of succor fail ; 
 When to heaven we lift our eyes, 
 As the waves around us rise, 
 Feeling that our God is there, 
 O ! in answer to our prayer, 
 
 Good Lord, deliver us ! 
 
 When the hour of death draws near, 
 And the soul is filled with fear ;
 
 A LITANY. 289 
 
 When, with lingering step and slow, 
 Onward to the grave we go, 
 Turning from a world of light 
 T ward the realms of endless night, 
 Then from demons that assail us 
 When the powers of nature fail us ; 
 From the evil shapes that seem 
 Fancies of a sick man s dream, 
 Yet which come, with fearful power, 
 Tempting us in life s last hour, 
 Good Lord, deliver us ! 
 
 When the awful trump shall sound, 
 Startling the world s remotest bound ; 
 W 7 hen earth s charnel-house shall pour 
 Its myriads forth to life once more ; 
 When, shrinking, trembling, fearful, all 
 Before thy glorious footstool fall, 
 From the judgments that await 
 The spirit unregenerate ; 
 From the sinner s guilty shame, 
 The gnawing worm, the quenchless flame, 
 Good Lord, deliver us ! 
 
 19
 
 290 POEMS. 
 
 POESY. 
 
 | AST thou ne er marked a fount, from earth up- 
 springing, 
 
 Within the shelter of some greenwood glade, 
 Scarce seen by human eye, yet gladly flinging 
 Its wealth of freshness in that sylvan shade ? 
 
 The very herbage that its waters nourish 
 Serves to conceal it from the passer-by ; 
 
 Only the flow rets on its brink that flourish 
 Reveal its windings to the thoughtless eye. 
 
 O, thus be Poesy within my bosom, 
 A bubbling fountain ever pure and bright, 
 
 Known only by the charities that blossom 
 Beneath its influence into life and light ! 
 
 Within my heart, unchecked, that sweet stream gushes, 
 As fresh and pure as in my girlhood s day ; 
 
 No beam from glory s sun its surface flushes, 
 Love only marks its solitary way. 
 
 What though its early fullness has been wasted 
 On many a wayside herb and lowly flower ? 
 
 It floweth on, and one beloved hath tasted 
 Its cooling wave in many a weary hour.
 
 DISTRUST. 291 
 
 Full well I know that silently it wendeth 
 In seeming idlesse to Oblivion s sea, 
 
 And yet to daily life its presence lendeth 
 A beauty and a bliss enough for me. 
 
 DISTRUST. 
 
 OO late! too late! in days of yore, 
 
 ^y v i ce nas thrilled through heart and 
 
 , brain, 
 For then I knelt as never more 
 
 I kneel at woman s shrine again 
 Then hadst thou breathed one tender sigh, 
 
 I had lain humbled at thy feet, 
 E en though, like Brahma s votary, I 
 Could only hope my death to meet. 
 
 But I have borne the weight of ill, 
 
 Have suffered all a lover s fate, 
 Until my heart, benumbed and chill, 
 
 Can only feel thou comest too late ; 
 The joys that blessed our early youth, 
 
 The hopes that o er my pathway shone, 
 Love s perfect trustfulness and truth, 
 
 Its sweet unselfishness, are gone. 
 
 Within my bosom s secret cell 
 Love, lonely hermit, still abides,
 
 29 2 POEMS. 
 
 But ah ! neath Memory s cowl too well 
 His roseate wreath of joy he hides ; 
 
 Aye, Love is there, but pale and worn 
 His weary vigil still he keeps 
 
 Besides the voiceless burial urn, 
 Where happiness forever sleeps. 
 
 No more I breathe the anguished prayer, 
 
 No more I make the yearning cry ; 
 The haunting demons of despair 
 
 Now couched in sullen silence lie ; 
 Distrust has come our hearts between, 
 
 A sense of wrong in both has dwelt ; 
 We cannot be what we have been, 
 
 We cannot feel as we have felt. 
 
 SLIGHTED LOVE. 
 
 HE struggle is over ; 
 
 Such strife could not last ; 
 And pride now must cover 
 All trace of the past ; 
 My heart has grown stronger, 
 
 Nor shrinks from its task, 
 Go, cold one, no longer 
 One kind thought I ask. 
 
 Thou hast taught me the weakness 
 Of woman s fond trust,
 
 STANZAS. 293 
 
 When in love s lowly meekness 
 
 I knelt in the dust ; 
 And now my brow flushes 
 
 With anger and shame, 
 As my proud spirit crushes 
 
 Its once cherished flame. 
 
 Our love-dream is vanished, 
 
 And coldly I speak 
 The words that once banished 
 
 The blood from my cheek. 
 Other idols have wooed thee, 
 
 All changed is thy lot, 
 For Fame has pursued thee, 
 
 And Love is forgot. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 " I die if neglected." 
 
 TELL me not of lofty fate, 
 
 Of glory s deathless name ; 
 The bosom love leaves desolate 
 Has nought to do with fame. 
 
 Vainly philosophy would soar ; 
 
 Love s height it may not reach ; 
 The heart soon learns a sweeter lore 
 
 Than ever sage could teach.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 The cup may bear a poisoned draught, 
 
 The altar may be cold ; 
 But yet the chalice will be quaffed, 
 
 The shrine sought as of old. 
 
 Man s sterner nature turns away 
 
 To seek ambition s goal ; 
 Wealth s glittering gifts and pleasure s ray 
 
 May charm his weary soul ; 
 
 But woman knows one only dream 
 
 That broken, all is o er ; 
 For on life s dark and sluggish stream 
 
 Hope s sunbeam rests no more. 
 
 LINES TO A FRIEND. 
 
 IKE that sweet melody which faintly lingers 
 
 Upon the wind-harp s strings at close of day, 
 When, gently touched by Evening s dewy fingers, 
 It breathes a low and melancholy lay, 
 
 So thy calm voice of sympathy meseemeth, 
 And, while its magic spell is round me cast, 
 
 My spirit in its cloistered silence dreameth, 
 And vaguely blends the future with the past. 
 
 But vain such dreams while pain my bosom thrilleth 
 And mournful memories around me move,
 
 SO AWE T. 295 
 
 E en friendship s alchemy no balm distilleth 
 To soothe the immedicable wound of love. 
 
 O, well thou knowest this truth, for thou hast tasted 
 The draught which leaves such bitterness behind ; 
 
 Thou e en in life s glad spring hast idly wasted 
 Feeling s sweet perfume on the unconscious wind. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! passion too soon exhaleth 
 
 The dewy freshness of the heart s young flowers ; 
 We water them with tears but nought availeth, 
 
 They wither on through all life s later hours. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 ,O more, no more, my heart ! give out no more 
 Thy solemn music to the inconstant wind, 
 Suffer not every careless hand to find 
 Thy hidden stops of harmony, nor pour, 
 As thou wert wont to do in days of yore, 
 
 Thy sweetest tones on ears that yield no heed : 
 O, be not thou like the responsive reed, 
 That, ever as the light air wandereth o er, 
 
 Utters its wild and broken melody ; 
 For I would have thee like the ocean shell, 
 
 Breathing a monotone of that deep sea 
 Whose moaning waves within my breast must swell, 
 
 Marking with ebb and flow my destiny, 
 Until death s icy touch the restless surge shall quell.
 
 296 POEMS. 
 
 THE INCONSTANT. 
 
 PLEDGE to thy lady ; aye, fill high the bowl 
 To the Cynthia that rules o er the tides of 
 
 thy soul, 
 
 To her whose light hand wanders over thy heart, 
 Bringing out the rich music its chords can impart ; 
 Aye, drink to her now, lest a new love awake, 
 Ere thy lip meets the wine bead that swells but to 
 break. 
 
 Pledge to thy lady, but breathe not her name ; 
 That draught quenched already a fast-waning flame ; 
 Ere next at the banquet thou pourest the red wine, 
 Thy love will be pilgrim at some newer shrine ; 
 Another will weave thee a fresher rose-chain, 
 To be worn a brief moment, then flung off again. 
 
 A CHARACTER. 
 
 DO not call him false, nor say 
 
 That, like an Eastern khan, his heart 
 Admits new guests each coming day, 
 And careless sees the old depart. 
 
 Tis rather like some idol fane, 
 
 W T here crowds of pilgrims pass the gate, 
 
 And kneel in homage brief as vain, 
 While but one priestess there may wait.
 
 RECKLESS MIRTH. 297 
 
 RECKLESS MIRTH. 
 
 , give me wine, and let me quaff 
 To the light-winged loves around me ; 
 Fill high the bowl, and we will laugh 
 At the rose-chains that once bound me ; 
 Call in the guests, and I will smile, 
 With a brow as free from sorrow 
 As if my heart was glad the while, 
 And looked for as glad a morrow. 
 
 Aye, give me wine : to me tis fraught 
 
 With a spell of daily gladness, 
 For it drowns the voice of that lonely thought 
 
 Whose whispers are full of sadness. 
 Then serve the feast, and we well drink 
 
 To the present s fleeting pleasures ; 
 Let me drain the cup, for I would not think 
 
 Of the past with its buried treasures. 
 
 Aye, give me wine : I ll cull to-night, 
 
 From the wreath by passion braided, 
 Some blossoms rainbow-hued and bright, 
 
 Some leaflets still unfaded ; 
 For while young beauty s beaming eye 
 
 On my blighted brow reposes, 
 I ll pledge the love that awakes no sigh, 
 
 And gather life s thornless roses.
 
 298 POEMS. 
 
 I WILL NOT LOVE THEE. 
 
 WILL not love thee ; I have ever cast 
 
 Too many passion-flowers on life s dark tide, 
 Then, like a truant school-boy, idly passed 
 My vacant hours to watch them onward glide. 
 
 I will not love thee ; why should I reope 
 
 My bosom s secret treasury for thee, 
 And cull its richest gems, without one hope 
 
 To see them shine amid thy blazonry ? 
 
 I will not love thee ; thou shalt never find 
 My hopes to thee, like incense, offered up ; 
 
 I will not fling sweet odors to the wind, 
 Or melt another pearl in passion s cup. 
 
 I will not love thee ; though I know thee all 
 That women envy and that men adore, 
 
 Though on my brow thy smiles like sunbeams fall, 
 My heart must worship, but must love no more. 
 
 INQUIETUDE. 
 
 BETHOUGHT the icy hand of Time had chilled 
 
 The gushing fount of passion in my breast ; 
 Methought that reason s power, for aye, had 
 
 stilled 
 The bitter struggles of my heart s unrest.
 
 A GENTLE HERITAGE IS MIXE. 299 
 
 Cold, calm, and self-possessing, I had deemed 
 
 In quiet now to view life slip away, 
 Forgetting much that once my soul had dreamed, 
 
 And lengthening out in peace my little day. 
 
 Safe in indifference, I had vainly hoped 
 To scorn the sympathy I might not share, 
 
 And little thought mine own hand would have oped 
 My bosom s portal to returning care. 
 
 How burns the blush of shame upon my cheek, 
 How bends to earth in grief my haughty brow, 
 
 When thus I find myself disarmed and weak 
 Before the ideal shapes that haunt me now ! 
 
 O God ! how long, misled by erring thought, 
 Shall I grope darkly on in feeling s maze ? 
 
 When shall I be by Time s sad lessons taught, 
 And reach my home of rest by quiet ways ? 
 
 A GENTLE HERITAGE IS MIXE. 
 
 GENTLE heritage is mine, 
 A life of quiet pleasure ; 
 My heaviest cares are but to twine 
 Fresh votive garlands for the shrine 
 Where bides my bosom s treasure. 
 I am not merry, nor yet sad ; 
 My thoughts are more serene than glad.
 
 300 POEMS. 
 
 I have outlived youth s feverish mirth 
 
 And all its causeless sorrow ; 
 My joys are now of nobler worth, 
 My sorrows, too, have holier birth, 
 
 And heavenly solace borrow ; 
 So, from my green and shady nook, 
 Back on my by-past life I look. 
 
 The Past has memories sad and sweet, 
 
 Memories still fondly cherished, 
 Of joys that blossomed at my feet, 
 Whose odors still my senses greet, 
 
 E en though the flowers have perished ; 
 Visions of friends long past away, 
 Whose love once blest life s earlier day. 
 
 The Future, Isis-like, sits veiled, 
 
 And none her mystery learneth ; 
 It may be that her cheek is paled 
 \Vith sorrows yet to be bewailed ; 
 
 Perhaps before her burneth 
 A lurid fire that must destroy 
 My every bud of hope and joy. 
 
 I would not lift the veil that hides 
 Life s coming joy or sorrow ; 
 
 If sweet content with me abides 
 
 W hile onward still the Present glides, 
 I think not of the morrow ; 
 
 It may bring griefs ; enough for me 
 
 The quiet joy I feel and see.
 
 SONG. 301 
 
 SOXG. 
 
 JOVE her? No! for passion blendeth 
 Ever with the heart s young dream ; 
 And earth s evil shadow lendeth 
 Darkness to life s purest beam ; 
 Still with jealous hopes and fears 
 Love has marked his weary lot, 
 Tracing every step by tears ; 
 Then be sure I love her not. 
 
 Love her ? No ! such fire ne er burneth 
 
 Save when sighing fans the flame ; 
 While the bosom wildly yearneth, 
 
 Nursing hopes it dares not name ; 
 Since desires the soul may stir, 
 
 Vague and vain, yet unforgot, 
 I would guard sweet thoughts of her, 
 
 But be sure to love her not. 
 
 Love her ? No ! my heart inurneth 
 
 Ashes she can ne er illume ; 
 And the lamp that in me burneth 
 
 Shines, a lamp within a tomb ; 
 On my brow the seal is set, 
 
 Sorrow never sets in vain 
 Time may teach me to forget, 
 
 But I cannot love again. 
 
 Love her ? No ! pure, deep devotion 
 Such as angel hearts might prize,
 
 302 POEMS. 
 
 Stills my bosom s wild emotion 
 When I meet her earnest eyes ; 
 
 Like a high and holy star 
 Cheereth she my lonely lot ; 
 
 I may worship from afar, 
 But be sure I love her not. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 HAVE won thee to love me, all cold as thou 
 art; 
 
 I have won thee to love me, untamable heart ! 
 For this every joy of my life has been given, 
 For this I have risked every promise of heaven ; 
 I have won thee to love me, I hold thee in thrall, 
 And the sight of thy bondage repays me for all. 
 
 I have won thee to love me, untamable heart! 
 I have won thee to love me, and now let us part ; 
 Thou mayst throw off my fetters with haughty disdain, 
 But the scar and the aching must ever remain ; 
 My toils may seem frail as the wood-spider s net, 
 But Love s spell is upon thee, thou canst not forget.
 
 XEVER FORGET. 303 
 
 NEVER FORGET. 
 
 EVER forget the hour of our first meeting, 
 ^ When mid the sounds of revelry and song 
 
 Only thy soul could know that mine was greeting 
 Its idol, wished for, waited for so long; 
 Never forget. 
 
 Never forget the joy of that revealment, 
 
 Centring an age of bliss in one sweet hour, 
 
 When love broke forth from friendship s frail concealment 
 And stood confessed to us in godlike power ; 
 Never forget. 
 
 Never forget my heart s intense devotion, 
 
 Its wealth of freshness at thy feet flung free, 
 
 Its golden hopes whelmed in that boundless ocean 
 Which merged all wishes, all desires, save thee ; 
 Never forget. 
 
 Never forget the moment when we parted, 
 
 When from love s summer-cloud the bolt was hurled 
 
 That drove us, scathed in soul and broken-hearted, 
 Alone to wander through this desert world ; 
 Never forget.
 
 304 POEMS. 
 
 THE AEOLIAN HARP. 
 
 |ARP of the Winds! how vainly art thou swelling 
 
 Thy diapason on the heedless blast ! 
 How idly, too, thy gentler chords are telling 
 A tale of sorrow as the breeze sweeps past ! 
 Why dost thou waste on loneliness the strain 
 Which were not heard by human ears in vain ? 
 
 And the harp answered : " Though the winds are bearing 
 My soul of sweetness on their viewless wings, 
 
 Yet one faint tone may reach some soul despairing, 
 And rouse its energies to happier things ; 
 
 O ! not in vain my song, if it but gives 
 
 One moment s joy to anything that lives." 
 
 O heart of mine ! canst thou not here, discerning 
 An emblem of thyself, some solace find ? 
 
 Though earth may never quench thy life-long yearning, 
 Yet give thyself, like music, to the wind ; 
 
 Thy wandering thoughts may teach thy love and trust, 
 
 And waken sympathy when thou art dust.
 
 SOMETHING BEYOND: 1 305 
 
 " SOMETHING BEYOND." 
 
 EART ! weary heart ! what means thy wild un 
 rest? 
 
 Hast thou not tasted of life s every pleasure ? 
 With all that mortals seek, thy lot is blest, 
 Yet dost thou ever chant in solemn measure, 
 " Something beyond ! " 
 
 Heart ! weary heart ! canst thou not find repose 
 In the sweet calm of friendship s pure devotion ? 
 
 Amid the peace which sympathy bestows, 
 
 Still dost thou murmur with repressed emotion, 
 " Something beyond ! " 
 
 Heart ! weary heart ! too idly hast thou poured 
 Thy music and thy perfume on the blast ; 
 
 Now beggared in affection s treasured hoard, 
 Thy cry is still, thy saddest and thy last, 
 " Something beyond ! " 
 
 Heart ! weary heart ! O cease thy wild unrest ; 
 
 Earth cannot satisfy thy bitter yearning ; 
 But onward, upward speed thy lonely quest, 
 
 And hope to find, where heaven s pure stars are 
 burning, 
 
 " Something beyond ! "
 
 306 POEMS. 
 
 THE MOURNER S APPEAL. 
 
 LOWERS, happy flowers ! methinks your tender 
 
 eyes 
 
 Look kindly on me in my deep distress; 
 Dwells there no healing virtue in your sighs? 
 Have ye no balm the weary heart to bless? 
 Can ye not give from out your glowing hearts 
 
 A freshness like the joy of childhood s hours? 
 Or must I sadly feel, as youth departs, 
 
 Life s dial only once is wreathed with flowers? 
 
 Stars, holy stars ! pure watchers of the night ! 
 
 Is there no beam that points the way to hope? 
 Amid a world of so much gladsome light, 
 
 Must I forever in thick darkness grope? 
 O chase this vague, wild horror from my thought; 
 
 Let me but feel Heaven pities my deep woe ; 
 My future years are with such anguish fraught, 
 
 I would look upward, peace dwells not below. 
 
 Since first my soul took cognizance of life, 
 
 I ve looked on Nature with a lover s eye ; 
 Amid the world s vain toil and bitter strife, 
 
 I still have felt her gentle influence nigh: % 
 
 Yet now when in my agony I come, 
 
 Fleeing to her in refuge from despair, 
 Her shrine is cold, her oracles are dumb, 
 
 No sympathy nor solace wait me there.
 
 SOWET. 307 
 
 Tis that mine eyes are dimmed with frequent tears, 
 
 Else would I see a balm in every flower, 
 And find a light to chase my gloomy fears 
 
 In every star that gems the evening hour; 
 Tis that my soul is dark with sinful doubt, 
 
 And finds no promise in a world so fair, 
 Else would each star and fragrant bud give out 
 
 Its pledge that God, our Hope, is everywhere. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR OF " VESTIGES OF CREATION. " 
 
 .^ELF-MISSIONED leader through Creation s 
 
 maze ! 
 Dost thou interpret thus God s mighty scheme 
 
 Weaving the cobweb fancies of a dream 
 O er each gray vestige of liis mystic ways ? 
 When thus midst chaos thou didst blindly grope, 
 
 Gathering new links for matter s heavy chain, 
 Dwelt there not in thy soul the secret hope 
 
 That some strong truth would rend the bond of pain 
 Which fixed thee to Progression s iron wheel? 
 
 O teach not suffering earth such hopeless creed, 
 Too heavy were her curse if doomed to feel 
 
 That in her frequent hour of bitter need, 
 Her lifted eye of prayer could only see 
 Necessity s stern laws graven on Eternity.
 
 308 POEMS. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 ON A PICTURE OF THE TWO MARYS AT THE TOMB 
 OF CHRIST. 
 
 " Last at his cross and earliest at his grave." 
 
 iOT to the holy men in whom the flame 
 Of inspiration all serenely burned, 
 When from his lips God s mystic truths they 
 
 learned, 
 
 Not unto them the risen Christ first came ; 
 Theirs were the gifts of prophecy and prayer, 
 
 And eloquent teaching of his holy name ; 
 Twas theirs his ministry of good to share, 
 
 To bear his cross and to despise the shame ; 
 But they who humbly sought to do his will, 
 
 Content to bear meek-hearted woman s doom, 
 They who had lingered last on Calvary s hill, 
 
 And earliest sought their master s hallowed tomb, 
 To them twas given their risen Lord to see, 
 And catch the first bright gleam of immortality. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 LAS for those who quench the holy spark 
 Of inspiration in their secret soul, . 
 Yielding their natures up to earth s control, 
 Until the mental sight grows dim and dark,
 
 THE STAR-FLOWER. 309 
 
 And thought no longer seeks a lofty mark, 
 
 No longer toils to reach a noble goal, 
 
 While the heart drains life s enervating bowl, 
 And freights with all its hopes some helmless bark ! 
 Alas ! alas ! on earthly shrines we lay 
 
 The incense we should offer up to Heaven, 
 We lavish on an idol of to-day 
 
 The love that for infinitude was given, 
 Till from our souls the light fades slow away, 
 
 And clouds of doubt and fear are o er our spirits 
 driven. 
 
 THE STAR-FLOWER. 
 
 SNOW you whence sprung this starry flower, 
 
 With golden heart and azure rays, 
 Which blooms in every woodland bower 
 When fades the glow of summer days ? 
 
 Then list the legend long since heard 
 
 Beside the red man s winding river, 
 What time the wilds and forests lone 
 
 Were held by right of bow and quiver. 
 
 They tell of one, a youthful brave 
 
 (His name would far outrun my rhyme) ; 
 
 His fame, in savage warfare won, 
 Would rival those of classic time.
 
 310 POEMS. 
 
 They tell how in the ambushed strife 
 An arrow pierced his fearless breast, 
 
 And how, on Susquehanna s marge, 
 They laid him with his sires to rest. 
 
 But when the burial rites were done, 
 And he in forest glade was sleeping, 
 
 There came a gentle Indian maid, 
 
 Whose starry eyes were dim with weeping. 
 
 She built her lodge beside the grave, 
 
 And there, as passed each dreary morrow, 
 
 She still her faithful vigil held, 
 
 And dwelt alone with love and sorrow. 
 
 Full soon, beneath Annunga s * care, 
 
 The turf was decked with many a flower, 
 
 Until death s dreary home appeared 
 As fair as love s own chosen bower. 
 
 There lingered last the buds of spring, 
 
 There first glowed forth the summer s bloom, 
 
 And autumn s gayest flow rets shed 
 
 Their glories round that woodland tomb. 
 
 All day within her silent lodge 
 
 The mourner shrunk before the light, 
 
 For earth beneath the sun s glad ray 
 Seemed to her tearful eye too bright. 
 
 1 Annung, i. e. The Star.
 
 THE STAR-FLOWER. 3 11 
 
 But when the shades of evening fell, 
 Deepening the tint of leaf and blossom, 
 
 And stars came looking meekly forth, 
 Glassed in the river s tranquil bosom, 
 
 Then knelt she by that hallowed spot, 
 
 And wept the livelong night away, 
 Until heaven s sparkling crown grew dim, 
 
 And faded in the morning ray. 
 
 When earth was wrapped in wintry shroud, 
 And leafless trees stood grim and gaunt, 
 
 Like giant spectres set to guard 
 
 The spot where grief had made her haunt, 
 
 Still dwelt she in her forest lair, 
 
 Which cowered beneath the branches low, 
 
 And seemed, amid those dreary wilds, 
 A speck upon the waste of snow. 
 
 Thus came and went the changing times, 
 While still the maid her watch was keeping, 
 
 Till grief its weary task had done, 
 
 And life was worn with frequent weeping. 
 
 But in that season 1 when the haze 
 
 With purple light the distance fills, 
 As if old Autumn in his flight 
 
 Had dropped his mantle on the hills ; 
 
 1 The Indian summer.
 
 312 POEMS. 
 
 When forest trees with regal pomp 
 
 Their wealth of gem-like leaves display, 
 
 And earth in gayest garb puts on 
 The glory that precedes decay, 
 
 Then prostrate on her lover s grave, 
 
 With long black hair all lifeless spread, 
 
 Shrouding her in its pall-like gloom, 
 They found the gentle maiden dead. 
 
 And where her quivering lip was pressed 
 When breathing forth her life s last sigh, 
 
 They, wondering, saw a nameless flower 
 Look meekly upward to the sky. 
 
 Such blossom ne er before was found 
 In woodland brake, or tangled dell ; 
 
 It sprung beneath Annunga s sigh, 
 
 Born from the heart that loved too well. 
 
 THE RUINED MILL. 
 
 LONE and roofless thing it stands 
 
 In sunshine and in shower, 
 Stretching abroad its palsied hands, 
 A wreck of giant power ; 
 Each mouldering beam and crumbling stone 
 With velvet moss is now o ergrown, 
 While many a wind-sown flower
 
 THE RUINED MILL. 313 
 
 Is peeping through the broken floor, 
 Seeking the place it held of yore. 
 
 The bright-eyed toad looks fearless out, 
 
 And newts to covert steal, 
 While the spider weaves his web about 
 
 The cogs of the massive wheel ; 
 And where the miller once gayly stood 
 The adder rears her hissing brood, 
 
 Nor fears his iron heel ; 
 Man s rule within the place is o er, 
 And Nature wins her own once more. 
 
 O er the broken dam the brook leaps free, 
 
 And speeds on its course along, 
 Wooing the wild flowers daintily 
 
 With its smiles and pleasant song; 
 No longer chained to the busy mill, 
 It wanders on at its own sweet will, 
 
 The hoary rocks among, 
 Then creeps around the old tree s foot, 
 To brighten the moss on its gnarled root. 
 
 I sate me on a gray old stone 
 
 And watched the lapsing stream, 
 Till outward things before me shone 
 
 Like pictures in a dream; 
 Amid the mists of reverie, 
 I rather seemed to feel than see 
 
 Earth s bright and sunny gleam ;
 
 314 POEMS. 
 
 Once more the angel of my youth 
 Touched all things with a sweeter truth. 
 
 That bright ideal ! O, how well 
 
 My spirit knew its power, 
 For early had I learned its spell 
 
 In childhood s sunny hour ; 
 It gave new glory to the skies, 
 New music to earth s melodies, 
 
 New charms to every flower ; 
 But rarely now the gentle sprite 
 Awakes me to such deep delight. 
 
 Yet there, in that secluded spot, 
 
 Beside the ruined mill, 
 Came back the fancies, long forgot, 
 
 Which fain would haunt me still ; 
 That stream an image seemed to be 
 Of mine own gushing poesy, 
 
 Wasted with wanton will, 
 Without concentrate power to sway 
 A leaflet on its loitering way.
 
 PORTRAITS. 
 
 GENTLE maiden, whose large, loving eyes 
 
 Enshrine a tender melancholy light, 
 Like the soft radiance of the starry skies, 
 Or autumn sunshine, mellowed when most bright ; 
 She is not sad, yet in her look appears 
 Something that makes the gazer think of tears. 
 
 She is not beautiful ; her features bear 
 A loveliness by angel hands imprest, 
 
 Such as the pure in heart alone may wear. 
 The outward symbol of a soul at rest ; 
 
 And this beseems her well, for love and truth 
 
 Companion ever with her guileless youth. 
 
 She hath a delicate foot, a dainty hand, 
 And every limb displays unconscious grace, 
 
 Like one who, born a lady in the land, 
 
 Taketh no thought how best to fill her place, 
 
 But moveth ever at her own sweet will, 
 
 While gentleness and pride attend her still. 
 
 Nor hath she lost, by any sad mischance, 
 
 The happy thoughts that to her years belong ;
 
 316 POEMS. 
 
 Her step is ever fleetest in the dance, 
 
 Her voice is ever gayest in the song ; 
 The silent air by her rich notes is stirred 
 As by the music of a forest bird. 
 
 No poison-breathing passion flowers are twined 
 Around the brow where Heaven has set its seal 
 
 Her soul, in crystal purity enshrined, 
 No touch of earth-born vanity can feel ; 
 
 Already half-enskyed and consecrate, 
 
 The child of God awaits her blessed fate. 
 
 There dwelleth in the sinlessness of youth 
 A sweet rebuke that vice may not endure, 
 
 And thus she makes an atmosphere of truth, 
 For all things in her presence grow more pure ; 
 
 She walks in light, her guardian angel flings, 
 
 A halo round her from his radiant wings. 
 
 WHAT a timid watch young Love was keeping 
 When thou wert fashioned in such gentle guise ! 
 How was thy nature nursed with secret sighs ! 
 What bitter tears thy mother s heart were steeping ! 
 
 Within the crystal depths of thy blue eyes 
 A world of troubled tenderness is sleeping, 
 
 And on thy full and glowing lip there lies 
 A shadow that portends thee future weeping. 
 Tender and self-distrustful, doubting still
 
 PORTRAITS. 317 
 
 Thyself, -but trusting all the world beside, 
 Tremblingly sensitive to coming ill, 
 
 Blending with woman s fondness manhood s pride, 
 How wilt thou all life s future conflicts bear, 
 And fearless suffer all that man must do and dare? 
 
 . ROUD, self-sustained, and fearless, dreading 
 
 nought 
 Save falsehood, loving everything but sin, 
 
 How glorious is the light that from within 
 Illumes thy boyish face with lofty thought ! 
 A child art thou, but thy deep eyes are fraught 
 
 With that mysterious light by genius shed, 
 And in thy aspect is a something caught 
 
 From the bright dreams that cluster round thy head. 
 I know not what thy future lot may be ; 
 
 But when men gather to a new crusade 
 Against earth s falsehood, wrong, and tyranny, 
 
 Thou wilt be therewith all thy strength displayed, 
 Thy voice clear ringing mid the conflict s roar, 
 And on thy banner writ in stars, " Excelsior." 
 
 H as thou art the loved disciple seemed 
 To the bright visions of the men of old, 
 When on their speaking canvas ever gleamed 
 His tender face within the pitying fold
 
 318 POEMS. 
 
 Of the meek Saviour s arm, as if His breast 
 Gave its own softness to the cheek it prest. 
 
 Such look is thine, my gentle one ; I meet 
 Upsearching reverence in those pure eyes, 
 
 And on my soul rush yearnings sad and sweet, 
 While hopes and memories together rise, 
 
 Hopes that for thee on time s wild waves are tost, 
 
 Memories that linger with the loved and lost. 
 
 There beams a tender sadness in thy face, 
 
 Which, though ofttimes exchanged for sunbright glee, 
 
 Yet conies back ever with a winning grace, 
 Drawing our hearts, as by a spell, to thee, 
 
 And telling of the deep and trusting love 
 
 That o er thy spirit broodeth like a dove.
 
 THE OLD MAN S LAMENT. 
 
 FOR one draught of those sweet waters now, 
 That shed such freshness o er my early life ! 
 O that I could but bathe my fevered brow, 
 To wash away the dust of worldly strife, 
 And be a simple-hearted child once more, 
 As if I ne er had known this world s pernicious lore ! 
 
 My heart is weary, and my spirit pants 
 Beneath the heat and burden of the day : 
 
 Would that I could regain those shady haunts 
 
 Where once with hope I dreamed the hours away, 
 
 Giving my thoughts to tales of old romance, 
 
 And yielding up my soul to youth s delicious trance ! 
 
 Vain are such wishes ! I no more may tread 
 With lingering step and slow the green hill-side ; 
 
 Before me now life s shortening path is spread, 
 And I must onward, whatsoe er betide ; 
 
 The pleasant nooks of youth are passed for aye, 
 
 And sober scenes now meet the traveller on his way. 
 
 Alas ! the dust which clogs my weary feet, 
 Glitters with fragments of each ruined shrine
 
 320 POEMS. 
 
 Where once my spirit worshipped, when with sweet 
 
 And passionless enthusiasm it could twine 
 Its strong affections round earth s earthliest things, 
 Yet bear away no stain upon its snowy wings. 
 
 What though some flowers have scaped the tempest s 
 wrath ? 
 
 Daily they droop by nature s swift decay. 
 What though the setting sun still lights my path? 
 
 Morn s dewy freshness long has passed away ; 
 O give me back life s newly budded flowers ! 
 Let me once more inhale the breath of morning s hours 
 
 My youth ! my youth ! O give me back my youth ! 
 
 Not the unfurrowed brow and blooming cheek, 
 But childhood s sunny thoughts, its perfect truth, 
 
 And youth s unworldly feelings ; these I seek ! 
 Ah who can e er be sinless and yet sage ? 
 Would that I might forget Time s dark and blotted page ! 
 
 PATIENT LOVE. 
 
 KNOW thou lovest me not ; I know 
 
 My image now must seem 
 A footprint in the drifting snow, 
 A shadow on the stream ; 
 Yet on thy memory will I trace 
 A name that years can ne er efface.
 
 PATIENT LOVE. 321 
 
 I know that all thy dreams of life 
 With brighter hopes are fraught, 
 
 Yet mid the future s weary strife 
 Will come a gentle thought, 
 
 Winning thy heart in sadness back 
 
 To pleasures in thy by-past track. 
 
 I would not bind thee by a spell, 
 
 Were mine a Circe s skill ; 
 I could not love thee half so well 
 
 But for thy curbless will ; 
 The fettered eagle ne er should be 
 An emblem meet for one like thee. 
 
 I twine no garlands for thy brow, 
 
 I weave no silken tie ; 
 Thou wert not worthy of my vow : 
 
 Couldst thou in bondage sigh ? 
 My heart s deep faith I would not yield 
 To one \Vho bore a rusted shield. 
 
 Go forth in hopefulness and pride, 
 And while earth s joys are thine, 
 
 I ask not thou shouldst turn aside 
 To friendship s lowly shrine, 
 
 Where kneeleth one who there always 
 
 For thee in humble meekness prays. 
 
 No thought in mirthful hour I claim ; 
 But when thy sorrows come,
 
 322 POEMS. 
 
 Then wilt thou think upon my name, 
 
 And seek thy spirit s home. 
 Let others share thy pleasures brief : 
 I only ask to bear thy grief. 
 
 To thee I am as nothing now, 
 And so I fain would be ; 
 
 I bide the coming time when thou 
 Shalt fondly think of me, 
 
 And turn, when brighter hopes depart, 
 
 To rest upon my patient heart. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 BRING to thee no gift, no outward sign 
 Of the indwelling love that fills my heart : 
 No symbol-language meetly may impart 
 An emblem quaint for tenderness like mine. 
 I bring to thee no gift ; I could not twine 
 Flowers as unfading as affection s bloom, 
 And Earth holds not in all her caverned gloom 
 A gem that like unfailing truth may shine. 
 I bring no gift ; for long ago I gave 
 
 All that was worthiest both of heart and brain ; 
 And thou hast learned, in love and trust, to brave 
 
 The poet s waywardness, perchance with pain, 
 But yet with hope ; as from the stormiest wave 
 The diver ever seeks his purest pearls to gain.
 
 DREAMS. 323 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 " So he giveth his beloved sleep." 
 
 Psalm cxxvii. 
 
 pE giveth his beloved sleep ; " O blest 
 
 The boon that stills the fevered pulse of pain, 
 Shedding refreshing dews o er heart and brain, 
 And to the sorrow stricken bringing rest. 
 
 " He giveth his beloved sleep ; " how vain 
 Were all earth s blessings if bereft of this ! 
 How would we faint e en mid continuous bliss, 
 
 Could we no moment of repose attain ! 
 
 He giveth sleep, but ah ! he giveth more ; 
 
 When the worn frame in peaceful slumber lies, 
 The spirit soars beneath enchanted skies, 
 
 And finds youth s fountain on a brighter shore. 
 
 From angel pinions come the sunny gleams 
 
 That make the world of sleep a world of light ; 
 Day brings its sins and sorrows, but the night 
 
 Still wooes us heavenward through the land of Dreams.
 
 324 POEMS 
 
 ILLUSIONS. 
 
 " Shadows we are, and shadows we pursue." 
 
 UMBER the riches by thy memory hoarded, 
 
 Relics of joys thy by-past years have known . 
 How many real things are here recorded ? 
 How much true light was o er thy pathway thrown ? 
 
 Twas fancy s hand bestowed the fairy treasures 
 That made thee rich in boyhood s golden time, 
 
 Imagination deepened all youth s pleasures, 
 Illusion brightened all thy manhood s prime. 
 
 Seen through the wave of time above them sweeping, 
 Hope s broken fanes in softer splendor gleam ; 
 
 The retrospective eye forgets its weeping, 
 The past wears all the glory of a dream. 
 
 How can we say this joy or that was real, 
 
 When all have passed like visions of the night ? 
 
 How can we know the true from the ideal ? 
 
 Which glowed with inward, which with outward light ? 
 
 It needs not we should ask : the grave s dark portal 
 Soon shuts this world of shadows from our view ; 
 
 Then shall we grasp realities immortal, 
 If to the truth within us we are true.
 
 STANZAS. 3 2 5 
 
 STANZAS. 
 AY, fear me not ; deem not that I would meet 
 
 With bitter word, cold look, or chilling tone ; 
 I could I think I could now calmly greet thee 
 
 With the bland smile of courtesy alone ; 
 Why should I not, since thou wert not the friend 
 On whom my heart did so much wealth expend ? 
 
 Twas my own fancy conjured up a creature 
 High-souled and earnest, pure and passion free. 
 
 Made it assume thy shape in form and feature, 
 Gave it thy thrilling tones, and called it thee ; 
 
 It was no fault of thine that I was schooled 
 
 To know myself by my own nature fooled. 
 
 I did mistake thee, yet thy thought is cherished 
 Amid the heart s rich relics of the past ; 
 
 Though all that made its charm has long since perished, 
 Twas an illusion pleasant to the last, 
 
 And gentle memories in my bosom dwell 
 
 Of friendship s faded dream and broken spell. 
 
 So on thy heart, in hours of lonely sadness, 
 
 Will beam the image of a loving eye, 
 That once could brighten at thy mood of gladness, 
 
 Or darken into sorrow at thy sigh, 
 Till to thy soul comes back its haunting pain, 
 Its quenchless thirst for sympathy again.
 
 326 POEMS. 
 
 I would have saved thee from this yearning sorrow, 
 And shared the pangs that wring thy fevered brow, 
 
 But thou hast willed it thus : the cheating morrow 
 Still wins thy fealty from the truthful now ; 
 
 The false mirage that in the desert gleams 
 
 Can tempt thee ever from life s freshening streams. 
 
 I think of thee as of a friend departed 
 
 To some far region which I ne er may tread ; 
 
 The air thou breathest is not for the true-hearted, 
 Therefore art thou more distant than the dead. 
 
 Alas ! the surest trust? our heart can feel, 
 
 Is in that love where Death has set his seal. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 OW are men worn with heaviness of heart, 
 And wasted with fierce turmoil of the soul ! 
 Surge after surge our passions wildly roll, 
 Sweeping o er each sweet hope till life depart. 
 Earth holds no balsam for the bitter smart 
 Of feelings wounded as by insect stings, 
 Of instincts crushed beneath earth s baser things, 
 And tortured till they learn the torturer s art. 
 Fame has no clarion note to drown the cry 
 That from our nature s anguished depths comes up ! 
 Love alas! from Love s empoisoned cup 
 
 We drink the honeyed draught by which we die. 
 O God of mercy ! bid this tumult cease : 
 Thy hand alone can shed the clews of holy peace.
 
 STANZAS. 327 
 
 SONNET ON HEARING MUSIC. 
 
 ! HE wind s sad song through ocean s echoing 
 
 cave, 
 
 The wave s deep sob a foundered bark above, 
 A mother s wail beside the span-long grave 
 
 Which holds the earliest blossom of her love, 
 The dove s low plaining through the high-arched grove 
 
 Where falling waters blend their monotone 
 
 With rustling leaves, and that deep-cadenced moan, 
 While evening s breath the closing blossoms move, 
 The sweetest, saddest music ever heard 
 
 From earth s rich harp, with all its thousand strings, 
 Comes to my fancy, and my soul is stirred 
 
 As by the waving of an angel s wings 
 When that deep thrilling melody hath spoken 
 Its tale of hallowed grief, its death-song of hearts broken. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 AY, fathom not Time s rushing stream 
 
 When swollen its tide with tears, 
 And count not over faded dream 
 To measure out thy years. 
 
 O ! even for the darkest lot 
 Hath life some blessed thing,
 
 328 POEMS. 
 
 As earth holds not the sterile spot 
 Where verdure may not spring. 
 
 But we in bitter discontent 
 The wayside blossom spurn, 
 
 And for some bright and far-off star 
 With wild, vain longings yearn. 
 
 When sunbeams cross our pathway dark, 
 
 We joy not in their ray, 
 But set a dial up to mark 
 
 How swift -they pass away. 
 
 Yet would we take the joy that is, 
 Nor dream of what might be ; 
 
 Time could be meted out by bliss, 
 Not marked by misery. 
 
 For even in our daily paths, 
 
 With thorns and brambles strown, 
 
 The seeds of many an Eden flower 
 By angel hands are sown. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 " Ephraim has turned to his idols : let him alone." 
 
 ET him alone ! " he clingeth to his idol, 
 
 Binding his soul beneath earth s heavy chain 
 =^a And now no longer shall God s mercy bridle 
 
 His wild desires, his passions fierce as vain.
 
 THE WAYSIDE BROOK. 329 
 
 " Let him alone ! " his gifted soul now spurneth 
 
 Its lofty destiny for meatier things ; 
 To earthly dreams in its blind faith it turneth ; 
 
 Life s murky air has stained its snowy wings. 
 
 " Let him alone ! " the Spirit hath departed, 
 
 Which, often grieved, shall strive with him no more ; 
 
 Now must he onward, until, weary-hearted, 
 He loathes the idol which he loved of yore. 
 
 " Let him alone ! " the awful doom is spoken ; 
 
 Leave him to quaff the cup his hands have filled ; 
 O ! know we not, by many a bitter token, 
 
 What poisons by our passions are distilled ? 
 
 THE WAYSIDE BROOK. 
 
 OT in the depths of the forest glade 
 Where the elm-tree flingeth its graceful shade, 
 Where the noontide ray through the alder s bough 
 Just scatters its sheen on the wave below, 
 \Vhere no footfall crushes the daisied brink, 
 Where the wild-bird stoops on its flight to drink, 
 Where the wood and the upland with melody ring, 
 Not there, O brook ! do thy waters spring. 
 
 Nor yet where the gray old rocks are piled 
 In the rugged pass of some mountain wild,
 
 330 POEMS. 
 
 Where the mossy stones seem striving to keep 
 Thy glad stream back from its joyous leap, 
 While thy silvery foam in the distance gleams 
 Like a snow-white pennon when morning beams, 
 And the rush of thy tiny waves might sound 
 Like a trumpet-call mid the caves around. 
 
 O ! not for thee is the shady nook, 
 Or the mountain channels, thou wayside brook ! 
 By the dusty road thou art speeding along, 
 Wasting unheeded thy smiles and thy song. 
 No beauty hast thou for the traveller s eye, 
 Thou wakest no spell as thou glidest by, 
 Thy freshness is failing with each summer day : 
 How canst thou sing on thy lowly way ? 
 
 Brook of the wayside ! though footsteps may crush 
 
 The daisies that bend where thy glad waters rush ; 
 
 Though dust from the highway thy brightness may dim, 
 
 Yet ceaseless thou singest thy low chanted hymn. 
 
 Brook of the wayside ! while musing I trace 
 
 Thy humble course onward in freedom and grace, 
 
 A lesson of life can thy music impart, 
 
 Thou type of the meek and the lowly in heart.
 
 THE VOICE OF THE BROOK. 331 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE BROOK. 
 
 cometh to me ever, 
 That melancholy voice, 
 When the joyous tones of morning 
 Would bid my soul rejoice, 
 When the noontide ray has silenced 
 
 The song of bird and bee, 
 When the star of evening waketh 
 
 Earth s vesper melody ; 
 It cometh to me ever, 
 
 That low and tender song, 
 Which the hidden brook is pouring 
 As it flows unseen along. 
 
 It cometh to me ever, 
 
 That solemn undertone : 
 When sounds of mirth are in the air 
 
 It seems a far-off moan 
 But when sad memories awake, 
 
 And earth seems lone and drear, 
 Its voice of melody gives out 
 
 A hymn of holy cheer ; 
 And sometimes, too, in moody hour 
 
 It falleth on my ear, 
 With a sound as of the rustling wings 
 
 Of guardian angels near. 
 
 It cometh to me ever: 
 
 In the silent hours of night,
 
 332 POEMS. 
 
 When my spirit comes unwilling back 
 
 From dreamland s worlds of light, 
 Where its golden gates are closing, 
 
 And I linger still to hear 
 The music of those angel harps 
 
 That claimed my sleeping ear, 
 Then comes the moaning of the brook, 
 
 With fancy s music blending, 
 Like the wail of human love and grief 
 
 Mid seraph choirs ascending. 
 
 It cometh to me ever: 
 
 Howe er the air is stirred 
 With noisier sounds of busy life, 
 
 That singing brook is heard ; 
 It cometh like the mystic voice 
 
 Which e en mid care and strife, 
 Still whispers to our secret souls 
 
 A dream of holier life, 
 The voice which, when on danger s brink 
 
 Our heedless feet have trod, 
 Has taught us that within us dwelt 
 
 The oracle of God. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 UNSHINE dancing on the ocean, 
 
 Insects sporting on the air, 
 Winged seeds in breezy motion, 
 All things bright and frail as fair,
 
 SONG. 333 
 
 Such be emblems meet for me, 
 In my glad inconstancy. 
 
 Gems in earth s dark bosom burning, 
 Pearls in ocean s depths that lie, 
 
 Flowers that to the sun are turning 
 While they perish neath his eye, 
 
 Symbols these of faith may be 
 
 But I seek them not for me. 
 
 Who that plucks earth s fragrant blossom 
 Thinks of gems that lie beneath ? 
 
 Borne on ocean s placid bosom, 
 
 Who would seek her pearled wreath ? 
 
 No ! the joy I feel and see, 
 
 This shall be enough for me. 
 
 Tis because my heart has tasted 
 
 Life s full cup of joy and pain, 
 And with spendthrift folly wasted 
 
 Faith that cometh not again, 
 Tis for this I scorn to be 
 Slave to thankless constancy.
 
 334 POEMS. 
 
 HOW WILL YE THINK OF ME ? 
 
 HEN Life s false oracles, no more replying 
 
 To baffled Hope, shall mock my weary quest ; 
 When, in the grave s cold shadow calmly lying, 
 This heart at last has found its earthly rest 
 How will ye think of me ? O gentle friends, 
 How will ye think of me ? 
 
 Perhaps the wayside flowers around ye springing, 
 Wasting unmarked their fragrance and their bloom, 
 
 Or some fresh fount in the lone forest singing 
 
 Unheard, unheeded, may recall my doom : 
 
 Will ye thus think of me ? 
 
 Or let the day-beam glancing o er the ocean 
 Picture my restless heart, which, like yon wave, 
 
 Reflected doubly, in its wild commotion, 
 
 Each ray of light that pleasure s sunshine gave : 
 Will ye thus think of me ? 
 
 Will ye bring back my memory s art, the gladness 
 That sent my fancies forth like summer birds ? 
 
 Or will ye list that undertone of sadness, 
 
 Whose music seldom shaped itself in words? 
 Will ye thus think of me ? 
 
 Remember not how dreams, around me thronging, 
 Enticed me ever from life s lowly way,
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 335 
 
 But O ! still hearken to the deep soul-longing 
 Whose mournful tones pervade the poet s lay, 
 Will ye thus think of me ? 
 
 And then, forgetting every wayward feeling, 
 
 Bethink ye only that I loved ye well, 
 Till o er your souls that " late remorse " is stealing 
 Whose voiceless anguish only tears can tell : 
 
 Will ye thus think of me ? O gentle friends ! 
 Will ye thus think of me ? 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 >ITHIN my bosom s secret shrine, 
 There dwells a form which is not thine ; 
 For long before I saw thy face, 
 Love there had found his dwelling-place ; 
 And cherished still that love must be, 
 Although I since have looked on thee. 
 
 I know not if thine image dwells 
 In wizard memory s haunted cells, 
 But somewhere in my heart it bides, 
 And through each lonely chamber glides, 
 Until it almost seems to me 
 No other there had claim to be.
 
 336 POEMS. 
 
 That inner shrine thou canst not hope 
 
 Ever with magic key to ope, 
 
 But still within my cloistered breast 
 
 Thou hast so long been welcome guest, 
 
 That now it almost seems to me 
 
 I could not live if wanting thee. 
 
 THE PEASANT GIRL S WISH. 
 
 WOULD . I were a lady ! Methinks if I were 
 
 clad 
 In silken garments every day, I never could 
 
 be sad ; 
 No peasant s coif should cover then my soft and glossy 
 
 curls, 
 
 But every tress should find its place mid bands of 
 snowy pearls. 
 
 O would I were a lady ! I would not sit within 
 
 Yon cottage porch the livelong day so wearily to spin ; 
 
 A stately coach should bear me with my greyhound at 
 
 my feet, 
 And with a proud but winning smile the gentles I 
 
 would greet. 
 
 O would I were a lady, to sit beside the board, 
 Where costly dainties deck the feast, and the rich wine 
 is poured !
 
 THE OLD MAN S LAST WISH. 337 
 
 How would I queen it o er the guests ! while youths of 
 
 high degree, 
 If I but kissed the golden cup, would pledge me on 
 
 their knee. 
 
 O would I were a lady ! to lead the courtly dance, 
 While many a gallant gentleman was watching for my 
 
 glance ! 
 I d smile on crowds of lovers, and each should play his 
 
 part, 
 Till one by noble deeds had found his way into my 
 
 heart. 
 
 O would I were a lady ! They tell me I am fair, 
 With merry eye, and sunny brow, and braids of glossy 
 
 hair ; 
 
 But O ! how much more beautiful is beauty when bedight 
 With silken robe and sparkling gem, like a stately lady 
 
 bright ! 
 
 THE OLD MAN S LAST WISH. 
 
 HE Psalmist s span of life had past 
 
 Full twenty years or more, 
 And still the old man s footsteps tracked 
 The sands on Time s wide shore, 
 While Death s dark wave impatient swelled 
 Those footprints to sweep o er.
 
 338 FORMS. 
 
 Aye, more than ninety years had shed 
 Their sunshine and their shade, 
 
 Since first upon that aged head 
 A father s hand was laid ; 
 
 And now not one was left of all 
 With whom his childhood played. 
 
 The memory of that far-off Past 
 
 Had faded from his sight ; 
 The mists of many years had dimmed 
 
 Life s golden morning light ; 
 And he was now content to watch 
 
 The closing shades of night. 
 
 But when at length Death s summons came, 
 While breath was ebbing fast, 
 
 Those veiling mists were rent atwain, 
 As by a mighty blast, 
 
 And once again the old man lived 
 In that long-hidden Past. 
 
 Once more he saw the homestead where 
 
 His youth had passed away, 
 The trees that interlaced above 
 
 Its roof so old and gray, 
 The sheltering porch whose trellised vines 
 
 Gleamed in the sunset ray. 
 
 And strange unto his failing eyes 
 
 The Present quickly grew, 
 The old familiar faces near
 
 THE OLD MAN S LAST WISH. 339 
 
 Now wore an aspect new, 
 And ever on his sinking heart 
 A gloom their coming threw. 
 
 " O take me home ! " twas thus he spake 
 
 To all who gathered nigh ; 
 " Beneath the roof where I was born, 
 
 There would I choose to die ; 
 Then take me home ! O take me home ! " 
 
 Was still the old man s cry. 
 
 For memory s voice within his soul 
 
 Sang like a spirit-bird, 
 Until the tones of other years 
 
 Alone his cold ear heard ; 
 And all his nature s time-sealed depths 
 
 Were by that music stirred. 
 
 And brighter still, and brighter grew 
 
 These visions to the last : 
 " O take me home ! " was still his cry 
 
 While life was fleeting fast, 
 And with this prayer upon his lips 
 
 The weary spirit passed. 
 
 When on the grave s dark verge at last 
 
 The time-worn body lies, 
 And visions of a brighter world 
 
 Float past the glazing eyes, 
 O ! who can tell what shape may take 
 
 These dreams of paradise?
 
 340 POEMS 
 
 Still to the struggling spirit clings 
 
 The heavy weight of clay ; 
 It hath not yet put on its wings 
 
 To soar from earth away ; 
 What marvel if its visions wear 
 
 The glory of youth s day, 
 And life s bright morning-star appears 
 
 Like heaven s first golden ray? 
 
 THE POET S PRAYER. 
 
 $ EAVE me not, love ! ( twas thus a poet chanted 
 Mb ^ s neart s fond pleading to the midnight air,) 
 r . --t Leave not the dwelling by thy presence haunted, 
 
 The home thou long hast filled with visions fair. 
 
 O leave me not ! although thy fleeting pleasures 
 Are but as snow-flakes in the sun s warm ray, 
 
 Though thy best gifts are only fair) treasures, 
 A golden glitter fling o er things of clay. 
 
 Vet leave me not : all earthly hopes have perished. 
 
 And e en thine hour of promise has gone by, 
 But I would fain the fond illusion cherish 
 
 Which still in joy or sorrow brought thee nigh. 
 
 Perhaps my hand (like hers in olden story) 
 Let fall the burning drop that broke thy rest,
 
 STAXZAS. 341 
 
 Marring by base distrust thy veiled glory. 
 
 And scaring thee too rudely from my breast ; 
 
 Vet leave me not ! although thy shrine be broken, 
 Though all its votive wreaths are long since gone ; 
 
 Faith lingers there, albeit the prayer, unspoken. 
 Dies on her lip like sorrow s half-breathed moan. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 " The night cotneth, when DO man can work." 
 
 : E who in the field of human life 
 
 Quickening seeds of wisdom fain would sow, 
 Pause not for the angry tempest s strife, 
 Shrink not from the noontide s fervid glow ; 
 Labor on, while yet the light of day 
 Sheds upon your path its blessed ray, 
 For the night cometh ! 
 
 Ye who at man s mightiest engine stand, 
 
 Moulding noble thought into opinion, 
 O stay not for weariness your hand, 
 
 Till ye fix the bounds of truth s dominion ; 
 Labor on, while yet the light of day 
 Sheds upon your toil its blessed ray, 
 For the night cometh ! 
 
 Ye to whom a prophet-voice is given. 
 Stirring men as by a trumpet call,
 
 342 POEMS. 
 
 Utter forth the oracles of Heaven, 
 
 Earth gives back the echoes as they fall ; 
 O speak out, while yet the light of day 
 Breaks life s slumber with its blessed ray, 
 For the night cometh ! 
 
 Ye who in home s narrow circle dwell, 
 
 Feeding Love s flame upon the household hearth, 
 
 Weave the silken bond, and wake the spell 
 Binding heart to heart throughout the earth ; 
 
 Gentle toil is yours ; the light of clay 
 
 On nought holier sheds its blessed ray 
 Yet the night cometh ! 
 
 Diverse though our paths in life may be, 
 
 Each is sent some mission to fulfill ; 
 Fellow-workers in the world are we 
 
 While we seek to do our Master s will ; 
 But our doom is labor while the day 
 Lights us to our task with blessed ray, 
 For the night cometh ! 
 
 Fellow-workers are we ; hour by hour, 
 
 Human tools are shaping Heaven s great schemes, 
 Till we see no limit to man s power, 
 
 And reality outstrips old dreams : 
 Toil and struggle, therefore, work and weep ; 
 In " God s acre " ye shall calmly sleep, 
 When the night cometh !
 
 WEARY SPIRIT. 343 
 
 WEARY SPIRIT. 
 
 TO . 
 
 EARY spirit, fold thy drooping wings ; 
 
 O resign thy sad and hopeless quest : 
 Not on earth dwells the pure love that flings 
 Light to lure thee to thy heaven of rest. 
 
 Weary spirit, crush the hope that springs 
 
 Ever within thee as its fellow dies ; 
 Treasured in heaven, with Eden s precious things, 
 
 Dwells the ideal that eludes thine eyes. 
 
 O give o er thy heart s vain wanderings now ; 
 
 E en if led aright by fancy s beams, 
 Couldst thou, while the earth-veil dims her brow, 
 
 Recognize the Psyche of thy dreams ? 
 
 Weary spirit, cease thy idle quest ; 
 
 Listen to thy heart s deep voice at last ; 
 Nestle on some kind and loving breast 
 
 Till life s mystery be overpast. 
 
 Round thee lies the earnest and the real, 
 Life s affections clustered near thee stand, 
 
 While at heaven s high gate thy bright ideal 
 Waits to greet thee in yon spirit-land.
 
 344 POEMS. 
 
 In thine inmost heart the bright clream cherish, 
 Feed the flame that pointeth to the skies, 
 
 But let not earth s flowers unheeded perish, 
 While the far-off stars attract thine eyes. 
 
 STANZAS, WRITTEN AFTER LISTENING TO 
 MUSIC. 
 
 ITHIN a lonely chamber 
 
 A silent harp was hung ; 
 The gathered rust of many years 
 Upon its chords was flung, 
 And human hand might never rove 
 Those voiceless chords among. 
 
 Within that lonely chamber 
 
 No human foot might tread ; 
 The pleasant things once treasured there 
 
 With by-gone years were fled, 
 And shadowy forms now peopled it, 
 
 Like spectres of the dead. 
 
 But to that cell deserted 
 
 There came a gentle dream, 
 And the gloomy darkness vanished 
 
 Before that silvery gleam, 
 While the ghastly phantoms in its light 
 
 Like angel visions seem.
 
 " DOUBT ME NOT." 345 
 
 And to those silent harp-strings 
 
 There came a breath of song, 
 A vague and wandering breath that swept 
 
 Its rusted chords among, 
 And once again its ringing tones 
 
 Were poured forth deep and strong. 
 
 The gentle dream soon vanished, 
 And the breath of song swept by ; 
 
 Again in gloom and darkness 
 That haunted cell must lie, 
 
 And the voice of that long-silent harp 
 In wailing sad must die. 
 
 Not so ! not so ! though darkness 
 
 May fill that haunted cell, 
 No more the chain of silence 
 
 Upon that harp may dwell, 
 But ever must it echo now 
 
 To Music s mystic spell. 
 
 "DOUBT ME NOT." 
 
 me not," thou ! though all beside might 
 falter 
 
 When comes the test hour of their love and 
 truth,
 
 346 POEMS. 
 
 Though all the old familiar faces alter 
 
 Till nought remain to thee of by-gone youth, 
 Yet doubt not me ; the loyalty Love taught 
 Is still unbroken by a wandering thought. 
 
 By the wild love, which, reckless of a morrow, 
 Cherished its sweet but hopeless dream of thee ; 
 
 By the vain yearnings of my young heart s sorrow ; 
 By weary days, and nights of agony ; 
 
 By the deep scars that in my soul remain, 
 
 To mark how close it clasped its heavy chain ; 
 
 By all the spendthrift tenderness that flung 
 Its richest gifts unasked before thy feet; 
 
 By the high impulse that so early strung 
 
 The minstrel harp whose voice to thee is sweet ; 
 
 By the devotion of a heart whose pride 
 
 Was loving thee when every hope had died ; 
 
 By these sad memories of a blighted past, 
 And by the peacefulness of present days ; 
 
 By the calm joys thy hand has round me cast, 
 As one by one each flower of youth decays ; 
 
 By the deep love thy soul has caught from mine, 
 
 Through years of wedded love, I still am thine. 
 
 Forever thine, in life, in death, the same : 
 The love that prayerful sorrow sanctifies 
 
 Was born for heaven, and, like the mounting flame, 
 Points ever upward to th immortal skies ; 
 
 There only shall my heart s deep truth be shown, 
 
 There only shall we know, and there be known.
 
 EPITAPHS ON A YOUNG LADY. 347 
 
 EPITAPHS ON A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 I. 
 ALLED from life s banquet ere one rose grew 
 
 Which love had wreathed around thy youthful 
 
 brow, 
 
 Death summoned thee to joys that never fail, 
 And made thee thus the angel thou art now. 
 
 II. 
 
 Gifted with all that life could bless, 
 Thine early death we must, deplore ; 
 
 For earth hath now one saint the less, 
 
 Though heaven hath gained one angel more.
 
 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 OT thus ! O look not thus upon me ! 
 
 Nor breathe for me that plaintive strain ; 
 That glance, those tones have almost won me 
 Back to my early dreams again. 
 
 Some spell my every sense enthralleth ; 
 
 Fain would I yield my spirit up 
 To softness that upon me falleth 
 
 Like dew within the floweret s cup. 
 
 O turn away those eyes soft pleading, 
 And thou, bewildering voice, be still : 
 
 That gaze my inmost soul seems reading, 
 Those tones my bosom wildly thrill. 
 
 Nay, tempt me not : my heart has taken 
 
 Its vow of silence long ago ; 
 And never more its pulse must waken 
 
 One fever-throb of joy or woe. 
 
 Away ! my life is all too real ; 
 
 Youth s love-dreams may not rule its fate ; 
 Why comest thou then, O bright ideal, 
 
 To mock me thus, too late too late !
 
 SONGS FOR MUSIC. 349 
 
 HEN them art absent, my heart telleth o er 
 
 The tender thoughts it cherished for thee, 
 Hoarding up, miser-like, the precious store, 
 Which, spendthrift-like, twould fain give lavishly. 
 
 But when again thou comest, methinks I tremble 
 Such priceless gifts of fondness to bestow, 
 
 And then love s boundless wealth I would dissemble, 
 Lest thou insatiate with thy riches grow. 
 
 WILT thou remember, when years are gone by, 
 O ! wilt thou remember the hour we first met, 
 When, mid words of calm greeting, one glance 
 
 of thine eye 
 Awakened the passion that haunteth us yet ? 
 
 O ! wilt thou remember how coldly we turned, 
 With thoughts full of gladness and spirits elate, 
 
 Nor knew, till our glances on each other burned, 
 That our souls in that moment encountered their fate ? 
 
 parted in sadness, yet shed not a tear ; 
 We parted in coldness, for cold ones stood near 
 No vow did we utter, no truth did we plight, 
 Our hearts hid love s bloom, and our hearts hid its 
 blight.
 
 350 POEMS. 
 
 We parted in coldness, while light laugh and jest 
 Concealed the keen aching that woke in each breast 
 We took but one look, twas our fondest and last ; 
 In that moment a life-time of bitterness past. 
 
 We parted in sadness : when years have gone by, 
 Will the heart be as cold as the lip and the eye ? 
 Ah, no ! pride may stifle the sigh of regret, 
 But our brief dream of passion we cannot forget. 
 
 AKE, lady, wake, while the night-clew is weeping 
 
 Its tear-drop o er earth s faded roses ; 
 Wake, lady, wake, while the violet is sleeping 
 On banks where the starlight reposes. 
 
 Wake, lady, wake, for the moments are flying, 
 
 That only to true hearts belong ; 
 All things in silence and slumber are lying : 
 
 Waken to love and to song. 
 
 E knew we were parting forever ; 
 
 We knew time could never restore 
 The bonds we were destined to sever, 
 The love we had cherished of yore ; 
 We knew our best joys had been tasted, 
 
 We knew we could never wend back 
 To the fountain whose freshness was wasted 
 In the sands of life s overpast track.
 
 SO^VGS FOR MUSIC. 351 
 
 As the maiden in elfin story 
 
 Anointed her long-cheated eyes, 
 And beheld that all fairy-land glory 
 
 Was falsehood in glittering guise ; 
 So we now, with soul disenchanted, 
 
 Our brief dream of passion may see, 
 But alas ! by its memories haunted, 
 
 We weep from its thrall to be free.
 
 THE CHILD S DESTINY. 
 
 angel was watching a slumbering child ; 
 His presence had brought there a beautiful 
 
 dream, 
 So the babe in its innocent loveliness smiled, 
 
 And o er its bright face passed a summer gleam ; 
 But the brow of the angel grew sad, for his eye 
 Marked the shadows of destiny gathering nigh. 
 
 "O! would it were mine, sighed the angel, "to strew 
 O er thy life s future pathway my bright Eden flowers, 
 
 And to shed on thine eyelids the soft honey-dew 
 Of a slumber like this of thy calm infant hours ! 
 
 But already hath gone forth the changeless decree, 
 
 And the chaplet of sorrow is woven for thee. 
 
 " Yet thine eye shall be touched with a holier light 
 When that chaplet is pressing thy weary brow, 
 
 And the anguish that facleth thee, never shall blight 
 The beauty God gives as thy birthright now ; 
 
 The fires of affliction thy soul shall refine, 
 
 For the touch of grief hallows a nature like thine. 
 
 " Then will I come to thy troubled sleep, 
 And sing thee a song of my native heaven ;
 
 TIME S CHANGES. 353 
 
 Bright visions of beauty thy spirit shall steep, 
 And a cherub s voice to thy lips be given, 
 Till thy look and thy song, in thy life s saddest years, 
 Shall unlock the deep fountains of sympathy s tears." 
 
 TIME S CHANGES. 
 
 REMEMBER the time when thine eye s starry 
 
 light 
 Was as gladdening to all things as sunshine 
 
 in spring ; 
 When thy smile made an atmosphere round thee as 
 
 bright 
 
 As the sudden unfolding of some cherub s wing: 
 O ! beautiful wert thou with youth on thy brow, 
 But trust me, beloved, thou art lovelier now. 
 
 Thine eye s starry lustre is softened by tears, 
 And the bloom of thy beauty has faded away ; 
 
 But ne er in thy gladdest and sunniest years 
 Did the high soul within shed so holy a ray : 
 
 O ! beautiful wert thou with youth on thy brow, 
 
 But trust me, beloved, thou art lovelier now. 
 
 Life s roses have vanished, life s freshness has fled ; 
 
 Thy future no longer Hope s pencil may paint ; 
 But the halo that sorrow has cast round thy head 
 
 Has made of our Hebe an exquisite saint : 
 O ! beautiful wert thou with youth on thy brow, 
 But trust me, beloved, thou art lovelier now.
 
 354 POEMS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 >HOU art changed ; thou art changed ! though 
 
 the tender smile plays 
 
 O er thy lip as it did in our love s golden days 
 Though thine eye still grows bright when my footstep 
 
 draws near, 
 
 Though thy voice still as tenderly falls on mine ear, 
 Though no outward sign showeth thy heart is estranged, 
 Yet my soul s deep voice whispers, thou rt changed, aye, 
 thou rt changed ! 
 
 Though the warm flush of feeling still mantles thy cheek. 
 No more for me only its warm blushes speak ; 
 Though thy hand still as fondly seems resting in mine, 
 Yet its touch sends no thrill from my heart s pulse to 
 
 thine ; 
 
 I cannot say how I first knew thee estranged, 
 But my soul s prophet voice whispers, changed O ! 
 
 thou rt changed. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 BRUISED and broken heart, O God ! I bring 
 To lay upon thine altar ; it has striven 
 Rebellious gainst thy will, and madly given 
 Its precious things to idols, and doth cling
 
 SONNET ON RECEIVING SOME VIOLETS. 355 
 
 E en yet to earthly love, whose venomed sting 
 
 Has poisoned all the charities of life, 
 
 Turning its life-blood into tears and strife. 
 O let me nestle neath the Dove s pure wing ! 
 Send clown the Comforter, that He may lay 
 
 The balm of healing on my aching brow, 
 And with his radiant presence chase away 
 
 The dark and frowning shapes that haunt me now, 
 For I am fainting neath my great despair, 
 Crushed by the burden of a granted prayer. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 ON RECEIVING SOME VIOLETS IN MIDWINTER. 
 
 HE cloud-flecked sunshine of an April day, 
 The changeful beauty of its lights and shades, 
 Falling athwart the newly herbaged glades, 
 Or marking out some tiny streamlet s way ; 
 A pleasant fancy of each pleasant thing 
 
 That comes when storms have vanished from the sky ; 
 A vision of the fairy-footed Spring 
 
 Stooping to kiss the violet s half-shut eye, 
 These are the dreams that paint my chamber walls 
 
 With many a woodland haunt in wintry hour; 
 And sweet bird-voices and low insect-calls 
 
 Seem to make musical each sylvan bower ; 
 Such genial influence on my spirit falls, 
 
 Waked by the faint, sweet perfume of a flower.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 "DUM SPIRO, SPERO." 
 
 UM spiro, spero ; " while I breathe, I hope : 
 O ! God be thanked above all else for this, 
 The only gift within the world s wide scope 
 Which in its ceaseless promise bringeth bliss. 
 
 " Dum spiro, spero ; " life and hope entwined : 
 Grief may o ershadow us and pain destroy, 
 
 But in our inmost spirit is enshrined 
 This sweet expectancy of coming joy. 
 
 Dum spiro, spero : " till our latest breath 
 Our human nature hath its cherished dream ; 
 
 But Immortality is born of Death, 
 
 And bliss eternal dims Hope s earthly beam. 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON SEEING A SEAL WITH THE MOTTO " SEMPRE LO 
 STESSO." 
 
 E lo stesso," always the same, 
 Such be the motto affixed to thy name ; 
 " Sempre lo stesso," always the same, 
 Thy thoughts mounting up like the heaven-pointing 
 
 flame ; 
 " Sempre lo stesso," when duty s lone star
 
 LLYES ON BURNING SOME OLD JOURNALS, ETC. 357 
 
 Shineth above thy life s waters afar ; 
 " Sempre lo stesso," when troubles arise, 
 Looking still upward for help from the skies ; 
 " Sempre lo stesso," when joy shineth bright, 
 Remembering the day comes, and also the night ; 
 " Sempre lo stesso," when grief s frequent cloud 
 Threatens thy young hopes in darkness to shroud ; 
 " Sempre lo stesso," when fails thy last breath, 
 True to thyself, to thy God, to thy faith ; 
 " Sempre lo stesso," in life and in death. 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON BURNING SOME OLD JOURNALS AND LETTERS. 
 
 YE, let them perish : why recall 
 
 Dreams of a by- gone day ? 
 Why lift Oblivion s funeral pall 
 to find decay ? 
 The heart of youth lies buried there, 
 
 With all its hopes and fears, 
 Its burning joys, its wild despair, 
 Its agonies and tears. 
 
 A light has vanished from the earth, 
 
 A glory left the sky, 
 Since first within my soul had birth 
 
 Those visions pure and high ;
 
 358 POEMS. 
 
 Or is it that mine eye, grown dim, 
 Hath lost the power to trace 
 
 The glory of the seraphim 
 Within life s holy place ? 
 
 Methinks I stand midway between 
 
 The future and the past ; 
 The onward path is dimly seen, 
 
 Behind me clouds are cast : 
 Why should I seek to pierce that gloom, 
 
 And call the buried host 
 Of haunting memories from the tomb, 
 
 Each one a tortured ghost ? 
 
 I could not look upon the page, 
 
 With eloquence o erfraught, 
 Where, ere my head had grown so sage, 
 
 My heart its wild will wrought ; 
 I could not, would not ponder now 
 
 O er my youth s wayward madness, 
 Which left no stain on soul or brow, 
 
 Yet shrouded life in sadness. 
 
 Aye, let them perish ! from the dream 
 
 Of passion s wasted hour 
 There comes no retrospective gleam, 
 
 No spectre of the flower ; 
 The treasured wealth of Eastern kings 
 
 Enriched their burial fire, 
 And thus my heart s most precious things 
 
 Shall build its funeral pyre.
 
 LAMENT (OF ONE OF THE OLD REGIME}. 359 
 
 LAMENT (OF ONE OF THE OLD REGIME). 
 
 THE times will never be again 
 As they were when we were young : 
 When Scott was writing " Waverleys," 
 And Moore and Byron sung ; 
 When Harolds, Giaours, and Corsairs came 
 
 To charm us every year, 
 
 And " Loves " of " Angels " kissed Tom s cup, 
 While Wordsworth sipped small beer ; 
 
 When Campbell drank of Helicon, 
 
 And didn t mix his liquor ; 
 When Wilson s strong and steady light 
 
 Had not begun to flicker ; 
 When Southey, climbing piles of books, 
 
 Mouthed " Curses of Kehama," 
 And Coleridge in his dreams began 
 
 Strange oracles to stammer; 
 
 When Rogers sent his " Memory," 
 
 Thus hoping to delight us, 
 Before he learned his mission was 
 
 To give feeds and invite us ; 
 When James Montgomery s " weak tea " strains 
 
 Enchanted pious people, 
 Who didn t mind poetic haze, 
 
 If through it loomed a steeple ; 
 
 When first reviewers learned to show 
 Their judgment without mercy ;
 
 360 POEMS. 
 
 When " Blackwood " was as young and lithe 
 
 As now he s old and pursy ; 
 When Gifford, Jeffrey, and their clan 
 
 Could fix an author s doom, 
 And Keats was taught how well they knew 
 
 To kill, "a coup de plume. 
 
 No women folk were rushing then 
 
 Up the Parnassian mount, 
 And seldom was a teacup dipped 
 
 In the Castalian fount ; 
 Apollo kept no pursuivant 
 
 To cry out, " Place aux Dames ! " 
 In life s round game they held good hands, 
 
 And didn t strive for palms. 
 
 O, the world will never be again 
 
 W T hat it was when we were young, 
 And shattered are the idols now 
 
 To which our boyhood clung ; 
 Gone are the giants of those days 
 
 For whom our bays we twined, 
 And pigmies now kick up a dust 
 
 To show the " march of mind."
 
 THE JEALOUS LOVER S EXCUSE. 361 
 
 LINES SENT TO A FRIEND, WITH A PER 
 FUMED "SACHET." 
 
 S odors, prisoned in soft silken cells, 
 
 Give out their subtile essence to the air, 
 Betraying where the soul of sweetness dwells, 
 And waking summer dreams of flowerets fair, 
 
 Thus, when life s daily blossoms round thee fade, 
 And hope s sweet song falls fainter on thine ear, 
 
 Thus would I have love s memories pervade 
 
 Thy heart and home through many a wintry year. 
 
 I would not be within thy soul enshrined, 
 A drooping, sad-eyed spectre of the past; 
 
 But let one thought of me, vague, half-defined, 
 Float round thee, like sweet perfume on the blast. 
 
 THE JEALOUS LOVER S EXCUSE. 
 
 ORGIVE the doubt ! the flower that springs 
 
 Only beneath the sunbeam s light, 
 Trembles at every cloud which flings 
 Its portent of the coming night ; 
 Thus when on others lightly fall 
 The smiles which are my life, my all, 
 What marvel if my heart s wild thrill 
 Should seem to presage future ill ?
 
 5 6 .2 POEMS. 
 
 Forgive the doubt ! the breeze that sweeps 
 
 O er ocean s ever ruffled brow 
 Sends its vibration to the deeps 
 
 Which lie so cold and still below ; 
 Its breath scarce stirs the sea-gull s plume, 
 Its swell may seal a proud ship s doom ; 
 So words that to thy lip come free 
 May stir the depths of woe for me. 
 
 Forgive the doubt ! the moon that rides 
 
 At noon of night her pearly car, 
 Knows not that all earth s myriad tides 
 
 Await her influence from afar ; 
 Thus, bright one, thou, whose look can still 
 Each impulse of my wayward will, 
 Unconscious of thine own sweet art, 
 Dost reign and triumph in each heart. 
 
 THE PROPHECY. 
 
 the pride on thy lip, and the light in thine 
 
 eye 
 
 I know thou hast visions, pure, noble, and high ; 
 Thou hast dreams of a future illumined by fame, 
 Where a halo of glory encircles thy name ; 
 Already in fancy thou seest the glad hour 
 When thy look shall command, and thy word shall have 
 power :
 
 STANZAS. 363 
 
 But thy doom has been spoken ; thou rt under a spell ; 
 " Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel." 
 
 There is love in thy heart, too, for tenderness lies 
 Like a reflex of heaven in the depth of thine eyes ; 
 There is love in thine heart, and sweet words on thy 
 
 tongue, 
 
 And the charm of warm feeling around thee is flung ; 
 So lovely without and so kindly within, 
 Thou wilt look but to charm, thou wilt woo but to win : 
 Yet thy doom has been spoken ; thou rt under the spell ; 
 " Unstable as water, thou canst not excel." 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 rear thine altar to Ideal Love, 
 And heap with costliest sacrifice the shrine ; 
 f he fairest chaplet fancy ever wove 
 From thought s most precious jewels, there should 
 shine. 
 
 Aye, rear thine altar high, and on it lay 
 All that thy nature has of highest, best ; 
 
 Bid thy mind coin new wealth there day by day, 
 And in thy lavish offering be thou blest. 
 
 But write no name upon the altar-stone, 
 
 Shape out no image of thy soul s bright dreams,
 
 364 POEMS. 
 
 Adore the unseen spirit-god alone, 
 
 Nor crown a mortal brow with heaven s own beams. 
 
 The fantasies that thrill thine every vein, 
 
 The pearls that melt in passion s burning cup, 
 
 Youth s many-colored dreams, half joy, half pain, 
 Its vows so true, so lightly offered up, 
 
 O mingle not these sweets of daily life 
 With the rich gifts thy soul s ideal claims ! 
 
 Thy human nature has its woes and strife, 
 
 Its strong requirements and its cherished aims. 
 
 The love that from an earthly fountain springs 
 
 Alone can satisfy that human quest ; 
 The bird that highest soars, on strongest wings, 
 
 Yet stoops to earth to find a quiet nest. 
 
 But recognize thy yearnings, vague and vain, 
 As dim remembrances of that bright world 
 
 Whence thou wert missioned on some task of pain, 
 Or haply for a parent s errors hurled. 
 
 Till God has loosed thy being s weary bond, 
 That angel light will flash o er heart and brain, 
 
 Filling thy soul with aspirations fond 
 
 And winning thee to thy lost heaven again.
 
 THE GARDEN. 365 
 
 THE GARDEN. 
 
 WHAT a world of beauty lies within 
 The narrow space on which mine eye now rests ! 
 And yet how cold and tintless seem the words 
 That fain would picture to another s sense 
 Those tall, dark trees, whose young, fresh-budded leaves 
 Give out their music to the summer wind ; 
 Or that green turf, with golden drops besprent, 
 As if Aurora, bending down to gaze 
 On" scene so lovely, from her saffron crown 
 Had dropped some blossoms as she sped along ! 
 What joyous language could be found to paint 
 Yon vine with its lithe tendrils dancing wild, 
 As if inebriate with th inspiring blood 
 That courses through its old and sturdy heart ? 
 What rainbow-tinted words could sketch the flowers 
 Vi*hich through the copse-like leanness gleam out? 
 First in her beauty stands the festal rose, 
 Wearing with stately pride night s dewy pearls 
 Yet fresh upon her brow, as if to show 
 That none might woo her, save the evening-star, 
 Yet e en now hiding in her heart of hearts 
 The bee that lives on sweetness. 
 
 At her feet, 
 
 With eye scarce lifted from earth s mossy bed, 
 The pansy wears her purple robe and crown, 
 As modestly as a young maiden queen, 
 Abashed at her own state. 
 
 The hoyden pink 
 (Like some wild beauty scorning fashion s garb),
 
 366 POEMS. 
 
 In her exuberant loveliness, breaks loose 
 From the green bodice b} Dame Nature laced, 
 And bares her fragrant bosom to the winds. 
 The honeysuckle, climbing high in air, 
 Swings her perfumed censer toward heaven, 
 Giving forth incense such as never breathed 
 From gemmed and golden chalice, or carved urn 
 In dim cathedral aisles. 
 
 All things around 
 
 Are redolent of sweetness and of beauty, 
 And, as beside the casement I recline, 
 Prisoned by sickness to the couch of pain, 
 Their mingled odors to my senses come, 
 Like the spice-scented breath of Indian isles 
 To the sick sailor, who, mid watery wastes, 
 Pines for one glimpse of the green earth again, 
 And sees the cheating calenture arise 
 To mock his yearning dreams. 
 
 Yet thus to lie, 
 
 With such a glimpse of Eden spread before me, 
 And such a blue and lucid sky above, 
 As might have stretched its interposing veil 
 Twixt sinless man and heaven s refulgent host, 
 When heaven seemed nearer to the earth than now, 
 And the Almighty talked amid the trees 
 With his last, best creation, thus to lie, 
 E en though in bondage to bewildering pain, 
 And fettered by unnerving feebleness 
 To one small spot, is happiness so much 
 Beyond my poor cleservings, that each breath 
 Goes forth like a thanksgiving from my lips.
 
 FRAGMENT. 3 6 7 
 
 Hark ! merry voices now are on the breeze, 
 While glad young faces smile through leafy screens, 
 And where the arrowy sunbeams pierce their way 
 Like random shafts sent mid the clustering boughs, 
 The sheen of snowy robes is gleaming out ; 
 Thus by her own pure brightness I can trace 
 The fleeting footsteps of that blessed one 
 Who to my glad youth like an angel came, 
 Folded her pinions in my happy home, 
 And called me " Mother." 
 
 To my o erfraught soul 
 These images of all my home joys come 
 Like rose-leaves strewn upon a brimming cup, 
 And in its very fullness of content 
 My heart grows calm, while every pulse is hushed 
 With a most tremulous stillness. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 HE fire within my soul burns dim and low, 
 Like some neglected cresset s dying glow, 
 And my heart s pulse beats fitfully and slow, 
 E en as a bell in ruined turret hung, 
 When by the gusty night breeze feebly swung, 
 Making no pleasant sounds, as to and fro 
 Through the thick air its dull vibrations go. 
 The light is darkened on my spirit s shrine, 
 And silent are the oracles of thought ;
 
 368 POEMS. 
 
 Hushed are the echoes of that voice divine 
 Whose faintest tone my inner sense once caught ; 
 
 No bright descending angel flings 
 
 From off his glorious wings 
 The hues of Paradise o er earthly things ; 
 No heavenly dreams like seraphs round me throng, 
 Filling life s temple with the voice of song. 
 
 Fain would I lift 
 
 My soul in adoration, but no more 
 Upon my lips I feel the precious gift 
 Of eloquent utterance, as in days of yore ; 
 Yet there are times when o er my dull brain floats 
 A strain of fleeting music, and the notes 
 Seem like articulate words ; then would I fain 
 Forget the weary weight of wasting pain, 
 And pour forth all the love that now lies mute, 
 Like the tones hidden in a stringless lute.
 
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