Dramatic Scenes, Sonnets, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Evening's richest colours glowing
Skirt the golden West;
Snowy clouds, like vapours flowing,
Crown its beamy crest.
I've nothing seen so rosy red,
Nor aught so brightly pure,
Since Laura's cheek with blushes spread,
And Laura's brow demure.

O'er its pebbly channel creeping
Flows the murmuring tide;
Through the gloomy pine-grove sweeping
Twilight breezes glide.
I've heard no sound so softly clear,
Nor breathed such balmy air,
Since the sweet voice of Laura dear,
The sigh of Laura fair.

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II. [Sweet is the balmy evening hour]

Sweet is the balmy evening hour;
And mild the glow-worm's light,
And soft the breeze that sweeps the flower,
With pearly dew-drops bright.
I love to loiter by the rill
And catch each trembling ray;—
Fair as they are, they mind me still
Of fairer things than they.

What is the breath of closing flowers
But feeling's gentlest sigh?
What are the dew-drop's crystal showers
But tears from pity's eye?
What are the glow-worms by the rill
But fancy's flashes gay?
I love them, for they mind me still
Of one more fair than they.

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III. ['Tis a gay summer morn, and the sunbeams dance]

'Tis a gay summer morn, and the sunbeams dance
On the glittering waves of the rapid Durance,
Where Sir Reginald's castle its broad shadow throws
O'er the bay and the linden, the cypress and rose.
And in that rosy bower a lady so bright
Sits telling her beads for her own absent knight,
Whilst her little son plays round the fond mother's knee
And the wandering stock-dove is scared by his glee.

'Tis a calm summer eve, and the moonbeams dance
On the glittering waves of the rapid Durance,
Where Sir Reginald's castle its broad shadow throws
O'er the bay and the linden, the cypress and rose.
But the pitiless spoiler is master there,
For gone is the lady, and gone the young heir;
The good knight hath perished beyond the salt sea,
And they, like the stock-dove, poor wanderers be.

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IV. [The lily bells are wet with dew]

The lily bells are wet with dew,
The morning sunbeams kiss the rose,
And rich of scent and bright of hue
The summer garden glows.
Then up, and weave a garland, sweet,
To braid thy raven hair,
Before the noontide's withering heat
Strike on those flowerets fair.

A flickering cloud is in the sky,
A murmuring whisper in the gale;
They tell that stormy rain is nigh,
Or desolating hail.
Then up, and weave a garland, sweet,
To deck thy glossy hair,
Nor wait till evening tempests beat
Upon those flowerets fair.

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V. [With hound and horn and huntsman's call]

With hound and horn and huntsman's call
They chase the fallow deer;—
And thou, the noblest of them all,
Why dost thou loiter here?

Thou canst not deem within her bower
Thine own true love to see;—
Dost thou not know at matin hour
I ne'er can come to thee?

My sister's voice is on the stair,
All in her maiden glee;
My mother's flitting every where,
And calling still on me.

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My father's by the southern wall,
Pruning the old vine tree;
My brothers playing in the hall;—
And all are wanting me.

Then off, and mount thy gallant steed
To hunt the fallow deer;
Off, off, and join the chase with speed,
Nor loiter longer here.

At eventide my mother sits,
Her knitting on her knee,
And wakes by starts, and dreams by fits;—
But never dreams of me.

At eventide my sister fair
Steals to the great oak tree;
I may not tell who meets her there,—
But nought want they of me.

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At eventide, beside the bowl,
With some old comrade free,
My father many a song doth troll
But never thinks on me.

Off, then, with hound, and echoing horn
To chase the fallow deer;—
Nor deem again at peep of morn
To meet thy true-love here.