 | [Poems by Simms in] The floral offering, a token of friendship |  |
2
COULD I WEEP AS I HAVE WEPT.
“Could I weep as I have wept,
Could I value vows once broken,
Thou might'st scorn the love I've kept,
Like some sad but sacred token,—
Token of some boyish pleasure
Which, in early days, was treasure.
Could I value vows once broken,
Thou might'st scorn the love I've kept,
Like some sad but sacred token,—
Token of some boyish pleasure
Which, in early days, was treasure.
“Treasure kept from all apart,
Worship'd, sought in secret still,
Like an altar of the heart,
One some lone and shrouded hill,
Where, by night, at starry hours,
Came an angel down with flow'rs.
Worship'd, sought in secret still,
Like an altar of the heart,
One some lone and shrouded hill,
Where, by night, at starry hours,
Came an angel down with flow'rs.
“Though the altar-place be bare,
And the flow'rs have felt the blast,
Still it once was holy there,
And I love it for the past.
Though the angel fell—the flow'rs,
They were brought from holy bow'rs.”
And the flow'rs have felt the blast,
Still it once was holy there,
And I love it for the past.
Though the angel fell—the flow'rs,
They were brought from holy bow'rs.”
W. G. Simms.
8
CERES, NIGHT BLOOMING...... “Meet me by moonlight alone.”
“Come when the evening into silence closes,
When the pale stars steal out upon the blue;
And watchful zephyrs, to the virgin roses,
Descend, in sweetest murmurs, bringing dew;
Come to the heart that sadly then declining,
Would need a soothing day has never known;
Come like those stars upon the night cloud shining,
And bless me with a beauty all thine own.
Beauty of songs and tears,
And blessed tremulous fears—
Beauty that shrinks from every gaze but one;
Ah! for the dear delight,
The music of thy sight,
I yield the day, the lonely day, and live for night alone.
When the pale stars steal out upon the blue;
And watchful zephyrs, to the virgin roses,
Descend, in sweetest murmurs, bringing dew;
Come to the heart that sadly then declining,
Would need a soothing day has never known;
Come like those stars upon the night cloud shining,
And bless me with a beauty all thine own.
Beauty of songs and tears,
And blessed tremulous fears—
Beauty that shrinks from every gaze but one;
Ah! for the dear delight,
The music of thy sight,
I yield the day, the lonely day, and live for night alone.
“It is no grief that, in the night hour only,
The love that is our solace may be sought;
Day mocks the soul that is in rapture lonely,
And voices break the spell with sorrow fraught;
Better that single, silent star above us,
And still around us that subduing hush,
As of some brooding wing, ordained to love us,
That spells the troubled soul and soothes its gush;
Shadows that still beguile,
Sorrows that wear a smile,
Griefs that in dear delusions lead away—
And O! that whispering tone,
Breathed, heard by one alone,
That, as it dies—a wordless sound—speaks more than words can say.”
The love that is our solace may be sought;
Day mocks the soul that is in rapture lonely,
And voices break the spell with sorrow fraught;
Better that single, silent star above us,
And still around us that subduing hush,
As of some brooding wing, ordained to love us,
That spells the troubled soul and soothes its gush;
Shadows that still beguile,
Sorrows that wear a smile,
Griefs that in dear delusions lead away—
And O! that whispering tone,
Breathed, heard by one alone,
That, as it dies—a wordless sound—speaks more than words can say.”
W. G. Simms.
9
LILAC, WHITE........ A Sigh.
MYHRRA
Oh! with a delicate art, how quaintly taught,
Sweetly around thy lattice thou hast wrought,
In many a mazy twine,
The forest vine.
Sweetly around thy lattice thou hast wrought,
In many a mazy twine,
The forest vine.
Its sweets requite thee, and as summer comes,
It yields thee precious odors and gay blooms,
And, folded in thy breast,
Its birds are blest.
It yields thee precious odors and gay blooms,
And, folded in thy breast,
Its birds are blest.
Am I less worthy of thy care this hour,
Than the frail blossom of thy summer bower—
Of humbler claim to share
Thy smile, thy care?
Than the frail blossom of thy summer bower—
Of humbler claim to share
Thy smile, thy care?
Why hast thou taught my feelings then to twine
Thus hopeful round thee like that summer vine,
If still denied like rest
Upon thy breast?
Thus hopeful round thee like that summer vine,
If still denied like rest
Upon thy breast?
W. Gilmore Simms.
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