 | Poems |  |
THE ORPHAN.
I saw when the tired day and dim eve were blending,
And the hyacinth was valving its petals of yellow,
A form, with her looks all dishevelled, descending
The dew-covered hill to the mead that was mellow;
She was beautiful and fair, but the rose reigned alone,
The lily had withered, the carnation had died,
And wild flashed her eye, and her low vocal tone
Arose on the breeze, like the requiem of pride.
And the hyacinth was valving its petals of yellow,
A form, with her looks all dishevelled, descending
The dew-covered hill to the mead that was mellow;
She was beautiful and fair, but the rose reigned alone,
The lily had withered, the carnation had died,
And wild flashed her eye, and her low vocal tone
Arose on the breeze, like the requiem of pride.
Embosomed in the deep maple grove, there arose
The mouldering walls of a roofless abode,
And the nightshade, and hemlock, as the sighing breeze blows,
Bent their stalks o'er the path, where the lone virgin trode;
And the owlet, and raven, and twittering swallow,
Found a desolate shelter in the maid's sunny bower,
And the tempest, that moaned in gusts faint and hollow,
Threw an ominous pall o'er the sorrowful hour.
The mouldering walls of a roofless abode,
And the nightshade, and hemlock, as the sighing breeze blows,
Bent their stalks o'er the path, where the lone virgin trode;
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Found a desolate shelter in the maid's sunny bower,
And the tempest, that moaned in gusts faint and hollow,
Threw an ominous pall o'er the sorrowful hour.
But, along the wild desert, and beneath the arch'd willow,
The lorn relic of bloom, a sweet lily was budding,
Like the philomot flower on the fire-crested billow,
When the wandering sunbeams the clear wave are studding;
The motherless child, by illusion, though fleeting,
Wore a lingering smile as she paced the lone mansion,
And she sought the high chamber, with her hands spread for greeting
Her sister—her soul sunk in noble expansion.
The lorn relic of bloom, a sweet lily was budding,
Like the philomot flower on the fire-crested billow,
When the wandering sunbeams the clear wave are studding;
The motherless child, by illusion, though fleeting,
Wore a lingering smile as she paced the lone mansion,
And she sought the high chamber, with her hands spread for greeting
Her sister—her soul sunk in noble expansion.
She had grasped the fond hand and had sunk on the breast,
And had kiss'd the full tear from the tremulous cheek,
And sought a far land, where beloved and carest,
She shared all that charms, and thought not to seek;
She was blooming in beauty, and as spotless as fair,
But a fell demon saw her—the tale is soon told,
Her bright orb has set in a rayless despair,
And she trod to her tomb as she flew o'er the wold.
And had kiss'd the full tear from the tremulous cheek,
And sought a far land, where beloved and carest,
She shared all that charms, and thought not to seek;
She was blooming in beauty, and as spotless as fair,
But a fell demon saw her—the tale is soon told,
Her bright orb has set in a rayless despair,
And she trod to her tomb as she flew o'er the wold.
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The nightingale heard the shrill shriek of wo,
And spread her soft pinions, and perched on the willow,
And the maid loosed her scarf, laid her fair form below,
And the lily bent o'er her on her motionless pillow;
The requiem is chanted, and it floats through the air,
And, cinctured by green turf, the beauty is sleeping,
And choristers sing dirges o'er the orphan, and there
The heaven-wept dew her mute mansion is steeping.
And spread her soft pinions, and perched on the willow,
And the maid loosed her scarf, laid her fair form below,
And the lily bent o'er her on her motionless pillow;
The requiem is chanted, and it floats through the air,
And, cinctured by green turf, the beauty is sleeping,
And choristers sing dirges o'er the orphan, and there
The heaven-wept dew her mute mansion is steeping.
Oh! her pure soul has flown, and is raptured above,
Where high angels encircle her, and sweep their strung lyres,
But when the lone wanderer, through the bowering grove
Where she sleeps, doth ramble o'er the tombs of his sires,
In the darkness of even, he fancies a spirit
Is gliding around him, and he seeks the lone willow,
And pauses to listen, that his heart may inherit
A ray from the eye, that is closed on the pillow.
Where high angels encircle her, and sweep their strung lyres,
But when the lone wanderer, through the bowering grove
Where she sleeps, doth ramble o'er the tombs of his sires,
In the darkness of even, he fancies a spirit
Is gliding around him, and he seeks the lone willow,
And pauses to listen, that his heart may inherit
A ray from the eye, that is closed on the pillow.
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