Poems by James Hyslop :: :: University of Virginia Library

Lady, with soft hair beautifully braided,
Over thy dark and fascinating eyes,
Whose bright gleam never from my heart has faded
Since first it wak'd its warmest, sweetest sighs,—

Thou whose soft image in my breast lies sleeping,
Among the fond heart's softest summer flowers,
Whether I wander, when spring's tears are weeping,
In Scotland's woodlands, or in Chilian's bowers,—

Thou who hast still been kind and constant-hearted,
Whose love has bloom'd in sorrow and in tears,
The strength of which I knew not till we parted,
Which absence nourishes and time endears,—

Thou whose warm lips, so pure and scarlet-tinted,
Have sought mine in a lingering embrace,
And with love's bright seal on my heart imprinted
Impressions that the world will ne'er efface,—

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Tell me, thou ever-present, ever-dear,
While I am journeying on the dark, blue sea,
What are the flowers thou lovest best to wear,
When I entwine a blooming wreath for thee.

I'm weary of the world, and will recline
Awhile beneath thy sunny eyes of love;
I'll braid thy shining hair, and garlands twine
To deck thy forehead—how must they be wove?

HIS MISTRESS'S REPLY.

Twine me a wreath of love, my own dear youth,
With fresh flowers from the garden of my heart;
Tho' journeying on the waters of the south,
And many a thousand leagues from me apart.

Yet well I know that little garden's blooms
Will deck no maiden's brow on earth but mine;
For I have planted them, and their perfumes
Are sweet when breath'd so far beyond the Line.

Yes! that heart's blooms are mine; I cherish'd them
In days of summer by the wooded stream
That tinkles 'mong the dark green hills of home:
I wreath'd thy harp and first made love thy theme.

That heart is mine—no, I will not resign it:
In Crawick's woods I bought it with my own:
It lov'd my ringlets, and I did entwine it
Within the softest chain it e'er has known.

When you embrac'd me, on your lips I've kiss'd it;
And I have felt its beating warm with love;
And on your bosom tenderly caress'd it,
When to be quiet in vain the captive strove.

Love has been aye its theme, fond love to me—
The love of youth, oh! let it be so still;
Twine me a garland on the Chilian sea,
Blent with the blooms of Crawick's mountain rill.