University of Virginia Library

Then came the June-like season, when fond youth,
Like solitary man in Paradise,
Finds there is yet a good he has not gained.—
Maternal Nature whispers in his heart
That there is somewhere one to make him blest,
And guides him, by her mystic sympathy,
To find the stranger out. The new pursuit
How full of wild delight! Through what strange walks
Of timorous eagerness, doubt, fear, and hope,
He shuns, approaches, trembles, joys, despairs!
In twilight walks, in moonlight reveries,
In midnight watchings, she is with him still.
The wave reflects her form; the balmy air
Breathes on him with her breath; the rustling bough
Repeats the name that murmurs at his heart.
One object fills and satisfies his soul.
Others are there by sufferance—joys and tasks
Alike are hurried through with absent thought,
And nought finds welcome but the one, one loved
And ever-present image. This, enshrined,
Like some select divinity, within,
Fills with its conscious presence all the place;
Sheds its own hue and character around;
And lulls the spirit in delicious trance,
Like the half-waking sleeper of the morn,
Who knows he dreams, yet loves his dream the more.

O, days to be remembered! days of balm!
Spring-tide of life! when flowers strew all the path,
And odorous blossoms burden every bough!
Is there a path about my native home,
Is there a hidden beauty of the fields,
A more obscure retirement in the woods,
A fairer bank upon the rippling lake,
Or lovelier arbor in her grottoed isle,
That was not witness, is not monument,
Of those delicious days? The earth still speaks,
The groves and waters, of the musing mood
In which I roamed, and thought of her I loved.
[OMITTED] Lately I returned,
Threaded the woods again, and climbed the stile,
And launched upon the pond,—and spite the change
Which time had made, a voice rose up from all,
The voice of early hope, and told again,
In the same tones, the tales it told of yore.
But other voices mingled in the breeze,
And sung, methought, a requiem for the dead—
So wild, so soothing, that my fancy deemed
The sainted spirit, once the life and breath
Of all these scenes, was present yet again,
Hovering on wings celestial and unseen,
And pouring blessings on the heart she loved.
Why should we deem it fable that the good
Lean, sometimes, from their paradise on high,
To soothe and pity those they loved below?

It was not beauty which had won my heart,
But something more enchanting. Beauty lies
Ofttimes in forms, in features, hue, or grace,
To which the soul has lent no eloquence.
[OMITTED]
But angels called her good, and smiled, well pleased,
When she was numbered of their happy choir.
If purity of heart, serene and clear
As the bright depths of liquid Horicon,—
If energy and strength of resolute will,
To do and suffer, though all earth oppose,—
Like faithful Abdiel,—kindness never tired
In toil for others, quiet self-respect
Which awes th' unworthy from too near approach,
With unassuming diffidence of self,
Which scarce dares hear, and never asks for praise,
And deep, confiding trust in Him whose work
And minister it was her joy to be,—
If these be traits that mark th' angelic host,
Then was she one of that illustrious choir.
[OMITTED]

To one upon the threshold of the world,
Whose opening way to life is thronged with forms
That lie in wait to threaten and seduce,
There is a worth untold in virtuous love.
'Tis as a talisman of power: unhurt
It bears him on, through snares of crafty vice,
And long array of pleasure's subtle host,
Baffling with potent charm their wily arts,
That lose their power to touch him. Thoughts impure,
Low aims, and selfish passions, shrink away.
It keeps him chaste—makes all his purposes
Companions of a virtuous hope—beats down
The harmful empire of the present hour,
Pointing his thought to some sweet future home,
Henceforth his central purpose, which imparts
Fresh vigor to his enterprise—to hand
And mind gives nerve, to pleasure turns all toil,
Makes honor doubly dear—all that is bad
In young ambition purifies, and lifts
High above selfishness the darling plan
Which forms his ruling passion. For he toils
No more alone, nor only for himself.
The honor, peace, yea, life—and, more than all,
The good opinion of a purer mind—
A second, better conscience,—whose reproof
Stings deeper, whose approval gives more joy
Than his own breast—are all at stake in him;
And for her sake, in whom are hoarded up
The dearest treasures of his life on earth,
He keeps an uncontaminated heart,
And scorns the base seductiveness of sin.

O holy power of pure, devoted love!
And O, thou holy, sacred name of home!
Prime bliss of earth! Behind us and before
Our guiding star, our refuge! When we plunge,
Loose from the safeguard of a father's roof,
On life's uncertain flood, exposed and driven,
'Tis the mild memory of thy sacred days
That keeps the young man pure. A father's eye,
A mother's smile, a sister's gentle love,
The table, and the altar, and the hearth,
In reverend image, keep their early hold
Upon his heart, and crowd out guilt and shame.
Then, too, the hope, that in some after day
These consecrated ties shall be renewed
In him, the founder of another house;
And wife and children—earth's so precious names—
Be gathered round the hearth, where he himself
Shall be the father—O, this glowing hope,
With memory co-working, lightens toil,
And renders impotent the plots of earth
To warp him from his innocence and faith.