 | A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England |  |
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
106
EDWARD'S VOICE.
Who taught that tiny voice of thineIts wealth of sweetness, child?
Who tuned each tone to love divine,
With melody so mild?
Ah! simple is the spell, I ween,
That doth that grace impart;
It dwells his own sweet self within,
It is—a loving heart!
107
WHY DONT HE PROPOSE?
An Epistle from Miss Seraphine Languish to Miss Jane Herbert.
You've seen Sir George Eustace? rich, handsome, and good, dear,
As brave as a lion, as mild as a dove;
Ever since I have known him, I've tried all I could, dear,
To win from his lips an avowal of love!
The world gives him to me—its debtor I stand, Jane;
He might be as generous too—if he chose!
Last evening, for two sets he offer'd his hand, Jane;
'Twas only for two sets!—why dont he propose?
As brave as a lion, as mild as a dove;
Ever since I have known him, I've tried all I could, dear,
To win from his lips an avowal of love!
The world gives him to me—its debtor I stand, Jane;
He might be as generous too—if he chose!
Last evening, for two sets he offer'd his hand, Jane;
'Twas only for two sets!—why dont he propose?
He said, cousin Isabel's dark hair was braided
Above her white forehead, with classical grace;
The very next morning, my raven locks shaded,
In just such arrangement, my lovelier face!
He likes Lady Adeline's bands, smooth and glossy;
He looks at Georgina's soft tress as it flows;—
I've worn my hair waving in curls light and flossy,
I've worn Taglionis!—why dont he propose?
Above her white forehead, with classical grace;
The very next morning, my raven locks shaded,
In just such arrangement, my lovelier face!
He likes Lady Adeline's bands, smooth and glossy;
He looks at Georgina's soft tress as it flows;—
I've worn my hair waving in curls light and flossy,
I've worn Taglionis!—why dont he propose?
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He vows that my dimple is Love's sunny spell, dear;
That my form than a fairy's is prettier far;
That my teeth are but pearls in a rich crimson shell, dear;
My cheek a blush-rose, and my bright eye a star!
He says that my voice is bewitchingly tender;
I sing to him always of Love's gentle woes!
He knows I am ready my heart to surrender;—
He knows I adore him;—why dont he propose?
That my form than a fairy's is prettier far;
That my teeth are but pearls in a rich crimson shell, dear;
My cheek a blush-rose, and my bright eye a star!
He says that my voice is bewitchingly tender;
I sing to him always of Love's gentle woes!
He knows I am ready my heart to surrender;—
He knows I adore him;—why dont he propose?
He likes timid women; by nature I'm bold, love,
But once, when it thundered, I clung to his arm;
Papa and Mama did look awfully cold, love,
But he seemed delighted,—and where was the harm?
He gazed on my drooping form, languidly leaning,
He pressed my fair fingers as long as—he chose?
His eyes popped the question, with looks full of meaning;
But his lips!—how provoking!—I thought he'd propose!
But once, when it thundered, I clung to his arm;
Papa and Mama did look awfully cold, love,
But he seemed delighted,—and where was the harm?
He gazed on my drooping form, languidly leaning,
He pressed my fair fingers as long as—he chose?
His eyes popped the question, with looks full of meaning;
But his lips!—how provoking!—I thought he'd propose!
Were I Lady Eustace, no bride of the season
Should sport a trousseau so recherchè as I!
I'd be my own mistress, or I'd know the reason;
And wives meek and yielding, for envy should sigh!
My robe should be velvet,—my diamonds should lighten
Amid my dark ringlets, as starry night glows!
I'd winter in Paris—I'd summer in Brighton!
What wouldn't I do—if he'd only propose!
Should sport a trousseau so recherchè as I!
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And wives meek and yielding, for envy should sigh!
My robe should be velvet,—my diamonds should lighten
Amid my dark ringlets, as starry night glows!
I'd winter in Paris—I'd summer in Brighton!
What wouldn't I do—if he'd only propose!
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THE WITHERED FLOWER & BROKEN HEART.
The maiden by her mirror stands,
Arraying for the festal dance,
Along her hair her jewelled hands
From tress to tress like lightning glance;
Till all its floating waves of gold
Around her graceful head are rolled,
And seem so rich its braids and bright,
A classic crown of changeful light.
Arraying for the festal dance,
Along her hair her jewelled hands
From tress to tress like lightning glance;
Till all its floating waves of gold
Around her graceful head are rolled,
And seem so rich its braids and bright,
A classic crown of changeful light.
Her diamond zone is clasped above
A heart that throbs with joy and love;
Rich folds of snowy velvet there
Meet on a breast as soft and fair;
Th' elastic foot—a captive light—
Is laced within her slipper white;
And faint the dimpled arm gleams through
Her silken glove's transparent hue,—
A lily 'neath the wave revealed,
That charms the most when half concealed.
A heart that throbs with joy and love;
Rich folds of snowy velvet there
Meet on a breast as soft and fair;
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Is laced within her slipper white;
And faint the dimpled arm gleams through
Her silken glove's transparent hue,—
A lily 'neath the wave revealed,
That charms the most when half concealed.
And now a rose—Love's own sweet flower,
His gift in Beauty's triumph hour,
To lips that mock its blush is pressed,
And laid upon the maiden's breast.
His gift in Beauty's triumph hour,
To lips that mock its blush is pressed,
And laid upon the maiden's breast.
In truth it is a pleasant sight—
That form of grace, that head of light!
But not the velvet's fairest fold,
And not the braid of gleaming gold;
Nor flashing circlet on the hand,
Nor rainbow-ray of diamond band;
Not these the gazer's eye allure,
But something far more rich and pure.
That form of grace, that head of light!
But not the velvet's fairest fold,
And not the braid of gleaming gold;
Nor flashing circlet on the hand,
Nor rainbow-ray of diamond band;
Not these the gazer's eye allure,
But something far more rich and pure.
The rosy glow of girlish joy,
Unmingled yet with Care's alloy;
The lip's sweet curl of maiden-pride,
Not yet to bitterness allied;
The glory of those azure eyes,
Where virgin dreams of rapture rise;
The glad and open brow of youth,
Fair shrine of innocence and truth:
These, these are charms—the true—the pure—
That still the gazer's eye allure.
Unmingled yet with Care's alloy;
The lip's sweet curl of maiden-pride,
Not yet to bitterness allied;
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Where virgin dreams of rapture rise;
The glad and open brow of youth,
Fair shrine of innocence and truth:
These, these are charms—the true—the pure—
That still the gazer's eye allure.
The maiden by her mirror stands,
Before her clasped her languid hands!
Her robe is loose—her feet are bare—
Her head is bent in mute despair,
And wildly droops her lovely hair;
Her gleaming girdle thrown aside,
Resplendent still in jewelled pride,
How mocks its diamond's radiant smile,
The tears in those blue eyes the while!
A withered rose is at her feet;—
Wet with those tears, it still is sweet.
Ah! not the only flower whose light
Is lost in sorrow's shower to-night!
A rose was on that eloquent face
When last I marked its glowing grace;
Her happy heart's warm crimson tide
Its soft and changing bloom supplied:
The heart is chilled! the cheek is pale!
Sweet flowers must die when fountains fail.
And what has wrought this wretched change?
Alas! 'tis nothing new or strange!
Her smile within the festive hall,
Was saved for one who smiled on all.
Ah! reckless tone and wandering look,
A maiden's spirit ill may brook:
Yet this has Marion met to-night,
With clouded heart and look all light.
Not one throughout the wearying dance
Wore wilder joy of word and glance;
No lighter form, no sunnier eye,
No freer footstep floated by.
And now 'tis o'er, the hated task,
And idle now the mirthful mask;
Quick sobs of anger, grief, and shame,
Like storm-struck blossom bow her frame;
The azure fire that filled her eyes,
Is quenched in tears, that blinding rise;
And quivering lip, and pallid cheek,
The young heart's tale of suffering speak.
Ah! beating heart! and blooming flower!
Your fate is one: one glorious hour,
Ye breathe your wealth of sweetness forth
For those, who feel not half your worth;
The next—'neath cold and reckless eyes—
The full heart breaks!—the blossom dies!
Before her clasped her languid hands!
Her robe is loose—her feet are bare—
Her head is bent in mute despair,
And wildly droops her lovely hair;
Her gleaming girdle thrown aside,
Resplendent still in jewelled pride,
How mocks its diamond's radiant smile,
The tears in those blue eyes the while!
A withered rose is at her feet;—
Wet with those tears, it still is sweet.
Ah! not the only flower whose light
Is lost in sorrow's shower to-night!
A rose was on that eloquent face
When last I marked its glowing grace;
Her happy heart's warm crimson tide
Its soft and changing bloom supplied:
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Sweet flowers must die when fountains fail.
And what has wrought this wretched change?
Alas! 'tis nothing new or strange!
Her smile within the festive hall,
Was saved for one who smiled on all.
Ah! reckless tone and wandering look,
A maiden's spirit ill may brook:
Yet this has Marion met to-night,
With clouded heart and look all light.
Not one throughout the wearying dance
Wore wilder joy of word and glance;
No lighter form, no sunnier eye,
No freer footstep floated by.
And now 'tis o'er, the hated task,
And idle now the mirthful mask;
Quick sobs of anger, grief, and shame,
Like storm-struck blossom bow her frame;
The azure fire that filled her eyes,
Is quenched in tears, that blinding rise;
And quivering lip, and pallid cheek,
The young heart's tale of suffering speak.
Ah! beating heart! and blooming flower!
Your fate is one: one glorious hour,
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For those, who feel not half your worth;
The next—'neath cold and reckless eyes—
The full heart breaks!—the blossom dies!
118
THE FAREWELL SONG OF THE AERONAUT.
The cord has been severed that bound me below,
The sport of the elements soaring I go;
My dwelling a toy—that the changeable breeze,
Like a child wild and wayward, can break if it please
Should the four winds of heaven be meeting to-day,
A fine game of football the giants will play;
Ah! little they'll reck in their glorious glee,
That what's sport to them may be ruin to me:
That the poor little football might come off the worst
It is but a bubble—the bubble may burst,
And I—like the far-fabled child of the sun,
Too rashly assuming the reins he had won,
And skilless to guide his wild coursers of fire,
The victim of idle and daring desire,
By the touch of the Thunderer cast from his car,
From heaven, a blazing and beautiful star,—
I too may be whelmed in the wild rolling wave,
No loved one to weep amber-tears o'er my grave!
My pathway with danger, with death may be fraught
Oh! who will not pity the rash Aeronaut!
The sport of the elements soaring I go;
My dwelling a toy—that the changeable breeze,
Like a child wild and wayward, can break if it please
Should the four winds of heaven be meeting to-day,
A fine game of football the giants will play;
Ah! little they'll reck in their glorious glee,
That what's sport to them may be ruin to me:
That the poor little football might come off the worst
It is but a bubble—the bubble may burst,
And I—like the far-fabled child of the sun,
Too rashly assuming the reins he had won,
And skilless to guide his wild coursers of fire,
The victim of idle and daring desire,
By the touch of the Thunderer cast from his car,
From heaven, a blazing and beautiful star,—
I too may be whelmed in the wild rolling wave,
No loved one to weep amber-tears o'er my grave!
My pathway with danger, with death may be fraught
Oh! who will not pity the rash Aeronaut!
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Yet with heaven all before me, kind wishes behind,
I give my light fears like my car to the wind;
My flag to the breeze—my life to the keeping
Of Him, the all-merciful, strong, and unsleeping;
Unseen by whose eye not a sparrow can fall,
And whose word keeps the elements ever in thrall.
Content to be wafted thus far on my way,
By the prayer of the pensive, the laugh of the gay;
While thousands of rosy lips smile as I go,
No idle misgiving the rover can know:
For the bright eyes of childhood in wonder uprais'd,
And the glance of fair woman met mine as I gaz'd;
And blest was the fancy that over me stole,—
“A wish for my safety may be in her soul,
Her prayers may be mine, when alone and afar,
The Aeronaut sighs in his desolate car!”
I give my light fears like my car to the wind;
My flag to the breeze—my life to the keeping
Of Him, the all-merciful, strong, and unsleeping;
Unseen by whose eye not a sparrow can fall,
And whose word keeps the elements ever in thrall.
Content to be wafted thus far on my way,
By the prayer of the pensive, the laugh of the gay;
While thousands of rosy lips smile as I go,
No idle misgiving the rover can know:
For the bright eyes of childhood in wonder uprais'd,
And the glance of fair woman met mine as I gaz'd;
And blest was the fancy that over me stole,—
“A wish for my safety may be in her soul,
Her prayers may be mine, when alone and afar,
The Aeronaut sighs in his desolate car!”
The world has a thousand resources for all;
But the thrill of strange joy, when I broke from its thrall,
Was worth all its gifts, and exulting I thought,
Oh! who would not envy the gay Aeronaut!
But the thrill of strange joy, when I broke from its thrall,
Was worth all its gifts, and exulting I thought,
Oh! who would not envy the gay Aeronaut!
120
GABRIELLE.
IN ILLUSTRATION OF AN ENGRAVING.
You can see it on her saddened lip,
And in her serious glance;
She is thinking of her own dear home,
Afar in pleasant France:
And she looks as if the tears
Were this moment going to rise,
From her little heaving heart,
To her black and brilliant eyes.
She's a pretty creature—isn't she?
I know her very well;
She'll be seven years old to-morrow,
And her name is Gabrielle.
And in her serious glance;
She is thinking of her own dear home,
Afar in pleasant France:
And she looks as if the tears
Were this moment going to rise,
From her little heaving heart,
To her black and brilliant eyes.
She's a pretty creature—isn't she?
I know her very well;
She'll be seven years old to-morrow,
And her name is Gabrielle.
Shall I tell you all about her?
Such a charming little girl!
Her spirit is as soft, and light,
And careless as her curl:
Her curls! you cannot see them now,
They're tucked beneath that frill;
But sometimes o'er her baby brow
She lets them wave at will.
She is far away from home,
Yet her soul is full of love,
And the stranger's heart receives her
As it would a wandering dove.
And many a cold and careless lip
Has caught, as by a spell,
A smile and tone of tenderness,
From gentle Gabrielle.
Such a charming little girl!
Her spirit is as soft, and light,
And careless as her curl:
Her curls! you cannot see them now,
They're tucked beneath that frill;
But sometimes o'er her baby brow
She lets them wave at will.
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Yet her soul is full of love,
And the stranger's heart receives her
As it would a wandering dove.
And many a cold and careless lip
Has caught, as by a spell,
A smile and tone of tenderness,
From gentle Gabrielle.
And thus, though she is sorrowing now,
She is not often so,
For the very power of “loving much”
Is happiness, you know.
And in each living thing she sees,
In every bird and flower,
The simple, earnest, guileless child
Can find a pleasing power.
Then, if at times unbidden,
The bright warm tears will start,
When the shadow of her distant home
Goes o'er her happy heart,
They glisten on her glowing cheek
As beautiful and brief,
As drops of sunny morning dew
Upon a rose's leaf:
And in a moment more, a smile
Is dimpling where they fell,
So happy and so good is she,
The stranger, Gabrielle.
She is not often so,
For the very power of “loving much”
Is happiness, you know.
And in each living thing she sees,
In every bird and flower,
The simple, earnest, guileless child
Can find a pleasing power.
Then, if at times unbidden,
The bright warm tears will start,
When the shadow of her distant home
Goes o'er her happy heart,
They glisten on her glowing cheek
As beautiful and brief,
As drops of sunny morning dew
Upon a rose's leaf:
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Is dimpling where they fell,
So happy and so good is she,
The stranger, Gabrielle.
She's a very pleasant playmate,
Should you like such an one?
You cannot think how fond she is
Of frolic and of fun!
She dances like a fairy,
She warbles like a bird,
Her laugh has more of melody
Than any I have heard.
Ah! when she blooms in womanhood
I'm sure she'll be a belle;
With those rich lips and dazzling eyes,
Bewitching Gabrielle!
Should you like such an one?
You cannot think how fond she is
Of frolic and of fun!
She dances like a fairy,
She warbles like a bird,
Her laugh has more of melody
Than any I have heard.
Ah! when she blooms in womanhood
I'm sure she'll be a belle;
With those rich lips and dazzling eyes,
Bewitching Gabrielle!
If ever you should chance to meet
A loving little girl,
With a cap, like this one, lightly tied
O'er many a silken curl;
With a mouth of earnest sweetness,
And a softly rounded cheek,
And eyes that richly eloquent
A sunbright spirit speak;—
If she look just like this picture,
And be sure you mark it well,
For 'tis the very image
Of the graceful Gabrielle;—
A loving little girl,
With a cap, like this one, lightly tied
O'er many a silken curl;
With a mouth of earnest sweetness,
And a softly rounded cheek,
And eyes that richly eloquent
A sunbright spirit speak;—
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And be sure you mark it well,
For 'tis the very image
Of the graceful Gabrielle;—
If, like some wild flower smiling
On every passer by,
With many a pretty wile, she watch
To win your youthful eye:
Then take her by her little hand,
And say you love her well;
And should she whisper, “Je vous aime,”
You'll know 'tis Gabrielle.
On every passer by,
With many a pretty wile, she watch
To win your youthful eye:
Then take her by her little hand,
And say you love her well;
And should she whisper, “Je vous aime,”
You'll know 'tis Gabrielle.
LOVE'S COMPARISON.
“Off with the old love, and on with the new.”
Must I tell thee, Georgiana,
Of my cousin Caroline?
How the pretty creature sported with
This wayward heart of mine?
Oh! her eyes were blue as heaven, love,
But not so blue as thine,
And yet I almost idolized
The eyes of Caroline.
Of my cousin Caroline?
How the pretty creature sported with
This wayward heart of mine?
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But not so blue as thine,
And yet I almost idolized
The eyes of Caroline.
Her soft hair rippled to her waist
In waves of golden light,
Giving glimpses of a shoulder
That was exquisitely white;
Thine own has just that sunny fall
But silkier far than hers,
And a fairer neck gleams through them
While the wind their beauty stirs.
Ah! fondly (when she'd let me),
Did I those tresses twine,
But it was not near so pleasant, love,
As playing thus with thine!
In waves of golden light,
Giving glimpses of a shoulder
That was exquisitely white;
Thine own has just that sunny fall
But silkier far than hers,
And a fairer neck gleams through them
While the wind their beauty stirs.
Ah! fondly (when she'd let me),
Did I those tresses twine,
But it was not near so pleasant, love,
As playing thus with thine!
Her laugh was like a fairy's laugh,
So musical and sweet,
Her foot was like a fairy's foot,
So dainty and so fleet;
Her smile was fitful sunshine,
Her hand was dimpled snow,
Her lip a very rosebud
In sweetness and in glow;
But I know a lighter footstep,
More melodious a laugh,
A hand that's swansdown to the touch,
More soft than her's by half,
And a smile with more of angel-power
To brighten and to bless,
And a lip, that (if you'd let me),
I would perish but to press!
Ah! dearly did I love to hold
Her little hand in mine,
But I was not half so happy, sweet,
As now in taking thine!
So musical and sweet,
Her foot was like a fairy's foot,
So dainty and so fleet;
Her smile was fitful sunshine,
Her hand was dimpled snow,
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In sweetness and in glow;
But I know a lighter footstep,
More melodious a laugh,
A hand that's swansdown to the touch,
More soft than her's by half,
And a smile with more of angel-power
To brighten and to bless,
And a lip, that (if you'd let me),
I would perish but to press!
Ah! dearly did I love to hold
Her little hand in mine,
But I was not half so happy, sweet,
As now in taking thine!
Her cheek was very eloquent,
For there her feelings spoke,
Like summer's rosy lightning,
The colour o'er it broke;
While bewitching smiles and dimples
Changed its beautiful repose,
Like the zephyr and the sunshine
At play upon a rose.
But I know a cheek whose blushes,
As they trembling come and go,
I could gaze upon for ever,
If it did not pain thee so;
She never sought to shun my gaze—
My petted Caroline,
And yet I'd give her sunniest look
For one dear blush of thine.
For there her feelings spoke,
Like summer's rosy lightning,
The colour o'er it broke;
While bewitching smiles and dimples
Changed its beautiful repose,
Like the zephyr and the sunshine
At play upon a rose.
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As they trembling come and go,
I could gaze upon for ever,
If it did not pain thee so;
She never sought to shun my gaze—
My petted Caroline,
And yet I'd give her sunniest look
For one dear blush of thine.
Now prythee do not call
My cousin Carry—a coquet!
When I tell you she had danglers
By the dozen in her net;
For she was very beautiful,
Bewildering and bright,
And I own, her pretty, winning ways
And words, bewitched me quite.
Ah! I even now remember
That sweet madness with a sigh,
Nay, do not draw the hand away,
Nor droop the doubting eye;
But think, if I was dazzled thus
By careless Caroline,
How much more fondly I shall prize
So pure a heart as thine!
My cousin Carry—a coquet!
When I tell you she had danglers
By the dozen in her net;
For she was very beautiful,
Bewildering and bright,
And I own, her pretty, winning ways
And words, bewitched me quite.
Ah! I even now remember
That sweet madness with a sigh,
Nay, do not draw the hand away,
Nor droop the doubting eye;
But think, if I was dazzled thus
By careless Caroline,
How much more fondly I shall prize
So pure a heart as thine!
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TO LIZZIE.
Mine own sweet sister, wheresoe'er I go
I hear thy voice melodiously low;
Thine eyes, thy soft, dark, eloquent, loving eyes
Before me in remembered beauty rise!
I hear thy voice melodiously low;
Thine eyes, thy soft, dark, eloquent, loving eyes
Before me in remembered beauty rise!
Doth nature robe her form in rich array,
Wreathing her brow with stars for jewels rare!
Zoning her waist with the green moss of May,
And broid'ring all her vest with blossoms fair?
Wreathing her brow with stars for jewels rare!
Zoning her waist with the green moss of May,
And broid'ring all her vest with blossoms fair?
Do her sweet tones—sweet as thine own the while,
Forth from my home my willing feet allure,
To wander in the warm light of her smile,
And bare my forehead to her breathing pure!
Forth from my home my willing feet allure,
To wander in the warm light of her smile,
And bare my forehead to her breathing pure!
I sigh and think—if thou wert with me now,
Exulting in thy youth, and health, and glee,
How wouldst thou toss the ringlets from thy brow,
And join in all her joyous revelry!
Exulting in thy youth, and health, and glee,
How wouldst thou toss the ringlets from thy brow,
And join in all her joyous revelry!
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How would thy heart's enthusiast pulses beat,
Thy voice with all its wealth of music rise,
Her ever changing melody to meet,
Love in thy soul, and rapture in thine eyes!
Thy voice with all its wealth of music rise,
Her ever changing melody to meet,
Love in thy soul, and rapture in thine eyes!
Oh! sweetest, loveliest! would that thou wert here,
Heaven loses half her holy light to me;
Earth is ungraced with all her spring-tide gear,
And life itself worth little without thee!
Heaven loses half her holy light to me;
Earth is ungraced with all her spring-tide gear,
And life itself worth little without thee!
THE MORNING WALK, OR THE STOLEN BLUSH.
A LOVER'S LAY.
Never tell me that cheek is not painted, false maid!
'Tis a fib, tho' your pretty lip pouts while I say it;
And if the cheat were not already betrayed,
Those exquisite blushes themselves would betray it
'Tis a fib, tho' your pretty lip pouts while I say it;
And if the cheat were not already betrayed,
Those exquisite blushes themselves would betray it
But listen! this morning you rose ere the dawn,
To keep an appointment perhaps—with Apollo?
And finding a fairy foot-print on the lawn,
Which I could not mistake, I determined to follow.
To keep an appointment perhaps—with Apollo?
And finding a fairy foot-print on the lawn,
Which I could not mistake, I determined to follow.
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To the hill-side I track'd it, and tripping above me,
Her sun-ringlets flying and jewelled with dew,
A maiden I saw!—now the truth, if you love me—
But why should I question—I'm sure it was you!
Her sun-ringlets flying and jewelled with dew,
A maiden I saw!—now the truth, if you love me—
But why should I question—I'm sure it was you!
And you cannot deny you were met in ascending,—
I meanwhile pursuing my truant by stealth,—
By a blooming young seraph, who turned and attending
Your steps, said her name was “the Spirit of Health.”
I meanwhile pursuing my truant by stealth,—
By a blooming young seraph, who turned and attending
Your steps, said her name was “the Spirit of Health.”
Meantime thro' the mist of transparent vermillion
That suddenly flooded the brow of the hill,
All fretted with gold rose Aurora's pavilion,
Illumining meadow, and mountain, and rill.
That suddenly flooded the brow of the hill,
All fretted with gold rose Aurora's pavilion,
Illumining meadow, and mountain, and rill.
And Health floating up through the luminous air,
Dipped her fingers of snow in those clouds growing bright;
Then turned and dashed down o'er her votary fair
A handful of rose-beams that bathed her in light.
Dipped her fingers of snow in those clouds growing bright;
Then turned and dashed down o'er her votary fair
A handful of rose-beams that bathed her in light.
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Even yet they're at play here and there in your form,
Thro' your fingers they steal to the white taper tips,
Now rush to that cheek its soft dimples to warm,
Now deepen the crimson that lives in your lips.
Thro' your fingers they steal to the white taper tips,
Now rush to that cheek its soft dimples to warm,
Now deepen the crimson that lives in your lips.
Will you tell me again, with that scorn-lighted eye,
That you do not use paint—while such tinting is there?
While the glow still affirms what the glance would deny?
No! in future disclaim the sweet theft if you dare!
That you do not use paint—while such tinting is there?
While the glow still affirms what the glance would deny?
No! in future disclaim the sweet theft if you dare!
133
THE WELCOMING WORD.
My own beloved home I left,
Fearless of every future care;
I left—(how could I—thus bereft?)
My precious mother weeping there.
Fearless of every future care;
I left—(how could I—thus bereft?)
My precious mother weeping there.
And as her last kiss warmed my cheek,
A chill came o'er my fainting heart;
A strange, cold calm, no words can speak—
How could I from my mother part!
A chill came o'er my fainting heart;
A strange, cold calm, no words can speak—
How could I from my mother part!
Weary I crossed the reckless main,
And every wave but seemed a strong
And iron link within the chain,
“The lengthening chain I dragged along.”
And every wave but seemed a strong
And iron link within the chain,
“The lengthening chain I dragged along.”
At last the destined shore they traced;
I turned away in wordless pain,
And saw, beyond “the watery waste,”
My mother and my home again.
I turned away in wordless pain,
And saw, beyond “the watery waste,”
My mother and my home again.
134
An exile, ill in heart and frame,—
A wanderer, weary of the way,—
A stranger, without love's sweet claim
On any heart, go where I may!
A wanderer, weary of the way,—
A stranger, without love's sweet claim
On any heart, go where I may!
Oh! England! strange and cold to me!
When first my footsteps trod thy shore,
I felt I'd give the world to be
With mother, and at home once more!
When first my footsteps trod thy shore,
I felt I'd give the world to be
With mother, and at home once more!
But sweetly, while I mourned my doom,
One silvery voice a welcome spoke;
One smile, all radiant through the gloom
Of sorrow's night, like starlight broke.
One silvery voice a welcome spoke;
One smile, all radiant through the gloom
Of sorrow's night, like starlight broke.
And back with that soft glance and tone
A faint sweet dream of childhood flew;
Those eyes before had met mine own,—
That voice—it was a voice I knew.
A faint sweet dream of childhood flew;
Those eyes before had met mine own,—
That voice—it was a voice I knew.
Ah! none can like the stranger tell,
How much of joy a look may give!
How high the power, how deep the spell,
That in a welcoming word may live!
How much of joy a look may give!
How high the power, how deep the spell,
That in a welcoming word may live!
135
TO MARY P. WILLIS.
While, in its exulting, looks,
O'er many a stream the eye of day,
The tiniest of the dimpled brooks
May sparkle in the blessed ray.
O'er many a stream the eye of day,
The tiniest of the dimpled brooks
May sparkle in the blessed ray.
Mary, though richer gifts than mine
Should come to claim thy happy smile,
This offering “from my heart to thine”—
Oh! will it be forgot the while?
Should come to claim thy happy smile,
This offering “from my heart to thine”—
Oh! will it be forgot the while?
You heaven in splendour shines o'er all;
The beams that light the queenly rose,
Upon the violet too will fall,
And cheer and bless it while it blows.
The beams that light the queenly rose,
Upon the violet too will fall,
And cheer and bless it while it blows.
Sweet! while some gifted poet twines
A prouder wreath of rhyme for thee;
Let but thy blue eyes love my lines,
And read them, and remember me!
A prouder wreath of rhyme for thee;
Let but thy blue eyes love my lines,
And read them, and remember me!
136
TO GEORGE P---, ESQ.
On his commissioning the Author to purchase for him some Landscapes, by Doughty—a Summer and Winter Scene.
Less proudly and well had the painter pourtray'dHis own mountain-land with its sunshine and shade,
Were the wealth of his genius less lavishly lent
To the landscape where grandeur and beauty are blent;
For thee they would still wear a magical grace,
Which time cannot alter, or chances efface;
For the thought of that impulse, so noble and kind,
Which prompted their purchase will be in thy mind;
And the sweet recollection will hallow to thee,
Each curve of the cloud and each tint of the tree!
Hadst thou watch'd the proud Artist with me, when his eyes
Were suddenly lifted in joy and surprise,
While I, full of childlike emotion, imparted
That pleasant behest from the warm and high-hearted,
137
To soothe, for the lonely, one sorrowful hour!
For myself,—I was touched by thy courtesy free,
And tho' poor this return for thy kindness may be,
Be assured thou hast won, by that generous deed,
Something more than the Artist's or rhyme-weaver's meed;—
An esteem, that, surviving the painting's rich hue,
Its verdure's warm tinting,—its sky's sunny blue,—
The rivulet's ripple,—the cloud's snowy breast,—
So soft, it might lure a young seraph to rest,—
Will glow, with as true and as fervent a light,
When they are all lost in oblivion's night!
And now let me pray that thy “summer” of life
May be still, like the landscape, with radiance rife,
That the sunshine of friendship or love light the scene,
And the stream of benevolence freshen its green!
Then if haply a cloud o'er thy “winter” should go,
The rose-light of memory round it will glow,
And the cold snows of age gather smiles from her ray,
That shall pleasantly shine to the close of thy day.
138
THE SPOILT PUPIL OF FANCY.
I do not love the teacher,
I do not love the school;
I cannot bear to talk, and walk,
And look, and smile, by rule.
I do not love the school;
I cannot bear to talk, and walk,
And look, and smile, by rule.
Oh! such a stupid lesson
As I have learned to-day,
About that tiresome prism,
And the sun's refracted ray.
As I have learned to-day,
About that tiresome prism,
And the sun's refracted ray.
I'd rather watch the rainbow,
In coloured light arrayed,
Than study how it came there,
Or how its arch was made.
In coloured light arrayed,
Than study how it came there,
Or how its arch was made.
I'd rather play with flowers,
Beside the fountain free,
Or in our garden bowers,
Where they always smile on me.
Beside the fountain free,
Or in our garden bowers,
Where they always smile on me.
139
While they glory in the sunshine,
While they revel in the air,
What for their long, hard Latin names
Do glowing roses care?
While they revel in the air,
What for their long, hard Latin names
Do glowing roses care?
My teacher tears their leaves apart,
Their order—class—to know;
I wonder she can have the heart
To treat a blossom so!
Their order—class—to know;
I wonder she can have the heart
To treat a blossom so!
Once, if a flower were dying,
On a sultry summer's day,
I could hear its spirit sighing
Her balmy life away!
On a sultry summer's day,
I could hear its spirit sighing
Her balmy life away!
And now, alas! must Learning's lamp
The lovely dream consume;
And haughty hum-drum Reason
Must dim my bower's bloom!
The lovely dream consume;
And haughty hum-drum Reason
Must dim my bower's bloom!
I hate my teazing teacher,
I hate to learn by rule;
I had a pleasanter governess
Before I went to school!
I hate to learn by rule;
I had a pleasanter governess
Before I went to school!
140
She taught me prettier lessons—
And easier too by far;
She bade me think the silver moon
A warbling seraph's car.
And easier too by far;
She bade me think the silver moon
A warbling seraph's car.
And when I saw it gliding slow
The wreathed clouds amid,
And caught the gleam of spirit-steeds,
That pawed the heavens half-hid;
The wreathed clouds amid,
And caught the gleam of spirit-steeds,
That pawed the heavens half-hid;
While round them softly glistened
The starry train of fire;
How earnestly I listened
To hear the heavenly choir!
The starry train of fire;
How earnestly I listened
To hear the heavenly choir!
She said, the sunny rainbow
Was a band of brilliant flowers,
Linking heaven and earth together
In the lovely summer hours!
Was a band of brilliant flowers,
Linking heaven and earth together
In the lovely summer hours!
By cherub fingers braided,
In haunts of bliss above,
And flung in angel-play to earth,
A token of their love!
In haunts of bliss above,
And flung in angel-play to earth,
A token of their love!
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But now, instead of looking
For the violet divine,
For the heaven-born tulip's glory,
And the rose's blush benign;
For the violet divine,
For the heaven-born tulip's glory,
And the rose's blush benign;
For the tears and smiles of cherubs
Shed o'er that garland gay,—
I shall think of the rain-drop prism,
And the sun's refracted ray!
Shed o'er that garland gay,—
I shall think of the rain-drop prism,
And the sun's refracted ray!
Oh! a thousand lovely lessons
My playmate taught of yore;
And a thousand thrilling sights I saw
Which I shall see no more.
My playmate taught of yore;
And a thousand thrilling sights I saw
Which I shall see no more.
For Fancy was my teacher's name—
A frolic sprite was she,—
She bore me on her wings to heaven,
She led me through the sea.
A frolic sprite was she,—
She bore me on her wings to heaven,
She led me through the sea.
There marked I many a floating hall,
By coral columns graced;
And many a dim sea-vision
Through the crystal walls I traced.
By coral columns graced;
And many a dim sea-vision
Through the crystal walls I traced.
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I traced them by the dazzling light
Of jewels rich and rare,
That hung in garlands round about,
And made a glory there.
Of jewels rich and rare,
That hung in garlands round about,
And made a glory there.
The walls were all of crystal,
But the sea waves were the floor;
And ocean-sylphs were gliding
Its gleamy surface o'er.
But the sea waves were the floor;
And ocean-sylphs were gliding
Its gleamy surface o'er.
Between the rosy pillars,
Some gaily darting by,
In curved shells of varied hue,
Their pearly oars did ply.
Some gaily darting by,
In curved shells of varied hue,
Their pearly oars did ply.
Some were their ringlets wreathing
With strange and gleaming flowers;
Plucked by the gold-fish's fitful light.
In ocean's darkling bowers.
With strange and gleaming flowers;
Plucked by the gold-fish's fitful light.
In ocean's darkling bowers.
Ah! many a scene beyond the stars,
Of rapture pure and free,
And many a dim sea-vision
Did I and Fancy see!
Of rapture pure and free,
And many a dim sea-vision
Did I and Fancy see!
143
But we must part for ever,
My playmate sweet and I,—
She to some heart as wild as mine—
I to Reality!
My playmate sweet and I,—
She to some heart as wild as mine—
I to Reality!
THE HEART'S-EASE EXPIRING.
The sunny-eyed flower looked smiling up,
Happy, though failing fast;
And a sweet voice stole from its closing cup,—
Poor thing! it was breathing its last!
Happy, though failing fast;
And a sweet voice stole from its closing cup,—
Poor thing! it was breathing its last!
“Well!” said the blossom, “I'm dying it seems!
And why should I fear to die?
I've had my share of life-warm beams
From the spirit of light on high.
And why should I fear to die?
I've had my share of life-warm beams
From the spirit of light on high.
“Oh! when the queen-rose, in her beauty and bloom
O'ershadowing poor little me,
Seemed to bid all the glory of heaven illume
Her own wealth of leaves opened free.
O'ershadowing poor little me,
Seemed to bid all the glory of heaven illume
Her own wealth of leaves opened free.
144
“She little imagined the sun's loved smile,
Which she deemed was delighted to find her,
Was playing bopeep through her stems the while
With the happy Heart's-ease behind her!
Which she deemed was delighted to find her,
Was playing bopeep through her stems the while
With the happy Heart's-ease behind her!
“She little imagined, when Zephyrus bore
On his pinions her rich warm sighs,
At the same time he borrowed from my little store
An offering sweet for the skies.
On his pinions her rich warm sighs,
At the same time he borrowed from my little store
An offering sweet for the skies.
“She did not perceive, as she blushingly bent
Her brow to his playful caresses,
How he slyly stole o'er, and, on mischief intent,
My modest cheek covered with kisses!
Her brow to his playful caresses,
How he slyly stole o'er, and, on mischief intent,
My modest cheek covered with kisses!
“And she never e'en dreamed, when the maiden gay
Came to look at her beautiful pet,
That she wore my smile in her heart away,
While her own grew sunnier yet.
Came to look at her beautiful pet,
That she wore my smile in her heart away,
While her own grew sunnier yet.
“I am sure she will miss me the very next time
Her fairy feet glide that way;
And what will the herald of day's sweet prime—
Oh! what will the sunbeam say?
Her fairy feet glide that way;
And what will the herald of day's sweet prime—
Oh! what will the sunbeam say?
145
“When he comes to-morrow, and glances round
For the poor Heart's-ease in vain,
Will his smile be dimm'd as he reaches the ground,
Will he wish for my welcome again?
For the poor Heart's-ease in vain,
Will his smile be dimm'd as he reaches the ground,
Will he wish for my welcome again?
“And Zephyr too after his soft repose
On the heart of some night-blooming flower,
Will his kiss be cold for the queenly rose?
Will he ask why I fled from her bower?
On the heart of some night-blooming flower,
Will his kiss be cold for the queenly rose?
Will he ask why I fled from her bower?
“I have borne every change of my humble lot
With a smiling and shadowless eye;
And heaven's warm smile has been never forgot
When the storm swept sullenly by.
With a smiling and shadowless eye;
And heaven's warm smile has been never forgot
When the storm swept sullenly by.
“My life has been innocent, lovely and pure,
And all my heart's wealth I have given;
Tho' tempests would threaten, and sunbeams lure,
Still smiling and true unto Heaven.
And all my heart's wealth I have given;
Tho' tempests would threaten, and sunbeams lure,
Still smiling and true unto Heaven.
“A philosopher said, as he passed me one day,
That nothing was lost upon earth;
Who knows but I'll spring up some fine summer day
In a loftier, lovelier birth?
That nothing was lost upon earth;
Who knows but I'll spring up some fine summer day
In a loftier, lovelier birth?
146
“Whatever it is, 'twill be happy and bright,—
For where could this sunny heart go,
If not into some form of beauty and light?—
At least, I will fancy it so!
For where could this sunny heart go,
If not into some form of beauty and light?—
At least, I will fancy it so!
“Ah me! I must bid my gay sisters farewell!
Sweet Zephyr receive my last sigh!
Oh! breathe for the Heart's-ease one requiem knell!
I tremble—I wither—I die!”
Sweet Zephyr receive my last sigh!
Oh! breathe for the Heart's-ease one requiem knell!
I tremble—I wither—I die!”
THE LOVER'S APPEAL TO THE PAINTER.
How! paint Julie in colours
From earthly mixture made!
Presumptuous mortal! what art thou
That wouldst my love degrade?
From earthly mixture made!
Presumptuous mortal! what art thou
That wouldst my love degrade?
Go, dip thy brush in heaven,
When bluest are her skies,
The deep warm hue of summer,
To paint those laughing eyes.
When bluest are her skies,
The deep warm hue of summer,
To paint those laughing eyes.
147
And clothe its point in sunlight,
With a shadow here and there,
If thou wouldst give the gleamy wave
Of her luxuriant hair.
With a shadow here and there,
If thou wouldst give the gleamy wave
Of her luxuriant hair.
Be sure thou be not sparing,
But with hand all free and bold,
And generous in its daring,
Pour on the glowing gold.
But with hand all free and bold,
And generous in its daring,
Pour on the glowing gold.
And when it floats around her,
Like a fountain's spray of light,
With its rich ripples bathing
Her shoulders snowy white;
Like a fountain's spray of light,
With its rich ripples bathing
Her shoulders snowy white;
Then gaze again above thee,
And if the dying day
Has left its burning blushes there,
Oh! snatch the rosy ray!
And if the dying day
Has left its burning blushes there,
Oh! snatch the rosy ray!
And round her sportive dimples
Those hues of beauty trace,
Till heaven itself reflected seems
Within her radiant face.
Those hues of beauty trace,
Till heaven itself reflected seems
Within her radiant face.
148
Alas! the tints of loveliness,
If thou couldst thus obtain,
The lustre of the lovely tress,
The cheeks transparent stain;—
If thou couldst thus obtain,
The lustre of the lovely tress,
The cheeks transparent stain;—
What will they be, with all thy care,
Without the impassioned soul,
That pleads so eloquently there,
And animates the whole?
Without the impassioned soul,
That pleads so eloquently there,
And animates the whole?
SONG.—THE FORSAKEN.
I sunned myself once in her smile—
She has turned its soft beam upon one
Who cares not a pin for her, while
He triumphs, and I am undone!
She has turned its soft beam upon one
Who cares not a pin for her, while
He triumphs, and I am undone!
I lived on the sweets of her lip—
I must seek for a supper elsewhere!—
Another that banquet may sip!
Another may play with her hair!
I must seek for a supper elsewhere!—
Another that banquet may sip!
Another may play with her hair!
149
And why is my rival so dear?
And why is she out when I call?
His income's a thousand a year!—
And mine, it is—nothing at all!
And why is she out when I call?
His income's a thousand a year!—
And mine, it is—nothing at all!
IMPROMPTU.—TO ANNIE.
Her silken lash was drooping,At first she could not speak,
But th' eloquent colour trembling rose
Upon her youthful cheek:
At last the words found way,
And tears, till then unshed;
In low and faltering tones she spoke,—
“My birds! they are both dead!”
Sweet girl! if in thy heart
A bird is cherished so,
What wealth of love for human friends
Within its shrine must glow!
150
THE PET.
A STAGE-COACH INCIDENT.
Some dear little fellow she chattered about,Whom she was to call for, and take on her route;
“The sweet little creature, my precious, my own—
The darling!—I wonder how much he has grown!
They've taught him some clever accomplishments here;—
I long to behold him, the dear little dear!
With his dark, melting eyes, and his curling silk hair—
If I dont see him soon, I shall die, I declare!
They say that his bow's the perfection of grace;
And there's such an expression of soul in his face!
The contour of his head is allowed to be fine;
And his nose!—oh! it is absolutely divine!
And then so bewitching his eloquent whine,
When he puts his (I thought she said “hand”) into mine.
I have taught him to kiss me so cunning and sweet—
You'll see how he does it as soon as we meet.
You know Lady Seraphine Languish—they say
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And the nurse, who is hired on purpose to hold it,
Says her orders are never to teaze or to scold it.
Every morning she takes the pet out with her lady,
To walk in the park where it's pleasant and shady.
Lady Languish's plans I should scorn to be stealing,
But the world shall not say I am wanting in feeling;
And if Sir Astley Cooper dont think it is wrong,
Eugenio shall bathe in ‘Boquet de haut ton.’
Some people, I'm told, really laugh at my whim
In making so petted a darling of him:
Thank heaven! my heart is more gentle and tender,
(And tears, as she spoke, dimmed her eye's sunny splendour):
Do you know, that last year, when I lay at death's door,
And physicians and friends thought that all hope was o'er,—
When my husband and little Louisa, you know—
My youngest—whom every one's spoiling so;
When they were forbidden to enter the room,
Lest the sound of a whisper should hasten my doom,—
My darling Eugenio close to me crept,
With a look of such pathos that I could have wept!”
152
She paus'd; and reflecting, I sigh'd while I smil'd,
For I thought, the poor boy will be petted to death—
What a pity to spoil so enchanting a child!
But while I mus'd thus, the coach stopp'd at a gate;
Now, said I, I shall see all these infantine charms:
The lady leaned forward, with rapture elate,
And a nice little—lap-dog! jumped into her arms!
NONE ARE POOR.
Alas! for the gay, who in gorgeous array,
And chariots of pride, to God's altars are rolled:
They would turn from a love-breathing seraph away
If he came not apparelled in purple and gold!
And chariots of pride, to God's altars are rolled:
They would turn from a love-breathing seraph away
If he came not apparelled in purple and gold!
She stood 'mid the splendid insignia of wealth;
But the jewels that shone o'er her beauty and bloom
Were less fair than the sunny ray, smiling by stealth
Through the rose-tinted damask that shaded the room!
But the jewels that shone o'er her beauty and bloom
Were less fair than the sunny ray, smiling by stealth
Through the rose-tinted damask that shaded the room!
153
In the flash of her glance there was passion and pride,
In the curve of her lip there was haughty contempt,
As she spoke of the power to riches allied,
Of the evil and pain from which she was exempt.
In the curve of her lip there was haughty contempt,
As she spoke of the power to riches allied,
Of the evil and pain from which she was exempt.
Another stood by, with a soul in her eye,
Out-glowing in lustre the sun-ray and gem;
And a fount in that soul of warm feeling and high,
Whose least emanation was worth all of them.
Out-glowing in lustre the sun-ray and gem;
And a fount in that soul of warm feeling and high,
Whose least emanation was worth all of them.
She had pass'd thro' the shadow and sunlight of life,
She had learn'd in its storms to exult and endure;
And her gentle reply with sweet wisdom was rife—
“To me, there are none in the universe—poor!”
She had learn'd in its storms to exult and endure;
And her gentle reply with sweet wisdom was rife—
“To me, there are none in the universe—poor!”
ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.
As if she only sought the earth to bearHer smile into our hearts, and leave it there,
Our cherub came and went—the tie was riven;
Her spirit wears a brighter smile in Heaven!
154
THE ROSE IN ICE.
She has a glowing heart, they say,
Though calm her seeming be;
And oft that warm heart's lovely play
Upon her cheek I see.
Though calm her seeming be;
And oft that warm heart's lovely play
Upon her cheek I see.
Her cheek is almost always pale,
And marble cold it seems,
But a soft colour trembles there
At times, in rosy gleams!
And marble cold it seems,
But a soft colour trembles there
At times, in rosy gleams!
Some sudden throb of love, or grief,
Or pity, or delight,
And lo! a flush of beauty—brief,
But passionately bright!
Or pity, or delight,
And lo! a flush of beauty—brief,
But passionately bright!
She minds me of a rose I found
In a far southern land,—
A robe of ice its blushes bound,
By winter breezes fanned.
In a far southern land,—
A robe of ice its blushes bound,
By winter breezes fanned.
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But softly through the crystal veil
That gleamed about its form,
There came a fitful glow to tell
The flower beneath was warm!
That gleamed about its form,
There came a fitful glow to tell
The flower beneath was warm!
And thus, though cold her seeming be,
Her cheek so calmly fair,
Her spirit, struggling to be free,
Doth often tremble there!
Her cheek so calmly fair,
Her spirit, struggling to be free,
Doth often tremble there!
ELLEN'S FIRST TOOTH.
Your mouth is a rose-bud,And in it a pearl
Lies smiling and snowy,
My own little girl!
Oh! pure pearl of promise!
It is thy first tooth—
How closely thou shuttest
The rose-bud, forsooth!
156
The fair thing to view—
Nay! only a minute—
Dear Ellen! now do!
You wont? little miser,
To hide the gem so!
Some day you'll be wiser,
And show them, I know!
How dear is the pleasure—
My fears for thee past—
To know the white treasure
Has budded at last!
Fair child! may each hour
A rose-blossom be,
And hide in its flower
Some jewel for thee!
EPIGRAM.
The boot pinch'd hard—the suffering dandy sigh'd!Jane fondly thought the sigh her beauty's due;
“Bootless your passion, sir!” she proudly cried;
“Ah!” said the fop, “Would I were bootless too!”
157
FAZRY.
Her hands clasped in anguish—her black eyes bent low,
With motionless grace, as if sculptured in stone,
Half veiled by her dark hair's magnificent flow,
Sweet Fazry is standing—a captive—alone!
With motionless grace, as if sculptured in stone,
Half veiled by her dark hair's magnificent flow,
Sweet Fazry is standing—a captive—alone!
“Kara Aly!”—the statue awakes to that name,
As the marble grew warm 'neath the love-spell of old!
Lo! her pale cheek is kindling with beautiful shame,
And her eye is on fire with emotion untold!
As the marble grew warm 'neath the love-spell of old!
Lo! her pale cheek is kindling with beautiful shame,
And her eye is on fire with emotion untold!
“Frail flower of Kazan! you were nursed from your birth,
Amid luxuries rarest and richest of earth;—
Why left you that home, with the fierce mountain-chief?”
“I loved him!” she murmured, in passionate grief.
Amid luxuries rarest and richest of earth;—
Why left you that home, with the fierce mountain-chief?”
“I loved him!” she murmured, in passionate grief.
“So young and so lovely, a cavern your home!
Ne'er languished that spirit for freedom to roam?
Rude dwelling for creature so fragile and fair!”
She raised her rich eyes—“Kara Aly was there!”
Ne'er languished that spirit for freedom to roam?
Rude dwelling for creature so fragile and fair!”
She raised her rich eyes—“Kara Aly was there!”
161
VIRGINIA.
I saw her first—a petted child,
Her eyes were blue as heaven;
Her cheek was dimpled when she smiled
Her lips a rose-bud riven.
Her eyes were blue as heaven;
Her cheek was dimpled when she smiled
Her lips a rose-bud riven.
Her form, the prettiest in the world,
Her step—a fairy's flight,
Her hair like shaded sunshine, curled
In clusters wild and bright.
Her step—a fairy's flight,
Her hair like shaded sunshine, curled
In clusters wild and bright.
162
“A child,” I said,—so artless, wild,
And full of mirth her mien;
You'd deem her but a lovely child
Though she was just fifteen.
And full of mirth her mien;
You'd deem her but a lovely child
Though she was just fifteen.
I met her on her way to school,
The snow fell swift and still;
The morn was clear and bright, but cool,
And I had felt the chill.
The snow fell swift and still;
The morn was clear and bright, but cool,
And I had felt the chill.
But idly at that childlike form
Fierce Winter flung his dart;
Her frolic feet had kept her warm,
And Love was at her heart.
Fierce Winter flung his dart;
Her frolic feet had kept her warm,
And Love was at her heart.
Her small straw bonnet backward flung,
Her cloak, blown here and there,
While drops of snow like jewels hung
In her disordered hair.—
Her cloak, blown here and there,
While drops of snow like jewels hung
In her disordered hair.—
That dimpled cheek was flushed and bright,
A smile was on her lip;
Her eyes were full of wild delight,
And gay her graceful trip.
A smile was on her lip;
Her eyes were full of wild delight,
And gay her graceful trip.
163
She seemed a sunbeam in my way,
The vision warmed my heart,
And Memory kept the blessed ray
Long after we did part.
The vision warmed my heart,
And Memory kept the blessed ray
Long after we did part.
Years went—again her path I've crossed,
Ah! from that form and face;
What depth of bloom and light are lost,
What wealth of artless grace.
Ah! from that form and face;
What depth of bloom and light are lost,
What wealth of artless grace.
The world has won her—she has learned
Its measured smile and tread;
The foot, that once the snow-flake spurned,
By courtly rule is led.
Its measured smile and tread;
The foot, that once the snow-flake spurned,
By courtly rule is led.
And Fashion's hand has smoothed the fold
Of that luxuriant hair,
Where once the tress of glossy gold
Waved wildly on the air.
Of that luxuriant hair,
Where once the tress of glossy gold
Waved wildly on the air.
Yet oft, unbidden, to her eyes
Quick tears of Feeling start,
And while those gems of truth arise,
She's still a child at heart.
Quick tears of Feeling start,
And while those gems of truth arise,
She's still a child at heart.
164
Alas! in all her Beauty's power,
Proud, stately, and serene;
She knows not one bright thrilling hour
Like those of gay fifteen!
Proud, stately, and serene;
She knows not one bright thrilling hour
Like those of gay fifteen!
THE DEATH OF THE TWO FLOWERS.
FROM THE FRENCH.
“I pray thee do not blossom yet,
My fairy rose,—my pretty pet!
Let not the wooing light and air
Beguile those tender leaves apart:
But keep thy wealth of incense there,
With Patience at thy blooming heart.
Hold back—my precious! yet awhile,
Thy fragrant breath and glowing smile;
I'd rather close beside thee go,
And catch thy fitful sweetness so;
I'd rather look the leaves between,
That love to veil thy virgin sheen,
Than have them yielded fair and free
To idle eyes, that love not thee:
For well I know the hour that sees
Thy bloom the plaything of the breeze,
Will see thee sigh that bloom away,
And I shall mourn my flower's decay!
Then oh! not now those petals ope,
Keep thou thy smile, and I my hope!”
My fairy rose,—my pretty pet!
Let not the wooing light and air
Beguile those tender leaves apart:
But keep thy wealth of incense there,
With Patience at thy blooming heart.
Hold back—my precious! yet awhile,
Thy fragrant breath and glowing smile;
I'd rather close beside thee go,
And catch thy fitful sweetness so;
I'd rather look the leaves between,
That love to veil thy virgin sheen,
Than have them yielded fair and free
To idle eyes, that love not thee:
165
Thy bloom the plaything of the breeze,
Will see thee sigh that bloom away,
And I shall mourn my flower's decay!
Then oh! not now those petals ope,
Keep thou thy smile, and I my hope!”
Thus sang our playful Rosaline,
Herself a bud of promise rare,
With blooming cheek, and brow serene,
And step and heart as light as air.
At morn she sang!—When evening shed
Her silvery smile o'er Rosa's head:
All lifeless lay the tresses fair,
That floated on that early air.
All pale in Death's cold shadow, now,
The dimpled cheek and smiling brow,
While blushed her rose in full blown pride,
A glowing mockery by her side!
Yes! still its useless life is bore!
The human blossom breathed no more!
Alas! the flower had kept its bloom
To shed it o'er her early tomb.
Ere morning's feet yon mountain pressed,
It died on that unconscious breast!
Herself a bud of promise rare,
With blooming cheek, and brow serene,
And step and heart as light as air.
At morn she sang!—When evening shed
Her silvery smile o'er Rosa's head:
All lifeless lay the tresses fair,
That floated on that early air.
All pale in Death's cold shadow, now,
The dimpled cheek and smiling brow,
While blushed her rose in full blown pride,
A glowing mockery by her side!
Yes! still its useless life is bore!
The human blossom breathed no more!
Alas! the flower had kept its bloom
To shed it o'er her early tomb.
Ere morning's feet yon mountain pressed,
It died on that unconscious breast!
166
TO MISS M---.
I know that thou art beautiful,—
In dreams I see thy face,
I see its dimples come and go
Like light in frolic grace.
Thy rich eyes steal before mine own.
'Neath lashes long and dark,
And on thy softly rounded cheek,
The maiden bloom I mark.
And why is this? what wizard spell
Hath touched with prophet power
My fancy thus? a simple thing—
A tone—a word—a flower!
I heard thy voice—so gaily sweet—
I could not choose to guess,
The mouth that breath'd it wreath'd with smiles
Of playful loveliness.
It spoke to one whose tiny lips
To lisp thy name shall learn,
Though now they can but murmur soft
And answering smiles return.
In gentle words of love they spoke,
And I was very sure,
That all thy looks were eloquent,
With feeling high and pure.
In dreams I see thy face,
I see its dimples come and go
Like light in frolic grace.
Thy rich eyes steal before mine own.
'Neath lashes long and dark,
And on thy softly rounded cheek,
The maiden bloom I mark.
And why is this? what wizard spell
Hath touched with prophet power
My fancy thus? a simple thing—
A tone—a word—a flower!
I heard thy voice—so gaily sweet—
I could not choose to guess,
The mouth that breath'd it wreath'd with smiles
Of playful loveliness.
It spoke to one whose tiny lips
To lisp thy name shall learn,
Though now they can but murmur soft
And answering smiles return.
167
And I was very sure,
That all thy looks were eloquent,
With feeling high and pure.
I know that thou art beautiful,—
For thou hast told me so,
In a sweet language that I learned
Of Flora long ago.
Thou'st sent me from thy garden bower
The latest rosebud there,
Its blush was eloquent, its leaves
Were rife with meaning rare;
It told of virgin bloom and hope,
And modesty and truth;
Ah! what so fit as fragrant flowers
To emblem sunny youth?
It touched a weary stranger's heart,
That one she had not known,
Could give a kindly thought to her
In sadness and alone;
It minded her of days gone by,
When Love's untiring hand
Wove blossoms for her youthful brow,
In many a graceful band.
Ah! far away from home and friends,
That heart still warmly beats
With something of its olden joy,
When such as thou she meets!
And oft in future dreams shall rise
The eye and glossy curl,
The soft rose-bloom and dimple
Of the sweet-voiced English girl!
For thou hast told me so,
In a sweet language that I learned
Of Flora long ago.
Thou'st sent me from thy garden bower
The latest rosebud there,
Its blush was eloquent, its leaves
Were rife with meaning rare;
It told of virgin bloom and hope,
And modesty and truth;
Ah! what so fit as fragrant flowers
To emblem sunny youth?
It touched a weary stranger's heart,
That one she had not known,
Could give a kindly thought to her
In sadness and alone;
It minded her of days gone by,
When Love's untiring hand
Wove blossoms for her youthful brow,
In many a graceful band.
168
That heart still warmly beats
With something of its olden joy,
When such as thou she meets!
And oft in future dreams shall rise
The eye and glossy curl,
The soft rose-bloom and dimple
Of the sweet-voiced English girl!
TO MRS. W---.
Be sure, though gay my seeming be, that pensive wish of thine
Breathed from the heart, an echo found, a mournful one in mine;
Yet, half with doubting tone you said, “and let the lay be sad;”
Ah! could you guess the effort that I make in seeming glad!
You cannot!—bless'd as now you are, with friends, and home, and all,
That in th' exulting joy of love “our own” we fondly call:
The loved and loving faces that you've known so long and well,
The dear, familiar places where your childish footsteps fell,—
Where you joined with careless heart and free, your playmates' blooming band;
Ah! happy then as now, in this,—you trod your native land!
Breathed from the heart, an echo found, a mournful one in mine;
Yet, half with doubting tone you said, “and let the lay be sad;”
Ah! could you guess the effort that I make in seeming glad!
169
That in th' exulting joy of love “our own” we fondly call:
The loved and loving faces that you've known so long and well,
The dear, familiar places where your childish footsteps fell,—
Where you joined with careless heart and free, your playmates' blooming band;
Ah! happy then as now, in this,—you trod your native land!
You cannot!—for you are not doom'd in hopelessness to roam,
To sigh with clasping hands in vain—“my country and my home!”
Should stern Misfortune visit you, or Pain your couch attend,
A mother, loving and beloved, would fondly o'er you bend;
If Sorrow wound that gentle breast, or Joy the hour beguile,
A sister weeps in sympathy, or shares the happy smile.
My precious mother, far away, her absent child doth mourn!
My sister checks the merry laugh, and sighs for my return!—
Her dark eye's lovely lustre bewildering and bright,
Her cheek's deep bloom and dimple soft, that mocks the gazer's sight,
Are often dimmed with tears for me, while I, alone and sad,
Must make a weary effort still to seem serene and glad!
With one joy to my wanderings left—the loved ones cannot guess,
In their bright home beyond the wave, my exile-wretchedness!
To sigh with clasping hands in vain—“my country and my home!”
Should stern Misfortune visit you, or Pain your couch attend,
A mother, loving and beloved, would fondly o'er you bend;
If Sorrow wound that gentle breast, or Joy the hour beguile,
A sister weeps in sympathy, or shares the happy smile.
170
My sister checks the merry laugh, and sighs for my return!—
Her dark eye's lovely lustre bewildering and bright,
Her cheek's deep bloom and dimple soft, that mocks the gazer's sight,
Are often dimmed with tears for me, while I, alone and sad,
Must make a weary effort still to seem serene and glad!
With one joy to my wanderings left—the loved ones cannot guess,
In their bright home beyond the wave, my exile-wretchedness!
Ah! gay to you my smile may seem, 'tis but the lightning brief,
That flashes from a darkened soul, thro' gathering clouds of grief;
And ever when the light is past, the tears are in mine eyes—
Tears that relieve the full, full heart, as showers clear the skies.
But enough of selfish sorrow,—let me speak of happier things,
Of the countless kindly deeds and words that cheer my wanderings;
Oh! English hearts are warm and true, and English voices sweet,
And sweetest when the wanderer with welcoming they greet.
But 'mid the many gentle tones whose music I have known,
None have touch'd, with softer influence, my spirit than your own;
And if some sunny moments yet are mine of genuine mirth,
Their light has half been stolen from your happy household hearth:
And I shall cherish, as I would a sweet but withered flower,
The memory, in my “heart of heart,” of many a social hour.
My thanks are thine,—my simple verse, if it be far from glad,
Remember, that with doubting tone, you bade the song be sad.
That flashes from a darkened soul, thro' gathering clouds of grief;
And ever when the light is past, the tears are in mine eyes—
Tears that relieve the full, full heart, as showers clear the skies.
171
Of the countless kindly deeds and words that cheer my wanderings;
Oh! English hearts are warm and true, and English voices sweet,
And sweetest when the wanderer with welcoming they greet.
But 'mid the many gentle tones whose music I have known,
None have touch'd, with softer influence, my spirit than your own;
And if some sunny moments yet are mine of genuine mirth,
Their light has half been stolen from your happy household hearth:
And I shall cherish, as I would a sweet but withered flower,
The memory, in my “heart of heart,” of many a social hour.
My thanks are thine,—my simple verse, if it be far from glad,
Remember, that with doubting tone, you bade the song be sad.
173
THE CHERUB'S SECRET.
What made my Ellen start and smile,
Then sink in soft repose again,
As if some joyous thought the while
Had darted through her slumb'ring brain,
Like rosy lightning brief and bright,
Illumining a summer night?
Then sink in soft repose again,
As if some joyous thought the while
Had darted through her slumb'ring brain,
Like rosy lightning brief and bright,
Illumining a summer night?
Perhaps a viewless cherub stole,
Young as thyself, as pure and fair,
On tiny pinions to thy soul,
And whisp'ring some sweet secret there,
Awoke that smile of heavenly glee:
My Ellen! wake—and tell it me!
Young as thyself, as pure and fair,
On tiny pinions to thy soul,
And whisp'ring some sweet secret there,
Awoke that smile of heavenly glee:
My Ellen! wake—and tell it me!
175
WOMAN'S TRUST.
A DRAMATIC SKETCH.
Scene—Germany. A Masked Ball.Madelon and a Stranger, in a deep recess.
MADELON.
Why hast thou led me here?
My friends may deem it strange, unmaidenly,
This lonely converse with an unknown mask.
Yet in thy voice there is a thrilling power
That makes me love to linger! It is like
The tone of one far distant—only his
Was gayer and more soft.
STRANGER.
Sweet Madelon!
Say thou wilt smile upon the passionate love
That thou alone canst waken! Let me hope!
176
Hush! hush! I may not hear thee. Know'st thou not
I am betrothed?
STRANGER.
Alas! too well I know!
But I could tell thee such a tale of him—
Thine early love—'twould fire those timid eyes
With lightning pride and anger,—curl that lip,
That gentle lip, to passionate contempt
For man's light falsehood! Even now he bends—
Thy Rupert bends—o'er one as fair as thou,
In fond affection. Even now his heart—
MADELON.
Doth my eye flash? doth my lip curl with scorn?—
'Tis scorn of thee, thou perjured stranger! not—
Oh! not of him, the generous and the true!
Hast thou e'er seen my Rupert? hast thou met
Those proud and fearless eyes, that never quailed,
As Falsehood quails, before another's glance—
As thine even now are shrinking from mine own—
The spirit-beauty of that open brow—
177
The lofty mien, whose majesty is won
From inborn honour,—Hast thou seen all this?
And darest thou speak of faithlessness and him
In the same idle breath? Thou little know'st
The strong confiding of a woman's heart,
When woman loves—as I do! Speak no more!
STRANGER.
Deluded girl!—I tell thee he is false—
False as yon fleeting cloud!
MADELON.
True as the sun!
STRANGER.
The very wind less wayward than his heart!
MADELON.
The forest oak less firm! He loved me not
For the frail rose hues and the fleeting light
Of youthful loveliness!—Ah! many a cheek,
Of softer bloom, and many a dazzling eye,
More rich than mine, may win my wanderer's gaze!
178
For my unfaltering truth—he cannot find,
Rove where he will, a heart that beats for him
With such intense, absorbing tenderness—
Such idolizing constancy as mine!
Why should he change then?—I am still the same
STRANGER.
Sweet infidel! wilt thou have ruder proof?
Rememberest thou a little golden case
Thy Rupert wore, in which a gem was shrined?—
A gem I would not barter for a world!—
An angel face!—its sunny wealth of hair
In radiant ripples bathed the graceful throat
And dimpled shoulders,—round the rosy curve
Of the sweet mouth a smile seemed wandering ever,—
While in the depths of azure fire that gleamed
Beneath the drooping lashes, slept a world
Of eloquent meaning—passionate, but pure!—
Dreamy, subdued,—but oh! how beautiful!—
A look of timid, pleading tenderness,
That should have been a talisman to charm
His restless heart for aye! Rememberest thou?
179
(impatiently.)
I do—I do remember! 'twas my own!
He prized it as his life—I gave it him!
What of it? speak!
STRANGER
(shewing the miniature.)
Lady, behold that gift!
MADELON
(clasping her hands.)
Merciful heaven! Is my Rupert dead?
(After a pause, during which she seems overwhelmed in agony.)
How died he?—when? Oh! thou wert by his side
In that last hour—and I was far away!
My blessed love! Give me that token!—speak!
What message sent he to his Madelon?
STRANGER
(supporting her, and strongly agitated.)
He is not dead, dear lady! grieve not thus!
MADELON.
He is not false, sir stranger!
180
For thy sake,
Would he were worthier! One other proof
I'll give thee, loveliest! if thou lov'st him still,
I'll not believe thee woman! Listen then!
A faithful lover breathes not of his bliss
To other ears.—Wilt hear a fable, lady?—
Softly from heaven the starlight fell,
And trembled in the playful wave;
Faintly the far-off vesper bell
Its wild and mournful music gave!
With frolic feet, and floating hair
That glistened in the radiant air,
A maiden sought the river's side;
The white sands beamed beneath her tread,
And smiled beyond the baffled tide,
That murmuring and receding fled.
Their silvery sparkle caught her eye,—
Smooth was their tempting sheen and dry;
The summer evening still and warm;
The maiden weary;—on the sand
She lightly laid her fairy form,
And leaned her head upon her hand.
And as she leaned, her lovely hair
Fell o'er a forehead pure and fair,—
181
Swept her soft cheek's transparent hue,—
And trembled, like a glossy wreath
Of gold, upon the ground beneath!
That dreaming maiden did not hear
The swift, light footstep, stealing near;
She did not see the knee that bent
Beside her softly, as she leant!
With faltering finger, in the sand
She traced a single word, and then
She blushed, and passed her pretty hand
Across it, and began again;—
“Rupert” she wrote—nay start not so!
Fair lady! why that sudden glow?
Once more she traced the name—and lo!
Beside it, as by magic, shone
Another!—it was “Madelon!”
The maiden turned, confused, distressed,—
Her Rupert clasped her to his breast!—
While fond and warm, the impassioned boy
Revealed his love, his hope, his joy,
To her young cheek the rose of shame
In glowing tumult softly came;
And trembled in her timid eye
The tear of maiden-modesty!
182
And Rupert soothed her bashful fear:
And ere the vesper hymn was done,
A plighted maid was Madelon!
Lady! my task is o'er—dost doubt me still?
MADELON.
Doubt thee, my Rupert!—ah! I know thee now!
Fling by that hateful mask!—let me unclasp it!
No! thou wouldst not betray thy Madelon!
(Takes off his Mask.)
RUPERT.
Come to my heart! my faithful! my adored!
Oh! guileless, constant, true as heaven itself,
Must be the breast wherein dwells trust so pure!
MADELON.
And didst thou think to shake my faith in thee
By idle tales like these? Yet it was wrong,
A cruel mockery, Rupert! Woman's love
Is far too tender and too soft a flower
To be so played with!—Ah! we may not deal
Too roughly with the rose!—And why was this?
183
Forgive me, Madelon!—'twas but to try
Thy strength. In my long wanderings I have heard
So much of woman's fickleness, and seen
So much of evil—nay! of ruin, wrought
By woman's causeless jealousy!—But thou—
Oh! thou hast been a bright and holy proof
That only in the heart too prone itself
To stray from truth, doth dark suspicion dwell!
I bless thee then, my noble Madelon!
For thy deep love, and thy unconquered trust!
A COMPARISON BETWEEN A TALKATIVE FOOL AND A SILENT PHILOSOPHER.
While shallow, babbling brooks, elate,Still of their worthless pebbles prate;
The deeper waters silent flow
Above the treasures hid below.
184
TO ---.
I vowed to thee a votive strain,But strove to keep my vow in vain;
For when with some kind deed of thine
I thought to fire the feeble line,—
A myriad on my memory rushed,
And lo! the grateful muse was hushed!
I could not to thy mind recall—
I could not thank thee for them all!
Yet, though the melody and fire
Of love upon my lips expire;
'Tis only in my heart to play
With sweeter power and warmer ray!
TO ISABELLE.
Thou'lt speed thy conquering way, I trow,Through hearts however narrow:
Thy lips are Cupid's prettiest bow,
Thy smile his surest arrow!
185
THE PERJURED BRIDE.
This golden band! it weighs like lead!
Unclasp it from my aching head!
Take off the veil of silver light,—
Its dazzling waves oppress my sight!
Ah me! methinks my weary brow
Is scarce relieved or lightened now!—
Quick—quick! the jewelled zone unwreathe!
It binds my heart! I cannot breathe!
Oh! loose my robe!—each gorgeous fold
That glitters on my joyless breast,
Seems like a serpent—bright but cold—
It chills my life-blood!—let me rest!
Take from my throat this hateful chain!—
So! I am free!—I breathe again!
Free did I say?—oh! mockery wild
As e'er on frenzied woman smiled!
I do but sport in maniac glee
With my own maddening misery!
Free did I say? Have I not given
Myself—my heart—thought—feeling—will,
To fetters that may ne'er be riven,
Until that heart's last throb is still?
Have I not spoken words, whose power
Is as an adamantine chain,—
Linking me from this fatal hour
To falsehood, sorrow, guilt, and pain?
Unclasp it from my aching head!
Take off the veil of silver light,—
Its dazzling waves oppress my sight!
Ah me! methinks my weary brow
Is scarce relieved or lightened now!—
Quick—quick! the jewelled zone unwreathe!
It binds my heart! I cannot breathe!
Oh! loose my robe!—each gorgeous fold
That glitters on my joyless breast,
Seems like a serpent—bright but cold—
It chills my life-blood!—let me rest!
Take from my throat this hateful chain!—
So! I am free!—I breathe again!
Free did I say?—oh! mockery wild
As e'er on frenzied woman smiled!
I do but sport in maniac glee
With my own maddening misery!
186
Myself—my heart—thought—feeling—will,
To fetters that may ne'er be riven,
Until that heart's last throb is still?
Have I not spoken words, whose power
Is as an adamantine chain,—
Linking me from this fatal hour
To falsehood, sorrow, guilt, and pain?
Ah no! 'twas not the gem-lit zone
That weighed upon my heart like stone!
'Twas not the gaudy golden chain
That clasped so tight my throbbing brain!
And not amid my robe's light fold
The serpent's icy rings were rolled!
That load—the load of woe and sin—
That poison-fang are all within!
Oh God! but to recall the past—
But one, one hour, the dread—the last!
To know once more the power to choose
What then I madly dared refuse!
That weighed upon my heart like stone!
'Twas not the gaudy golden chain
That clasped so tight my throbbing brain!
And not amid my robe's light fold
The serpent's icy rings were rolled!
That load—the load of woe and sin—
That poison-fang are all within!
Oh God! but to recall the past—
But one, one hour, the dread—the last!
To know once more the power to choose
What then I madly dared refuse!
I saw them all, ere yet the vow
Had seared my soul and shamed my brow:
Beautiful in its pure repose,
My own, my early home arose;
The blessed cot—its garden bowers—
Its lowly lattice, laced with flowers—
Oh! softly round it stole the breeze,
Like music through the murmuring trees—
And radiant still to memory's eye,
The silver rill went singing by.
Had seared my soul and shamed my brow:
187
My own, my early home arose;
The blessed cot—its garden bowers—
Its lowly lattice, laced with flowers—
Oh! softly round it stole the breeze,
Like music through the murmuring trees—
And radiant still to memory's eye,
The silver rill went singing by.
There Innocence, and Hope, and Truth,
Linked with the guileless Love of youth—
A holy band—did smiling rise,
And woo me with their angel eyes!
Soft as a whispering waterfall,
I heard their sweet, imploring call!—
I heard, and heeded not! I turned,
With heart that wildly, proudly burned;—
A haughtier vision met my sight—
A palace-hall of dazzling light;
And on its couch of luxury rare,
Dishonour sat with jewelled hair!
And from its festal-board the while,
Did golden-fettered Misery
Smile on me with a mocking smile!
What were their gems and gold to me?
Alas! within the lustrous braid,
That garlanded that drooping head,
So rich the diamond's lightning-play,
That I was blinded by the ray!
I did not mark the weary eye—
I did not hear the hopeless sigh;
And when that smile—so strange—so cold—
Beamed from a forehead brightly crowned,
I only saw the gleaming gold—
And not the wasted brow it bound!
Linked with the guileless Love of youth—
A holy band—did smiling rise,
And woo me with their angel eyes!
Soft as a whispering waterfall,
I heard their sweet, imploring call!—
I heard, and heeded not! I turned,
With heart that wildly, proudly burned;—
A haughtier vision met my sight—
A palace-hall of dazzling light;
And on its couch of luxury rare,
Dishonour sat with jewelled hair!
And from its festal-board the while,
Did golden-fettered Misery
Smile on me with a mocking smile!
What were their gems and gold to me?
188
That garlanded that drooping head,
So rich the diamond's lightning-play,
That I was blinded by the ray!
I did not mark the weary eye—
I did not hear the hopeless sigh;
And when that smile—so strange—so cold—
Beamed from a forehead brightly crowned,
I only saw the gleaming gold—
And not the wasted brow it bound!
Near and more near the vision grew;
My fair home faded from my view—
High swelled the syren-song of pride;
Mournful and slow,—receding still,
Love's pleading accent faltered—died!
I triumphed in my wayward will—
I took that form with glittering crown—
I pressed that splendid couch of down—
Flung from my heart the Pure, the Fair!—
And clasped a golden fetter there!
My fair home faded from my view—
High swelled the syren-song of pride;
Mournful and slow,—receding still,
Love's pleading accent faltered—died!
I triumphed in my wayward will—
I took that form with glittering crown—
I pressed that splendid couch of down—
Flung from my heart the Pure, the Fair!—
And clasped a golden fetter there!
192
TO H---.
Dont say you are not pretty!
With that fair, frank brow of thine,
And those eyes, where truth and tenderness
So eloquently shine.
With that fair, frank brow of thine,
And those eyes, where truth and tenderness
So eloquently shine.
Dont say you are not charming,
While that cheek so softly glows
With the loveliest and lightest hue,
That warms the summer rose.
While that cheek so softly glows
With the loveliest and lightest hue,
That warms the summer rose.
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With thy silken ringlets shadowing
The smiling beauty there,
As clouds, the soft vermillion, veil,
That radiant morn doth wear.
The smiling beauty there,
As clouds, the soft vermillion, veil,
That radiant morn doth wear.
I would bid you ask your glass, love;
But those modest eyes—I know it—
Will distrust the light reflections,
Both of mirror and of poet!
But those modest eyes—I know it—
Will distrust the light reflections,
Both of mirror and of poet!
Ah! could you look into my heart
And watch your image there!
You would own the sunny loveliness
Affection makes it wear.
And watch your image there!
You would own the sunny loveliness
Affection makes it wear.
THE LAMENT OF JOSEPHINE.
“Mon ami!” no! that name is not
For one, who hath his faith forgot,—
My husband! oh! no more that word
Must from these faltering lips be heard,
No more this breaking heart may dare
To breathe its warm devotion there!
A loftier title they must learn,
A colder name must on them dwell—
Oh! thou canst teach them to be stern—
Napoleon! Emperor! Fare thee well!
For one, who hath his faith forgot,—
My husband! oh! no more that word
Must from these faltering lips be heard,
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To breathe its warm devotion there!
A loftier title they must learn,
A colder name must on them dwell—
Oh! thou canst teach them to be stern—
Napoleon! Emperor! Fare thee well!
I loved!—that feeling deep defied
What lighter love had shrunk beneath,—
Thy cold neglect, thy careless pride,
E'en dark suspicion's withering breath;
I loved;—I turned away from all,
That might a woman's mind enthrall,
To watch my hero's wayward smile,
To wait his fond—his lightning-glance,
And felt beneath it beat the while
The happiest heart in sunny France:
I loved;—the jewelled coronet,
Upon this favoured forehead set,
Well might I deem it bright and fair!
The hand I worshipped placed it there!
'Twas not the crown!—a wreath of flowers,
A simple wreath entwined by thee,
The gift of those unclouded hours,
Had been as fondly prized by me!
'Twas thou I loved;—the loveliest gem
In that resplendent diadem,
Was less to Josephine than one
Kind look from thee when all was done!
My foes have seen me by thy side,
And murmured at my titled pride,—
I had a title, dear as life,—
Not Empress—no!—Napoleon's wife!
Thy wife,—the true, the proud, the blest,
The first to mark thy changing mood,
The last beside thy couch of rest,
When pain that hero-heart subdued;—
Thy wife,—when all devoted France
Stood thrilling 'neath thy eagle glance,
When flatterers bent the ready knee,
And hailed their idol-lord in thee—
Who stood amid the joyous scene,
With gladder eyes than Josephine?
Whose smile of welcome flashed like hers,
Amid that throng of worshippers?
What lighter love had shrunk beneath,—
Thy cold neglect, thy careless pride,
E'en dark suspicion's withering breath;
I loved;—I turned away from all,
That might a woman's mind enthrall,
To watch my hero's wayward smile,
To wait his fond—his lightning-glance,
And felt beneath it beat the while
The happiest heart in sunny France:
I loved;—the jewelled coronet,
Upon this favoured forehead set,
Well might I deem it bright and fair!
The hand I worshipped placed it there!
'Twas not the crown!—a wreath of flowers,
A simple wreath entwined by thee,
The gift of those unclouded hours,
Had been as fondly prized by me!
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In that resplendent diadem,
Was less to Josephine than one
Kind look from thee when all was done!
My foes have seen me by thy side,
And murmured at my titled pride,—
I had a title, dear as life,—
Not Empress—no!—Napoleon's wife!
Thy wife,—the true, the proud, the blest,
The first to mark thy changing mood,
The last beside thy couch of rest,
When pain that hero-heart subdued;—
Thy wife,—when all devoted France
Stood thrilling 'neath thy eagle glance,
When flatterers bent the ready knee,
And hailed their idol-lord in thee—
Who stood amid the joyous scene,
With gladder eyes than Josephine?
Whose smile of welcome flashed like hers,
Amid that throng of worshippers?
And must I leave thee? oh! to go,
In grief away, unloved, forgot!
And, far from thee, to feel, to know,
Another's smile may light thy lot!
To think—the while in lonely sorrow,
I turn, untired, to dream of thee,
And look to every wretched morrow,
In hopeless, heartless misery,—
That where my hand in fondness fell
So oft upon that kingly brow,
Another's touch unchecked may dwell,
Another's lip may bless thee now!
Oh! rather strike thy victim here!
Thus—at thy feet! that death were dear!
In grief away, unloved, forgot!
And, far from thee, to feel, to know,
Another's smile may light thy lot!
196
I turn, untired, to dream of thee,
And look to every wretched morrow,
In hopeless, heartless misery,—
That where my hand in fondness fell
So oft upon that kingly brow,
Another's touch unchecked may dwell,
Another's lip may bless thee now!
Oh! rather strike thy victim here!
Thus—at thy feet! that death were dear!
Yet fare thee well! when once again
Thou com'st, with glorious triumph flushed,
And thou art hailed, in bright Bretagne,
From where the red war-stream hath gushed;
Amid that sweet applause, I ween,
Thou'lt miss the voice of Josephine.
I know thy yet unchanging star,
Bright symbol of thy destiny,
Whose mystic radiance streamed afar,
Along thy path to victory;
And but to see in life's decline,
Its place in heaven undimmed and bright,
I'd bless the cloud that darkens mine,
And calmly watch its fading light!
But well I know that star may wane,
That conquering arm may strangely fail,
And Europe yet may rend the chain,
That bids her crowns before thee quail:—
'Twas wild ambition's voice that spoke,
When first thy warrior-spirit woke;
'Twas high ambition's lofty tone,
That led thee to the imperial throne;
'Tis stern ambition's accents now,
That bid thee break thy hallowed vow.
Yet pause! that syren voice erewhile,
Thy steps to ruin may beguile,
And thou wilt mourn, alas! too late,
Thy splendid dream of Empire fled,
And curse the cold inglorious fate
That hovers o'er thy haughty head.
Oh! in that hour of dark despair,
When thou art left, perchance, alone,
Will thou recal the voice that ne'er
Will lose for thee its soothing tone?—
And think that one, unchanged by all,
By wrong, misfortune, absence, time,
Still turns more fondly in thy fall,
To thee—to thee,—whate'er thy crime?
Content,—nay, blest, if by thy side,
When others leave thee, she might stay,
And smiling there, whate'er betide,
Forget thy once despotic sway!
Alas! that hour may never be,
Thy mandate all too rudely fell,—
Yet oh! the heart that breaks for thee,
Forgives and blesses!—Fare thee well!
Thou com'st, with glorious triumph flushed,
And thou art hailed, in bright Bretagne,
From where the red war-stream hath gushed;
Amid that sweet applause, I ween,
Thou'lt miss the voice of Josephine.
I know thy yet unchanging star,
Bright symbol of thy destiny,
Whose mystic radiance streamed afar,
Along thy path to victory;
And but to see in life's decline,
Its place in heaven undimmed and bright,
I'd bless the cloud that darkens mine,
And calmly watch its fading light!
197
That conquering arm may strangely fail,
And Europe yet may rend the chain,
That bids her crowns before thee quail:—
'Twas wild ambition's voice that spoke,
When first thy warrior-spirit woke;
'Twas high ambition's lofty tone,
That led thee to the imperial throne;
'Tis stern ambition's accents now,
That bid thee break thy hallowed vow.
Yet pause! that syren voice erewhile,
Thy steps to ruin may beguile,
And thou wilt mourn, alas! too late,
Thy splendid dream of Empire fled,
And curse the cold inglorious fate
That hovers o'er thy haughty head.
Oh! in that hour of dark despair,
When thou art left, perchance, alone,
Will thou recal the voice that ne'er
Will lose for thee its soothing tone?—
And think that one, unchanged by all,
By wrong, misfortune, absence, time,
Still turns more fondly in thy fall,
To thee—to thee,—whate'er thy crime?
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When others leave thee, she might stay,
And smiling there, whate'er betide,
Forget thy once despotic sway!
Alas! that hour may never be,
Thy mandate all too rudely fell,—
Yet oh! the heart that breaks for thee,
Forgives and blesses!—Fare thee well!
TO ---.
I would not tell thee for the world
Thy early love will change;
I would not see thy sweet lip curled
In scorn of words so strange.
Thy early love will change;
I would not see thy sweet lip curled
In scorn of words so strange.
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I would not bid thy smiles away,
Nor quell thy speaking blush;
For happy spirits lend the ray,
And timid thoughts the flush.
Nor quell thy speaking blush;
For happy spirits lend the ray,
And timid thoughts the flush.
Yet love is but a dangerous guest
For hearts so young as thine,
Where youth's unshadowed joy should rest,
Life's spring-time fancies shine.
For hearts so young as thine,
Where youth's unshadowed joy should rest,
Life's spring-time fancies shine.
Too soon—oh! all too soon would come
In later years the spell,
Touching, with changing hues, the path
Where once but sunlight fell.
In later years the spell,
Touching, with changing hues, the path
Where once but sunlight fell.
Then, sweetest, leave the wildering dream,
Till time has nerved thy heart
To brook the fitful cloud and gleam
Which must in love have part.
Till time has nerved thy heart
To brook the fitful cloud and gleam
Which must in love have part.
Ah! life has many a blessed hour
That passion never knows;
And youth may gather many a flower
Beside the blushing Rose.
That passion never knows;
And youth may gather many a flower
Beside the blushing Rose.
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Turn to thy books! my gentle girl!
They will not dim thine eyes,
Thy hair will all as richly curl,
Thy blush as brightly rise.
They will not dim thine eyes,
Thy hair will all as richly curl,
Thy blush as brightly rise.
Turn to thy friends! a smile as fond
On friendship's lip may be,
And rising from as true a heart
As love can offer thee.
On friendship's lip may be,
And rising from as true a heart
As love can offer thee.
Turn to thy home! affection wreathes
Her dearest garland there;
And more than all, a mother breathes
For thee—for thee, her prayer!
Her dearest garland there;
And more than all, a mother breathes
For thee—for thee, her prayer!
Ah! life has many a hallowed hour
Of joy, Love never knows!
And youth may often find a flower
More precious than the Rose!
Of joy, Love never knows!
And youth may often find a flower
More precious than the Rose!
203
LETTER TO AN ABSENT FRIEND,
On seeing Celeste for the first time in “The Wept of Wish ton Wish” (Written many years since.)
My friend, by joy and genius fired,
Thy sketch betrayed the poet's mind;
And critic Taste approved, admired,
And Feeling but one fault could find.
Thy sketch betrayed the poet's mind;
And critic Taste approved, admired,
And Feeling but one fault could find.
One fault! for when thy glowing pen
Portrayed the scene of festive pleasure,
And bade it breathe and move again—
The mirthful strain—the graceful measure,—
Portrayed the scene of festive pleasure,
And bade it breathe and move again—
The mirthful strain—the graceful measure,—
It did not tell of one regret
For her, who shares thy grief—thy joy;
And didst thou, dearest, quite forget?
And had that scene no sad alloy?
For her, who shares thy grief—thy joy;
And didst thou, dearest, quite forget?
And had that scene no sad alloy?
I know by mine own heart it had,
Wherever play its pulses free,—
Alone—in crowds—serene—or sad—
In shade or shine—they play for thee!
Wherever play its pulses free,—
Alone—in crowds—serene—or sad—
In shade or shine—they play for thee!
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I too last evening joined the throng,
I too beheld in rapture's trance,
Like some wild vision waked by song,
The graceful “spirit of the dance.”
I too beheld in rapture's trance,
Like some wild vision waked by song,
The graceful “spirit of the dance.”
In guise of Indian girl she walked,
The forest-fawn less light of foot;
And while each look, each motion talked,
Her step—her voice—alike were mute!
The forest-fawn less light of foot;
And while each look, each motion talked,
Her step—her voice—alike were mute!
Torn from her home—a trembling child,
Of sense and speech bereft by fear;
She comes—a wanderer from the wild,—
Nor knows that long-lost home is near.
Of sense and speech bereft by fear;
She comes—a wanderer from the wild,—
Nor knows that long-lost home is near.
Her sister strives, by many an art,
To bring back memory's power—in vain!
She clasps her red-boy to her heart,—
She's pining for the woods again!
To bring back memory's power—in vain!
She clasps her red-boy to her heart,—
She's pining for the woods again!
“See, love, the chain you used to wear,”—
That out-stretched hand! that look of joy!
Alas! no memory wakens there,—
To her 'tis but a pleasing toy!
That out-stretched hand! that look of joy!
Alas! no memory wakens there,—
To her 'tis but a pleasing toy!
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But hark! a soft and soothing strain!
The song her mother used to sing!
'Tis o'er!—she strives for it again,
As if her spirit would take wing.
The song her mother used to sing!
'Tis o'er!—she strives for it again,
As if her spirit would take wing.
Again it comes!—the trinkets fall,—
She rises with the music's swell!
Struggles for utterance—breaks the thrall!—
“Mother!” she sighed, and lifeless fell!
She rises with the music's swell!
Struggles for utterance—breaks the thrall!—
“Mother!” she sighed, and lifeless fell!
And now, her warrior-love is low;
Her gun is seized—raised—aimed—oh heaven!
They lift her child before the foe!
She shrieks—as if her heart were riven!
Her gun is seized—raised—aimed—oh heaven!
They lift her child before the foe!
She shrieks—as if her heart were riven!
“Conanchet dies”—dark Uncas said;
Her arms around his neck she threw,
And moan'd, while mournful droop'd her head,
“Then Narramattah will die too!”
Her arms around his neck she threw,
And moan'd, while mournful droop'd her head,
“Then Narramattah will die too!”
In the next scene her chief is slain,—
And she, o'erwhelmed with woe unspoken,
Creeps to him—takes his hand—and then
Dies silently,—her heart is broken!
And she, o'erwhelmed with woe unspoken,
Creeps to him—takes his hand—and then
Dies silently,—her heart is broken!
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She dies! the Indian girl!—but oh!
When the dark curtain rose again,
Celeste! how radiant was the glow
Of life, o'er all thy features then!
When the dark curtain rose again,
Celeste! how radiant was the glow
Of life, o'er all thy features then!
She comes! “the spirit of the dance!”
And but for those large, eloquent eyes,
Where passion speaks in every glance,
She'd seem a wanderer from the skies!
And but for those large, eloquent eyes,
Where passion speaks in every glance,
She'd seem a wanderer from the skies!
So light—that gazing breathless there,
Lest the celestial dream should go,
You'd think the music in the air
Waved the fair vision to and fro!
Lest the celestial dream should go,
You'd think the music in the air
Waved the fair vision to and fro!
Or that the melody's sweet flow
Within the radiant creature played!
And those soft wreathing arms of snow,
And white sylph-feet the music made.
Within the radiant creature played!
And those soft wreathing arms of snow,
And white sylph-feet the music made.
Now gliding slow with dreamy grace,
Her eyes beneath their lashes, lost,
Now motionless, with lifted face,
And small hands on her bosom crossed.
Her eyes beneath their lashes, lost,
Now motionless, with lifted face,
And small hands on her bosom crossed.
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And now—with flashing eyes she springs,
Her whole bright figure raised in air;
As if her soul had spread its wings,
And poised her one wild instant there!
Her whole bright figure raised in air;
As if her soul had spread its wings,
And poised her one wild instant there!
She spoke not—but so richly fraught
With language are her glance and smile;
That when the curtain fell, I thought
She had been talking all the while!
With language are her glance and smile;
That when the curtain fell, I thought
She had been talking all the while!
Yet, though so lost in rapture's trance,
Too oft beyond my reason's will,
That I forgot myself, perchance,—
Thou, dearest, wert remembered still.
Too oft beyond my reason's will,
That I forgot myself, perchance,—
Thou, dearest, wert remembered still.
In every scene of tenderness,
At every proof of noble pride,
Through all the heroine's wild distress,
I wished that thou wert by my side.
At every proof of noble pride,
Through all the heroine's wild distress,
I wished that thou wert by my side.
Yes! I too sometimes join the throng,
I smile—when smiling eyes I see;
I watch the dance—I list the song,
But everywhere I think of thee!
I smile—when smiling eyes I see;
I watch the dance—I list the song,
But everywhere I think of thee!
208
TO ELIZABETH.
They may talk of delicate tresses,
That float in golden streams;
And wooing the sun's caresses,
Have caught and kept his beams.
That float in golden streams;
And wooing the sun's caresses,
Have caught and kept his beams.
They may tell of eyes of azure,
That smile, and smile, and smile,
Full of the light of pleasure
All the long while.
That smile, and smile, and smile,
Full of the light of pleasure
All the long while.
They may rave of a lily cheek,
Where never a blush doth dart;
Ah! too like a lily to speak
The thoughts of a living heart!
Where never a blush doth dart;
Ah! too like a lily to speak
The thoughts of a living heart!
But richer thy hair that resembles
The raven's plumage wet,
And brighter thine eye-beam trembles
Under its lash of jet.
The raven's plumage wet,
And brighter thine eye-beam trembles
Under its lash of jet.
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And whiter far the forehead
Beneath such shadow lies;
With a light by contrast borrowed
From the cloud-like curls and eyes.
Beneath such shadow lies;
With a light by contrast borrowed
From the cloud-like curls and eyes.
Those laughing orbs, that borrow
From azure skies the light they wear,
Are like that heaven, no sorrow
Can float o'er hues so fair.
From azure skies the light they wear,
Are like that heaven, no sorrow
Can float o'er hues so fair.
Give me those skies, when darkling
Soft clouds contend with light,
When shower and sunshine sparkling,
The dazzled eye delight.
Soft clouds contend with light,
When shower and sunshine sparkling,
The dazzled eye delight.
Give me those eyes, where often
The tears of feeling shine,
The gazer's heart they soften,
And win its love like thine.
The tears of feeling shine,
The gazer's heart they soften,
And win its love like thine.
Give me the eloquent cheek,
Where blushes burn and die;
Like thine, its changes speak
The spirit's purity!
Where blushes burn and die;
Like thine, its changes speak
The spirit's purity!
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Ah! though it give thee pain,
So beautiful the glow,
We cannot choose but gaze again,
To see it come and go.
So beautiful the glow,
We cannot choose but gaze again,
To see it come and go.
Thy face seems ever stealing
The roses—rich—divine—
That Love, and Joy, and Feeling,
Within thy heart entwine!
The roses—rich—divine—
That Love, and Joy, and Feeling,
Within thy heart entwine!
I know no holier prayer
Than that I breathe for thee;
That ever, as unbidden, there,
That modest blush may be.
Than that I breathe for thee;
That ever, as unbidden, there,
That modest blush may be.
TO AN ATHEIST POET.
Lov'st thou the music of the sea?Call'st thou the sunshine bright?
HIS voice is more than Melody!
HIS smile is more than Light!
211
TO ANNA,
IN REPLY TO A LETTER.
Dont say you are “ugly,” you darling!
While still your sweet letters unfold
The same glowing soul, that enlivened
Those delicate features of old!—
While still your sweet letters unfold
The same glowing soul, that enlivened
Those delicate features of old!—
That soul, whose pure fire would illume, love,
A cheek of less exquisite mould,
With a changeable beauty and bloom, love,
To which that of a Venus were cold.
A cheek of less exquisite mould,
With a changeable beauty and bloom, love,
To which that of a Venus were cold.
Dont say you've grown “ugly and stupid,”
While still, in each line, I can trace,
Some glimpse of those lovely emotions,
Which once I could read in your face!
While still, in each line, I can trace,
Some glimpse of those lovely emotions,
Which once I could read in your face!
When you tell me your mind wears a chain, love,
When you tell me your heart is asleep,
Then may-be, but never till then, love,
The wreck of your beauty I'll weep.
When you tell me your heart is asleep,
Then may-be, but never till then, love,
The wreck of your beauty I'll weep.
217
THE HOURS OF YORE.
I cannot choose but sing the strain
That many a bard has sung before,
That thousands yet will wake again,—
The hours of yore! the hours of yore!
That many a bard has sung before,
That thousands yet will wake again,—
The hours of yore! the hours of yore!
The hours of yore! sweet childhood's hours,
When all the livelong day I played
With sunbeams, butterflies, and flowers,
And wavelets in the woodland glade.
When all the livelong day I played
With sunbeams, butterflies, and flowers,
And wavelets in the woodland glade.
I cared not then for plumes and pearls—
The forest leaves were gems to me,
I wreathed them round my careless curls,
And found a crown in every tree!
The forest leaves were gems to me,
I wreathed them round my careless curls,
And found a crown in every tree!
The murmuring fount my music made,
I danced on Nature's broidered floor,
A queen was I in the woodland glade,
A crowned queen, in hours of yore!
I danced on Nature's broidered floor,
A queen was I in the woodland glade,
A crowned queen, in hours of yore!
218
I deemed the flowers were all alive,
I fancied birds could talk like me,
And many an hour I'd listening strive
To think what could their meaning be!
I fancied birds could talk like me,
And many an hour I'd listening strive
To think what could their meaning be!
I did not sigh for wealth or pleasure;
If through the leaves a sunbeam stole,
I called the ray my golden treasure,
And blessed its beauty in my soul!
If through the leaves a sunbeam stole,
I called the ray my golden treasure,
And blessed its beauty in my soul!
Oh, monarch! 'mid your courtier train,—
Oh, sage! half crazed with mystic lore,—
Sing, sing with me the sad refrain—
“The hours of yore! the hours of yore!”
Oh, sage! half crazed with mystic lore,—
Sing, sing with me the sad refrain—
“The hours of yore! the hours of yore!”
ATTIC ASPIRATIONS.
“Ma'am, shall I 'eat the hiron?” Betty said;“No, Betty! eat your supper, and to bed!”
221
ROMANCE.
You can trace it in all in word and look,
Through her lightest—her loftiest deed it plays,
As you trace by the gleam of a graceful brook,
Through valley and forest its winding ways.
Through her lightest—her loftiest deed it plays,
As you trace by the gleam of a graceful brook,
Through valley and forest its winding ways.
A vein of Romance—like a vein of gold
And its source, is a mine of wealth untold,
The wealth of rich feelings—the deep—the pure,
With strength to meet sorrow, and faith to endure.
It smiles through trifles—a fairy gleam,
Like a sparkle 'mid flowers of the playful stream,
And often through higher and graver things,
It breaks with its beauty and fresh delight,
As the ray of the rivulet's rippling rings,
Comes up in the woods on the startled sight.
To such in the faintest cloud that floats,
In the simplest leaf of the garden bower,
In the least of the woodland warbler's notes,
Is a charmed language, a spell of power.
And its source, is a mine of wealth untold,
The wealth of rich feelings—the deep—the pure,
With strength to meet sorrow, and faith to endure.
It smiles through trifles—a fairy gleam,
Like a sparkle 'mid flowers of the playful stream,
And often through higher and graver things,
It breaks with its beauty and fresh delight,
As the ray of the rivulet's rippling rings,
Comes up in the woods on the startled sight.
To such in the faintest cloud that floats,
In the simplest leaf of the garden bower,
In the least of the woodland warbler's notes,
Is a charmed language, a spell of power.
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The cloud?—oh! an angel waves, they say,
His wings in Heaven's resplendent air,
And floats away in the holy ray,
Shedding their delicate shadow there.
The bird is singing the stars beneath,
To Nature's harp with its viewless chords,
And the fair bouquet, or the graceful wreath,
Is a cluster, or garland, of fragrant words.
His wings in Heaven's resplendent air,
And floats away in the holy ray,
Shedding their delicate shadow there.
The bird is singing the stars beneath,
To Nature's harp with its viewless chords,
And the fair bouquet, or the graceful wreath,
Is a cluster, or garland, of fragrant words.
Such was the spirit that thrilled her hand,
When gaily bending her sweet work o'er;
She wreathed with the flowers of her native land,
The lowly steps of her cottage door.
But the prettiest far of her pets was one,
You'd fancy had fed on the beams of the sun;
It seemed to look up in my face the while,
So brightly, I thought that I saw it smile:
It was that with the petals of purple and gold,
Whose sweet appellations the poet has told.
When gaily bending her sweet work o'er;
She wreathed with the flowers of her native land,
The lowly steps of her cottage door.
But the prettiest far of her pets was one,
You'd fancy had fed on the beams of the sun;
It seemed to look up in my face the while,
So brightly, I thought that I saw it smile:
It was that with the petals of purple and gold,
Whose sweet appellations the poet has told.
I passed them, and stood by the open door,
But she stooped to gather and give me a flower;
Playfully murmuring, stay! if you please!
You pass not my threshold without ‘Heart's-ease!’
Oh! long may the blossom, whatever betide,
The tenderest breath of the summer-wind win,
And smile in its beauty thy threshold beside,
Bright symbol! sweet lady! of ‘Heart's-ease within!’
But she stooped to gather and give me a flower;
Playfully murmuring, stay! if you please!
You pass not my threshold without ‘Heart's-ease!’
223
The tenderest breath of the summer-wind win,
And smile in its beauty thy threshold beside,
Bright symbol! sweet lady! of ‘Heart's-ease within!’
A VISION.
Long ere my senses slept last night,
Bathed in the moon-beam's tremulous flame;
Soft to my heart, a thing of light,
A wild and winged vision came.
Bathed in the moon-beam's tremulous flame;
Soft to my heart, a thing of light,
A wild and winged vision came.
A vision—like a downy dove,
It fanned me with its fragrant wings,
Till lulled, as by the lip of love,
I slept 'mid fair imaginings.
It fanned me with its fragrant wings,
Till lulled, as by the lip of love,
I slept 'mid fair imaginings.
Ah! even then it would not part,
But nestled softly in my heart;
And sang to me the livelong night
A low sweet song of calm delight.
But nestled softly in my heart;
And sang to me the livelong night
A low sweet song of calm delight.
224
THE LITTLE SLUMBERER.
The child was weary, and had flung herselfIn beautiful abandonment, to rest,
Low on the gorgeous carpeting, whose hues
Contrasted richly with her snow-white robe:
One dimpled arm lay curving o'er the head,
Half buried in its glossy, golden curls,
Moist and disordered by her graceful play;
The other pressed beneath her cheek, did make
With small round fingers dimples in the rose,—
Where lashes soft as floss were darkly drooping,—
Her red lips parted slightly, while the breath,
Pure as a blossom's sigh, came sweet and still;
Loosely the robe from one white shoulder fell;
And so she lay, and slumbered 'mid the hues,
The orient richness of the downy carpet,—
Like a young flower, drooping its dewy head,
And shutting its soft petals on the breast
Of summer-mantled earth.
225
AN EPISTLE
From little Ellen to her Friend Mary,—with a Christmas Gift.
This morning, dear, I sent mamma,
(Too busy I to go so far,)
To find a doll as bright and pleasant,
As her for whom was meant the present;—
Now guess her name!—a charming child,
As e'er on life's rough changes smiled!
You cannot guess? ah! when you know
For whom, mamma, I lessoned so,
You'll say it was a hard embassy;—
'Twas Mary's self—my winsome lassie!
In truth she might have searched the world,
To match, in dolls, your speaking face,—
Your eyes,—your hair so richly curled,—
Your radiant smile,—your restless grace!
And I, I own, was rather stupid,
To think she'd find a waxen Cupid;
So, as she did her best, I told her,
I couldn't have the heart to scold her.
Then take the baby—will you, love?
She'll be as quiet as a dove;
And, with her, take the kiss I print,
Upon her lip of rosy tint;
But oh! be sure you do not press
Too fondly there your sweet caress,
Lest your own lovely mouth be tainted,
For 'tween ourselves I fear—she's painted!
(Too busy I to go so far,)
To find a doll as bright and pleasant,
As her for whom was meant the present;—
Now guess her name!—a charming child,
As e'er on life's rough changes smiled!
You cannot guess? ah! when you know
For whom, mamma, I lessoned so,
You'll say it was a hard embassy;—
'Twas Mary's self—my winsome lassie!
In truth she might have searched the world,
To match, in dolls, your speaking face,—
Your eyes,—your hair so richly curled,—
Your radiant smile,—your restless grace!
And I, I own, was rather stupid,
To think she'd find a waxen Cupid;
So, as she did her best, I told her,
I couldn't have the heart to scold her.
226
She'll be as quiet as a dove;
And, with her, take the kiss I print,
Upon her lip of rosy tint;
But oh! be sure you do not press
Too fondly there your sweet caress,
Lest your own lovely mouth be tainted,
For 'tween ourselves I fear—she's painted!
What pity that our modern belles
Are not content with Nature's pallette;
But steal their blush from carmine shells!
It shan't be our rose-maker,—shall it?
Are not content with Nature's pallette;
But steal their blush from carmine shells!
It shan't be our rose-maker,—shall it?
Yet take the doll,—and while you gaze
Upon her eyes of beaming blue,
And twist her golden hair all ways,
Except the right,—you fidget! you!
And pinch her little harmless nose,
And seek in vain her tiny toes,—
Remember, she must not be pressed
Too closely to that baby-breast;
For she has such a melting way,
When touched by love in such excess,
She'd faint,—nay more!—I've heard them say,
She'd die to show her tenderness!
And oh! in all your mirthful dealings,
Be careful not to hurt her feelings;
So sensitive her nature is,
That if you only touch her phiz
Too roughly with that finger fair,
'Twill make a deep impression there.
Oh! clasp her gently in thine arms,
And sing to rest her smiling charms;
And doff and don her pretty clothes,
And lightly tie her little bonnet;
And press her lip that softly glows,
To find the kiss I printed on it:
And then, when, weary of thy play,
Thy cradle-pillow wooes to sleep,—
While viewless cherubs pure and gay,
As thou, their vigil o'er thee keep,—
Sweet Mary, let poor Dolly lie
Beside thee, in thy downy dwelling,
And thou wilt dream that it is I,
And call the waxen baby—“Ellen!”
Upon her eyes of beaming blue,
And twist her golden hair all ways,
Except the right,—you fidget! you!
And pinch her little harmless nose,
And seek in vain her tiny toes,—
Remember, she must not be pressed
Too closely to that baby-breast;
For she has such a melting way,
When touched by love in such excess,
227
She'd die to show her tenderness!
And oh! in all your mirthful dealings,
Be careful not to hurt her feelings;
So sensitive her nature is,
That if you only touch her phiz
Too roughly with that finger fair,
'Twill make a deep impression there.
Oh! clasp her gently in thine arms,
And sing to rest her smiling charms;
And doff and don her pretty clothes,
And lightly tie her little bonnet;
And press her lip that softly glows,
To find the kiss I printed on it:
And then, when, weary of thy play,
Thy cradle-pillow wooes to sleep,—
While viewless cherubs pure and gay,
As thou, their vigil o'er thee keep,—
Sweet Mary, let poor Dolly lie
Beside thee, in thy downy dwelling,
And thou wilt dream that it is I,
And call the waxen baby—“Ellen!”
28
POSTSCRIPT.
Now then as we've disposed of Dolly,
Since postscripts are the cream of letters,
A truce to all this babyish folly,
And let us talk of graver matters.
Since postscripts are the cream of letters,
A truce to all this babyish folly,
And let us talk of graver matters.
When next you climb your mother's knee,
Give her a long, sweet kiss from me;
My love, too, to your father, dear;
And tell them both my warmest wishes,
That Christmas-day may bring them cheer,
In pleasant friends, and tempting dishes.
Give her a long, sweet kiss from me;
My love, too, to your father, dear;
And tell them both my warmest wishes,
That Christmas-day may bring them cheer,
In pleasant friends, and tempting dishes.
If mine but knew that I was writing,
They'd send, I'm sure, a pretty message;
But one a story is inditing,
And t'other sees some portraits presage
In “his mind's eye,” and heeds not now
His daughter's cogitating brow.
They'd send, I'm sure, a pretty message;
But one a story is inditing,
And t'other sees some portraits presage
In “his mind's eye,” and heeds not now
His daughter's cogitating brow.
I often hear them speak of you
And your mamma.—To-day, at dinner,
Papa exclaimed,—“Now, Fanny, do
Write to that charming Mrs. Skinner!”
Mamma began to frown and pout,
I thought her manner quite alarming;
At last the reason faltered out,—
“I will—if you wont call her charming!”
And your mamma.—To-day, at dinner,
Papa exclaimed,—“Now, Fanny, do
Write to that charming Mrs. Skinner!”
229
I thought her manner quite alarming;
At last the reason faltered out,—
“I will—if you wont call her charming!”
To tell the truth,—(you'll not betray?)
I hate to see a jealous woman;
As if e'en Beauty's faintest ray
Should fall upon a heart that's human,
Without awaking grateful love
To Beauty's Author throned above!
For me,—I would not give a groat
For any one, who had not taste
And soul enough to feel and note
Where Loveliness her shrine has placed.
I hate to see a jealous woman;
As if e'en Beauty's faintest ray
Should fall upon a heart that's human,
Without awaking grateful love
To Beauty's Author throned above!
For me,—I would not give a groat
For any one, who had not taste
And soul enough to feel and note
Where Loveliness her shrine has placed.
For instance, love, they often say,
That you are brighter far than I,
Far more intelligent and gay,
With stronger frame and lustier cry;
They say your silken hair can curl,
Your feet can tottle round the room,
Your mouth is filled with teeth of pearl,
Your cheek is rich with healthful bloom!
That you are brighter far than I,
Far more intelligent and gay,
With stronger frame and lustier cry;
They say your silken hair can curl,
Your feet can tottle round the room,
Your mouth is filled with teeth of pearl,
Your cheek is rich with healthful bloom!
230
My hair's as straight as sunbeams,—nay,
'Tis worse, for even when 'tis wet,
It's not refracted like the ray,
But only more refractory yet!
My head's a hopeless case, my dear,
My cheeks still wear the lily's hue,
My feet wern't made to walk I fear,
And as for teeth I've only—two!
'Tis worse, for even when 'tis wet,
It's not refracted like the ray,
But only more refractory yet!
My head's a hopeless case, my dear,
My cheeks still wear the lily's hue,
My feet wern't made to walk I fear,
And as for teeth I've only—two!
But I should think as soon of crying,
Because yon star mine eye out-smiled,
Or roses mocked my lip,—as sighing,
When you are called a lovelier child!
Because yon star mine eye out-smiled,
Or roses mocked my lip,—as sighing,
When you are called a lovelier child!
No!—if, when I'm grown up a lady,
My husband talks of Mary Skinner,
No frown shall make my forehead shady,
No envious pang shall spoil my dinner!
My husband talks of Mary Skinner,
No frown shall make my forehead shady,
No envious pang shall spoil my dinner!
But, dearest, as I promised “cream,”
I should have made my postscript shorter;
So lengthened,—after all 'twill seem,
That flattest beverage—milk and water!
I should have made my postscript shorter;
So lengthened,—after all 'twill seem,
That flattest beverage—milk and water!
231
But one word more.—When left alone,
And half awake within your crib,
Do you not sometimes hear a tone,—
(I hope you never tell a fib!)
A silvery tone, close—close above you?
As if some warbling cherub-child
Had stolen from heaven to see and love you?
And have you not in rapture smiled,
And talked in whispers sweet and low,
About your play,—your griefs and joys,—
And begged the baby not to go,—
And promised it your prettiest toys?
And half awake within your crib,
Do you not sometimes hear a tone,—
(I hope you never tell a fib!)
A silvery tone, close—close above you?
As if some warbling cherub-child
Had stolen from heaven to see and love you?
And have you not in rapture smiled,
And talked in whispers sweet and low,
About your play,—your griefs and joys,—
And begged the baby not to go,—
And promised it your prettiest toys?
I have,—I often do.—Mamma
Thinks all young children thus are blest,—
That infant-angels come from far,
To watch and share their guileless rest.
Thinks all young children thus are blest,—
That infant-angels come from far,
To watch and share their guileless rest.
And, Mary, when again I hear
My spirit-playmate's accent clear,
And see again the wavy gleam
Of golden ringlets in my dream,—
I'll tell the angel-child of you;
And pressing on its lips of dew
A loving kiss, I'll bid it fly
To where you in your beauty lie,
And bring me, in another trip,
A message from your own sweet lip!
My spirit-playmate's accent clear,
And see again the wavy gleam
Of golden ringlets in my dream,—
I'll tell the angel-child of you;
And pressing on its lips of dew
232
To where you in your beauty lie,
And bring me, in another trip,
A message from your own sweet lip!
Now then—good bye! my precious Mary!
I'm sure my next rhyme wont come well in;
But you'll forgive a bard's vagary,
And not forget your little
Ellen!
I'm sure my next rhyme wont come well in;
But you'll forgive a bard's vagary,
And not forget your little
Ellen!
THE MAIDEN WITH HER ABSENT LOVER'S PORTRAIT.
Why did he paint them to the life,
The lip, the brow, the eye?
Yet fail to make them warmly rife,
Like thine with feeling high.
The lip, the brow, the eye?
Yet fail to make them warmly rife,
Like thine with feeling high.
Are these the lips that thrilled to mine?
Is this the forehead bland?
Is this the hair I used to twine
With fond and frolic hand?
Is this the forehead bland?
Is this the hair I used to twine
With fond and frolic hand?
233
Is this the cheek I loved to touch?
Are these the eyes of blue?
Whose very colour told how much
Of Heaven the spirit knew.
Are these the eyes of blue?
Whose very colour told how much
Of Heaven the spirit knew.
Alas! the hue—the shape—the air—
Are truly told, I know;
The waving of the deep brown hair—
The arching of the brow.—
Are truly told, I know;
The waving of the deep brown hair—
The arching of the brow.—
But where's the soul-beam, soft and bright,
That so illumined them;
The smile, worth all the jewel-light
Of regal diadem.
That so illumined them;
The smile, worth all the jewel-light
Of regal diadem.
Ah! plaint like this the painter wrongs,
Beyond his weak control;
Only to those thou lov'st belongs,
The language of thy soul!
Beyond his weak control;
Only to those thou lov'st belongs,
The language of thy soul!
I could not prize thee half so much,
If all were blessed by thee,
With smiles of hallowed meaning—such
As those thou giv'st to me!
If all were blessed by thee,
With smiles of hallowed meaning—such
As those thou giv'st to me!
235
TO A LADY,
Who consulted the Author about trimming her Bonnet with a Bow behind.
Oh! wreathe the ribbon lightly round,And tie it 'neath your chin,
And do not let its folds be bound
By needle or by pin!
It is unworthy, lady dear,
Your dignity of mind,
To take such trouble with your gear,
To have a bow behind!
236
The rarest seemed to me;
Your scorn of trifles vain and light,
Your fair simplicity.
How was that cherished thought to-day,
With many a sigh resigned;
When, horror struck, I heard you say,
You liked a bow behind!
Besides, 'tis so unclassical,
You love the taste, I'm sure,
Which draped with graceful fold and fall
Italia's child of yore.
The rich, severe simplicity!
The dignified—refined!
How had the Roman matron scorned
That petty bow behind!
A bow! a light, unmeaning bow!
A vain and useless thing!
The veriest trifle here below!
Oh! take it for a string!
Consult your husband, lady, pray!
He has a Roman mind—
And, like a dear good man, he'll say,—
“Deuce take the bow behind!”
239
LINES ON A POETESS,
Who was advised to write less rapidly.
Her muse is like the bird that rovesThrough Eastern India's fragrant groves;
His trembling plumage burns in flight—
A living rainbow, rare and bright!
And swifter as those pinions fly,
More warm the glow, more rich the dye;
But when with slow and measured wave
They fall upon the balmy air,
The hues his lightning-motion gave
Grow dim, and fade unnoticed there.
And when he furls those changeful wings,
All wearied with his glorious play,
Ah! one by one the shining rings
Of radiant colour die away!
And dark and dull, you ne'er would know
The wealth of glory lost below;
240
Still wears its own resplendent hue;
And once again, unfurled and free,
Would flash its treasure on your view.
Her muse is like the sunlit bird,—
Then bid her not its wanderings stay,
Lest all the light that flight has stirred—
Like his—in rest should die away.
THE OMEN.
A book of birds before me lay,And half in childlike faith, and half in play,
I said, whatever bird on opening it I see,
Shall Ellen's emblem be.
I opened to the Turtledove!
Oh! blessed promise of pure truth and love;
Surely on that fond faith kind Heaven indulgent smiled,
Be thou the Dove, my child!
241
IF HE CAN!
A SONG.
Let me see him once more
For a moment or two,
Let him tell me himself
Of his purpose, dear, do;
Let him gaze in these eyes
While he lays out his plan
To escape me,—and then—
He may go—if he can!
For a moment or two,
Let him tell me himself
Of his purpose, dear, do;
Let him gaze in these eyes
While he lays out his plan
To escape me,—and then—
He may go—if he can!
Let me see him once more,
Let me give him one smile,
Let me breathe but one word
Of endearment the while;
I ask but that moment—
My life on the man!
Does he think to forget me?
He may—if he can!
Let me give him one smile,
Let me breathe but one word
Of endearment the while;
I ask but that moment—
My life on the man!
Does he think to forget me?
He may—if he can!
243
EPIGRAM.
“I'll cut your acquaintance,” said Harry to John,In a furious passion, “if thus you go on!”
“To cut my acquaintance,” said John, “you are free,—
“Cut them all, if you please, so you do not cut me!”
246
A POET'S EXCUSE FOR SHUTTING HIS EYES IN THE PRESENCE OF A BEAUTIFUL GIRL.
The miser hoards with jealous careThe gleaming gold he starves to win;
The diver hides his jewel rare,
With joy, his homely vest within.
And art not thou a gem divine,
Far worthier of an idol's place?
Ah! when these eyes could once enshrine
Thy graceful form, thy glowing face,—
When they in one impassioned gaze
Thy wealth of beauty wildly stole,
And let its glorious image blaze
Like sunlight on my startled soul;—
Say, is it strange that they should close,
Exulting o'er their radiant treasure,—
Content to dwell in dim repose,
And feel the miser's trembling pleasure?
No! since I've risked my heart to win
One impress of a gem so rare,
Oh! let me gaze on it within,
And starve my eyes to keep it there!
247
LINES ON THE BURNING OF THE ROYAL EXCHANGE.
All hush'd in the moonlight, the city lay sleeping,
Tower, Temple, and Palace, were bathed in her beams;
Only sorrow and guilt were awaking and weeping,
When the watchman's deep cry broke the slumberer's dreams.
Tower, Temple, and Palace, were bathed in her beams;
Only sorrow and guilt were awaking and weeping,
When the watchman's deep cry broke the slumberer's dreams.
“Fire! Fire!” 'tis a sound ever sad to the feeling,
But oh! how terrific, how thrillingly grand,
In the depth of that midnight, when Winter was stealing
Unheard, with his fetters of ice, o'er the land!
But oh! how terrific, how thrillingly grand,
In the depth of that midnight, when Winter was stealing
Unheard, with his fetters of ice, o'er the land!
“Fire! Fire!”—it is raging in fierce exultation,
All reckless and tameless,—your efforts are vain!
Lo! it laughs at your labour in triumph's elation,
And now, with fresh fury, it rises again!
All reckless and tameless,—your efforts are vain!
Lo! it laughs at your labour in triumph's elation,
And now, with fresh fury, it rises again!
248
And the roar of the elements meeting in madness—
The crash of vast timbers, that blaze as they fall—
The rushing of thousands, in terror and sadness—
Are sounds that the mightiest heart would appal!
The crash of vast timbers, that blaze as they fall—
The rushing of thousands, in terror and sadness—
Are sounds that the mightiest heart would appal!
Lo! the river, that drank in the moonlight erewhile,
Now beams back the blaze of the flame-spirit's eye,
Flushing fitfully up in the light of his smile,
While he points, in his demon-delight, to the sky!
Now beams back the blaze of the flame-spirit's eye,
Flushing fitfully up in the light of his smile,
While he points, in his demon-delight, to the sky!
All clear and serene in its purity, beaming,
Night's amber-hued jewel floats tranquilly there,
As an icicle cold and transparent in seeming,
Undimm'd by the smoke, and unchang'd by the glare
Night's amber-hued jewel floats tranquilly there,
As an icicle cold and transparent in seeming,
Undimm'd by the smoke, and unchang'd by the glare
Pour on the swift waters!—as well might ye strive
To check with a dewdrop the lightning's fierce play,
For the flames in their reckless resolve seem alive—
And look! the proud tower to their fury gives way!
To check with a dewdrop the lightning's fierce play,
For the flames in their reckless resolve seem alive—
And look! the proud tower to their fury gives way!
They have stol'n where sculptured in marble sublimely
The island kings stood in majestic repose,—
Oh! blasted for ever by ruin untimely—
The wreck of their grandeur the conqueror shows
The island kings stood in majestic repose,—
Oh! blasted for ever by ruin untimely—
The wreck of their grandeur the conqueror shows
249
E'en the emblem of Time to their might doth surrender,—
Their mad work is finished invisibly there;
And now, in new triumph and wild blazing splendor,
They rise where the music bells sleep in the air.
Their mad work is finished invisibly there;
And now, in new triumph and wild blazing splendor,
They rise where the music bells sleep in the air.
Hush! hark!—hath a pitying spirit from Heaven
Stol'n down to mourn over the smouldering pile?
Wild, plaintive, and soft, is that melody given,
The throng's deep emotion to soothe and beguile.
Stol'n down to mourn over the smouldering pile?
Wild, plaintive, and soft, is that melody given,
The throng's deep emotion to soothe and beguile.
Ah, no! 'tis the last hallowed chime of those bells,
That will gladden no longer your hearts with their peal;
Even now, as more gaily the loved music swells,
The destroyer upon them doth rapidly steal.
That will gladden no longer your hearts with their peal;
Even now, as more gaily the loved music swells,
The destroyer upon them doth rapidly steal.
And lo! with a crash of strange discord they fall,
And the conqueror, weary of ruin and woe,
Disappears, leaving clouds of dense smoke, like a pall,
O'er the scene where the pride of the city lies low!
And the conqueror, weary of ruin and woe,
Disappears, leaving clouds of dense smoke, like a pall,
O'er the scene where the pride of the city lies low!
250
MAY'S FELLOW-TRAVELLER.
A rainbow descends, softly winging,
Through tears and through tempests, its way;
And Hope, like the ark-dove, is springing
To welcome the coming of May!
Through tears and through tempests, its way;
And Hope, like the ark-dove, is springing
To welcome the coming of May!
Her young smile will lighten through Heaven,
Her blushes our bowers will illume,
And the cloud by that beam will be riven,
And the rose drink that blush till it bloom.
Her blushes our bowers will illume,
And the cloud by that beam will be riven,
And the rose drink that blush till it bloom.
But not for the sun-burst on high,
And not for the rose-tinting ray,
But for something far holier, I
Will bless the sweet coming of May.
And not for the rose-tinting ray,
But for something far holier, I
Will bless the sweet coming of May.
She will steal into shadowed recesses,
Where the timid young violet lies,
Till it wake to her playful caresses,
And wink 'neath her dazzling blue eyes.
Where the timid young violet lies,
Till it wake to her playful caresses,
And wink 'neath her dazzling blue eyes.
251
She will laugh by the beautiful river,
By the fountain, the lake, and the brook,
Till freer and brighter than ever
They flow in the light of her look.
By the fountain, the lake, and the brook,
Till freer and brighter than ever
They flow in the light of her look.
She will whisper within the green woods,
Till the birds catch her tones, and rejoice;
And the holy and far solitudes
Shall echo her musical voice.
Till the birds catch her tones, and rejoice;
And the holy and far solitudes
Shall echo her musical voice.
But not for all warblers that fly,
And not for the free waters' play,
Nor the violet's soft azure eye,
Will I welcome the coming of May.
And not for the free waters' play,
Nor the violet's soft azure eye,
Will I welcome the coming of May.
There's a smile, that is truer and sweeter,
There are eyes, as deep blue as her own,
There's a step—a loved step—that is fleeter,
There's a dearer and tenderer tone!—
There are eyes, as deep blue as her own,
There's a step—a loved step—that is fleeter,
There's a dearer and tenderer tone!—
They—they will come with her,—and lo!
From the depth of my heart's winter-gloom,
Like flowers 'neath the sky's sunny glow,
Bright feelings will spring into bloom.
From the depth of my heart's winter-gloom,
Like flowers 'neath the sky's sunny glow,
Bright feelings will spring into bloom.
252
A rainbow descends, softly winging,
Through tears and through tempests, its way;
And Hope, like the ark-dove, is springing
To welcome the coming of May!
Through tears and through tempests, its way;
And Hope, like the ark-dove, is springing
To welcome the coming of May!
THE THREE VICTORIES.—A SONG.
A smile was struggling with a tear,
In Mary's eye of truth;
In Mary's heart were Love and Fear,
At Mary's feet—a youth!
In Mary's eye of truth;
In Mary's heart were Love and Fear,
At Mary's feet—a youth!
The tear-drop in a dimple fell,
And 'mid her blush expired;
Love lessoned Fear so sweetly well,
She curtsied, and retired.
And 'mid her blush expired;
Love lessoned Fear so sweetly well,
She curtsied, and retired.
Then beamed the victor-smile of light,
Gay Love the world defied,—
And proudly to the church that night
The brave youth bore his bride!
Gay Love the world defied,—
And proudly to the church that night
The brave youth bore his bride!
256
EPIGRAM.
“Come back, sir!” said Kate, “Recollect from to-day,When I tell you to lave me, I mane you to stay!
Dont touch me!—How dare you?”—but Rory bent down,
And kissed bonny Kathleen, in spite of her frown!
“Dont pout,” whispered he, “your own taching is this,—
When you bid me not touch, sure you mane me to kiss!”
257
MATILDE'S PICTURE.
Beautiful! beautiful!
Passion is stilled,
Meeting thy blessed eyes,
Happy Matilde!
Passion is stilled,
Meeting thy blessed eyes,
Happy Matilde!
All who behold thee—
The weary, the sad—
Yield to thy loveliness,
Loving and glad.
The weary, the sad—
Yield to thy loveliness,
Loving and glad.
Joy, like the zephyr
That flies o'er the flower,
Rippling it into
Fresh fairness each hour,—
That flies o'er the flower,
Rippling it into
Fresh fairness each hour,—
Waves o'er thy beauty
His sun-woven wing,
And dimples thy cheek
Like the roses of Spring.
His sun-woven wing,
And dimples thy cheek
Like the roses of Spring.
258
It is not the rapture,
The fitful and wild,
That dies in a moment,
Thou shadowless child.
The fitful and wild,
That dies in a moment,
Thou shadowless child.
Over thy spirit,
Over thy brow,
Still will those pinions wave
Ever as now.
Over thy brow,
Still will those pinions wave
Ever as now.
Within thee—around—
Shedding influence bright,—
An atmosphere, fairest,
Of sunny delight.
Shedding influence bright,—
An atmosphere, fairest,
Of sunny delight.
Unclouded by Sin,
And by Sorrow unchilled,
It was born with thy being,
My merry Matilde!
And by Sorrow unchilled,
It was born with thy being,
My merry Matilde!
Soft as a wreathing cloud,
Free as the air,
Falls from thy forehead
Thy beautiful hair.
Free as the air,
Falls from thy forehead
Thy beautiful hair.
259
And Thought, like the glory
Through morning-mist seen,
Shines through that forehead
A spirit serene.
Through morning-mist seen,
Shines through that forehead
A spirit serene.
They tell me, blest cherub,
That tears never rise,—
Never dim for a moment
Thy melting, dark eyes!
That tears never rise,—
Never dim for a moment
Thy melting, dark eyes!
That the spirit of Joy,
When those orbs were revealed,
Flew there with a smile,
And the tear-fountain sealed.
When those orbs were revealed,
Flew there with a smile,
And the tear-fountain sealed.
But it seems to me, sweet,
That a tear and a smile,
Are struggling for ever
Within them the while.
That a tear and a smile,
Are struggling for ever
Within them the while.
And brightly they tremble,
And tenderly too,
As blend on the blossom
The starlight and dew.
And tenderly too,
As blend on the blossom
The starlight and dew.
260
Ah! Love knew the radiance
Joy kept revealing,
Would die, unless bathed
In the fountain of Feeling!
Joy kept revealing,
Would die, unless bathed
In the fountain of Feeling!
And the flashing ray floated
More soft than before,
When he broke the light seal,
And the warm tears ran o'er.
More soft than before,
When he broke the light seal,
And the warm tears ran o'er.
But they love their bright home,
And they never dare flow,
Lest they fall in the dimples
That frolic below.
And they never dare flow,
Lest they fall in the dimples
That frolic below.
Ah! always as now
May that tender light gild
Thy tears as they tremble,
My tender Matilde!
May that tender light gild
Thy tears as they tremble,
My tender Matilde!
262
BLANK VERSE.
A would-be poet wooed the muse in vain,Then showed the page his pen refused to stain;
But to my wondering query answered terse,—
“Why do you stare? I only tried blank verse!”
266
THE DOOMED.
Ay! doomed indeed to worse than death,
To teach those sweet lips hourly guile;
To breathe thro' life but Falsehood's breath,
And smile with Falsehood's smile.
To teach those sweet lips hourly guile;
To breathe thro' life but Falsehood's breath,
And smile with Falsehood's smile.
To kneel before that holy shrine,
Where only Truth should dare appear,
And clasp a hated hand in thine,
In silent shame and fear.
Where only Truth should dare appear,
And clasp a hated hand in thine,
In silent shame and fear.
To speak that vow, with impious art,
Which binds thee ever, solely his,
While in thy shut and silent heart,
A dearer image is!
Which binds thee ever, solely his,
While in thy shut and silent heart,
A dearer image is!
267
To wear within the poison-sting
Of conscious wrong, that never dies;
And tremble, like a guilty thing,
Before Affection's eyes!
Of conscious wrong, that never dies;
And tremble, like a guilty thing,
Before Affection's eyes!
To meet a husband's hallowed touch,
Nor dare, yet long to shrink aside,
To hate—to scorn thyself so much,
Thou loath'st the world beside!
Nor dare, yet long to shrink aside,
To hate—to scorn thyself so much,
Thou loath'st the world beside!
TO MISS B***S.
If Rumour tell the truth, fair girl!
Ere winter-tempests lower,
Thou'lt wreathe, thro' glossy braid and curl,
A fragrant, snow-white flower;—
Ere winter-tempests lower,
Thou'lt wreathe, thro' glossy braid and curl,
A fragrant, snow-white flower;—
And o'er thy dark and drooping eyes,
Thy cheek's transparent glow,
Where dimpled roses richly rise,
A shining veil shall flow.
Thy cheek's transparent glow,
Where dimpled roses richly rise,
A shining veil shall flow.
268
How fair the orange-bloom will smile
Amid that auburn braid!
How soft will burn thy blush the while,
Beneath the bridal-shade!
Amid that auburn braid!
How soft will burn thy blush the while,
Beneath the bridal-shade!
Thou'rt young to wed!—that virgin flower,
White as thine own pure brow,
Just stolen from its dewy bower,
Is not more fresh than thou.
White as thine own pure brow,
Just stolen from its dewy bower,
Is not more fresh than thou.
Thou'rt young to wear the bridal-bloom,
Yet go! for in thy heart,
A lovelier blossom lights the gloom,
That timid fears impart.
Yet go! for in thy heart,
A lovelier blossom lights the gloom,
That timid fears impart.
The heaven-fed flower of Purity,
Oh! nurse the snow-drop still;
And in its breath a charm shall be,
To guard thee from all ill.
Oh! nurse the snow-drop still;
And in its breath a charm shall be,
To guard thee from all ill.
269
LINES ON PERUSING THE DRAMATIC WORKS OF JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.
He sports with a sentiment rich and rare,
As the subtle Jew with a diamond plays,
In the sunny light of his Fancy fair,
He shifts his treasure a thousand ways:
And the princely gem as swift it turns,
With a lovelier glory beams and burns.
As the subtle Jew with a diamond plays,
In the sunny light of his Fancy fair,
He shifts his treasure a thousand ways:
And the princely gem as swift it turns,
With a lovelier glory beams and burns.
The sun-beam searches the Diamond's heart,
What wealth of beauty illumed is seen!
Its gorgeous colours like lightning dart,
As if Iris were veiled in its dazzling sheen,
And fluttered her pinions of rainbow-light,
In pride at a prison so pure and bright.
What wealth of beauty illumed is seen!
Its gorgeous colours like lightning dart,
As if Iris were veiled in its dazzling sheen,
And fluttered her pinions of rainbow-light,
In pride at a prison so pure and bright.
Oh! the selfsame gem in an idler's mind,
With a taste and skill less rare than his,
Would lie as changeless and undefined,
As the Diamond dim in the shadow is,
And none would dream of the sparkling play
Of those plumes within, that folded lay!
With a taste and skill less rare than his,
Would lie as changeless and undefined,
As the Diamond dim in the shadow is,
And none would dream of the sparkling play
Of those plumes within, that folded lay!
270
ON A PICTURE,
Representing a maiden with a pair of scales, and Love with a butterfly; the winged boy rises, as he should, and the motto beneath is,—“Love is the lightest!”
Silly maiden, weigh them not!
Butterflies are earthly things;
Thou forgett'st their lowly lot,
Gazing on their glittering wings.
Butterflies are earthly things;
Thou forgett'st their lowly lot,
Gazing on their glittering wings.
Rather weigh thy taper pale
With the light by Luna given;
Will the heaven-ray turn the scale?
Will the earth-lamp rise to heaven?
With the light by Luna given;
Will the heaven-ray turn the scale?
Will the earth-lamp rise to heaven?
Love,—ethereal, holy Love!
Buoyant, joyous, proud, and free,
Maiden, see! he soars above
Worldly Pride and Vanity!
Buoyant, joyous, proud, and free,
Maiden, see! he soars above
Worldly Pride and Vanity!
Rightly to its native earth
Sinks the gilded insect-fly;
Love—of holier, heavenlier birth—
Rises tow'rds his home on high!
Sinks the gilded insect-fly;
Love—of holier, heavenlier birth—
Rises tow'rds his home on high!
271
Maiden! throw the scales away,
Never weigh poor Love again;
Let his pinions freely play,
Bind him not with vassal-chain!
Never weigh poor Love again;
Let his pinions freely play,
Bind him not with vassal-chain!
See! he lifts his wondering eye
Half reproachfully to thee;—
Measured with a butterfly!
I'd take wing if I were he!
Half reproachfully to thee;—
Measured with a butterfly!
I'd take wing if I were he!
If he must be proved and tried,
Weigh him in thine own true heart,
'Gainst a frowning world beside,—
Wealth and rank 'gainst bow and dart!—
Weigh him in thine own true heart,
'Gainst a frowning world beside,—
Wealth and rank 'gainst bow and dart!—
If he do not scorn the measure,
Soaring high o'er them and thee,—
Worth the world and worldly treasure,—
Mark me! Love outweighs the three!
Soaring high o'er them and thee,—
Worth the world and worldly treasure,—
Mark me! Love outweighs the three!
272
ON THE SAME.—TO CUPID IN THE SCALES.
Where are your wings and your will, Love?
How can you be such a dunce?
Why do you keep them so still, Love?
Why dont you use them at once?
How can you be such a dunce?
Why do you keep them so still, Love?
Why dont you use them at once?
Pray tell me what they were made for,
If not to fly from a chain?
What do you stay to be weighed for?
Talk not of Freedom again!
If not to fly from a chain?
What do you stay to be weighed for?
Talk not of Freedom again!
Sitting so tame and so quiet,
Just like a dove in its nest;
Why dont you kick up a riot?
Where is the pride of your breast?
Just like a dove in its nest;
Why dont you kick up a riot?
Where is the pride of your breast?
Mount, Love, the back of the butterfly,
Leave the light girl to her doom,
Off to the clouds, and let not a fly
Thus his frail earth-pinions plume!
Leave the light girl to her doom,
Off to the clouds, and let not a fly
Thus his frail earth-pinions plume!
273
Spirit of Joy and of Passion,
Plumed with the beams of the sun!
Weighed in so worldly a fashion,
Just for an idle maid's fun!
Plumed with the beams of the sun!
Weighed in so worldly a fashion,
Just for an idle maid's fun!
Beat by a butterfly hollow,
Tried by an insect so low,
While the proud fire of Apollo
Bright in thy bosom doth glow!
Tried by an insect so low,
While the proud fire of Apollo
Bright in thy bosom doth glow!
Spurn the false scales to the deuce, Love,
Laugh the cold maiden to scorn,
Punish so saucy a “ruse,” Love,
Leave her alone and forlorn!
Laugh the cold maiden to scorn,
Punish so saucy a “ruse,” Love,
Leave her alone and forlorn!
A LOVER'S SIMILE.
Mine eye is but a burning glass,Wherein your smile's too fatal rays
Brought to a focus, set—alas!
My poor heart in a blaze!
274
SONG OF THE SPOILED BEAUTY.
FROM AN UNPUBLISHED PLAY.
Though you wreathe in my raven hair jewels the rarest,
That ever illumined the brow of a queen,
I should think the least one that were wanting the fairest,
And pout at their lustre in petulant spleen;
Though the Diamond should lighten there, regal in splendour,
The Topaz its sunny glow shed o'er the curl,
And the Emerald's ray tremble, timid and tender,
If the Pearl be not by,—I should sigh for the Pearl!
That ever illumined the brow of a queen,
I should think the least one that were wanting the fairest,
And pout at their lustre in petulant spleen;
Though the Diamond should lighten there, regal in splendour,
The Topaz its sunny glow shed o'er the curl,
And the Emerald's ray tremble, timid and tender,
If the Pearl be not by,—I should sigh for the Pearl!
Tho' you fling at my feet all the loveliest flowers,
That Summer is waking in forest and field,
I should pine 'mid the bloom you had brought from her bowers,
For some little blossom Spring only could yield:
Take the Rose with its passionate beauty and bloom, love,
The Lily so pure, and the Tulip so bright;
Since I miss the sweet Violet's lowly perfume, love,
The Violet only my soul can delight!
That Summer is waking in forest and field,
I should pine 'mid the bloom you had brought from her bowers,
For some little blossom Spring only could yield:
275
The Lily so pure, and the Tulip so bright;
Since I miss the sweet Violet's lowly perfume, love,
The Violet only my soul can delight!
THE HERO'S DEATH.
FROM THE SAME.
War's clarion calls to arms!
“To horse—to horse,” he cries;
“Hush, ladye-love, thy wild alarms!”
Away his charger flies!
“To horse—to horse,” he cries;
“Hush, ladye-love, thy wild alarms!”
Away his charger flies!
Where fiercest flows the flight,
His snow-white plume waves high;
All's lost, his comrades turn for flight,
He stands his ground—to die.—
His snow-white plume waves high;
All's lost, his comrades turn for flight,
He stands his ground—to die.—
To die!—that blow struck home—
Yet, yet he braves the foe!
“A rescue!” hark! they come! they come!
But the snow-white plume lies low!
Yet, yet he braves the foe!
“A rescue!” hark! they come! they come!
But the snow-white plume lies low!
276
LAND HO! OR THE SHIP IN PORT.
FROM THE SAME.
My heart has been the plaything, love, of woman, like a ship,
That every fickle wandering gale may toss about at will;
Now wooed to hidden danger, by the south wind's wanton lip,
Now shivering in the northern gale, with fever-fit, and chill.
That every fickle wandering gale may toss about at will;
Now wooed to hidden danger, by the south wind's wanton lip,
Now shivering in the northern gale, with fever-fit, and chill.
But escaped from syren treachery, it has found a haven at last,
Where the whirlpool cannot lure to death, nor breakers lash its rails;
By thy dear side the pilot Love has moored it safe and fast,
Dropped anchor at thy fairy feet, and furled its flying sails!
Where the whirlpool cannot lure to death, nor breakers lash its rails;
By thy dear side the pilot Love has moored it safe and fast,
Dropped anchor at thy fairy feet, and furled its flying sails!
277
THE BELLE'S CONSOLATION.
FROM THE SAME.
Is he false? then I am free!
I pledged my troth to Taste and Sense;
Since these he's lost, he'll e'en lose me;
So tell him, girl, and bid him hence!
I pledged my troth to Taste and Sense;
Since these he's lost, he'll e'en lose me;
So tell him, girl, and bid him hence!
Ne'er heart of mine shall break for Love;
Come, Wealth! and woo a willing bride!
I'll treat the truant like my glove,
Too easy grown—'tis thrown aside,—
Come, Wealth! and woo a willing bride!
I'll treat the truant like my glove,
Too easy grown—'tis thrown aside,—
I throw it by, and buy another;
If loose that sets—I set it free;
Cupid no more my heart shall bother,
For Wealth can win as well as he.
If loose that sets—I set it free;
Cupid no more my heart shall bother,
For Wealth can win as well as he.
Is he false? then I am free!
He vowed he followed Beauty's banners;
Since these he's lost in losing me,
Heaven help the youth—and mend his manners!
He vowed he followed Beauty's banners;
Since these he's lost in losing me,
Heaven help the youth—and mend his manners!
278
THE INFANT ELLEN'S LETTER FROM ENGLAND, TO HER COUSIN ANNA (SIX YEARS OF AGE) IN AMERICA.
They tell me, love, that far away,
Beyond the unfathomed tide,
I have a little friend at play,
My grandsire's knee beside.
Beyond the unfathomed tide,
I have a little friend at play,
My grandsire's knee beside.
They bid me call her “cousin,”—dear,
Her name is Anna Wells;
And many a pretty tale of her,
My loving mother tells.
Her name is Anna Wells;
And many a pretty tale of her,
My loving mother tells.
She says, her lip is like a rose,
Her eye a gem of light,
Her cheek such changing colour shows,
As veils the morning bright.
Her eye a gem of light,
Her cheek such changing colour shows,
As veils the morning bright.
That o'er a forehead fair and mild
Her soft brown hair is parted,
And she's a pleasant, playful child,
A bright and happy-hearted.
Her soft brown hair is parted,
And she's a pleasant, playful child,
A bright and happy-hearted.
279
Of one thing, I am certain, dear,
This dark-eyed coz must be
A lovely one, for oft I hear
That she resembles me.
This dark-eyed coz must be
A lovely one, for oft I hear
That she resembles me.
And I—I do assure you, sweet,
Am quite a perfect creature,—
Such dainty hands! such cunning feet!
Such grace of form and feature!
Am quite a perfect creature,—
Such dainty hands! such cunning feet!
Such grace of form and feature!
Rich, violet eyes and auburn hair,
A soft and pure complexion;
And then, the lovely clothes I wear!
They fit me to perfection.
A soft and pure complexion;
And then, the lovely clothes I wear!
They fit me to perfection.
I fear you'll think me very vain,
But, really, when I hear
My father talk in such a strain,
How can I help it, dear?
But, really, when I hear
My father talk in such a strain,
How can I help it, dear?
Sometimes, when in my cradle, I,
In meditation meek,
Allow my silken lash to lie
Demurely on my cheek,—
In meditation meek,
Allow my silken lash to lie
Demurely on my cheek,—
280
He thinks that I am fast asleep,
And bids mamma come near;
While such a sober face I keep
He does not dream I hear.—
And bids mamma come near;
While such a sober face I keep
He does not dream I hear.—
“She's really very beautiful,”—
This morn he whispering said,—
“How gracefully upon her breast
“Those tiny hands are laid!
This morn he whispering said,—
“How gracefully upon her breast
“Those tiny hands are laid!
“There's mind already on that brow,
“How bright the child is growing!
“Why, one would think she heard me now,
“She looks so very knowing!
“How bright the child is growing!
“Why, one would think she heard me now,
“She looks so very knowing!
“Would you believe it?—yesterday
“I chanced to breathe a sigh,—
“She looked directly in my face
“And then began to cry!
“I chanced to breathe a sigh,—
“She looked directly in my face
“And then began to cry!
“Her reasoning powers are very strong,
“Behold that bump!”—he said—
(Dont tell! it was a bump I got
When mother knocked my head.)
“Behold that bump!”—he said—
(Dont tell! it was a bump I got
When mother knocked my head.)
281
Not he alone, but others, while
My fond papa is by,
Declare I have the sweetest smile,
The loveliest lip and eye!
My fond papa is by,
Declare I have the sweetest smile,
The loveliest lip and eye!
They kiss, they hug, they toss me up,
And do make such a pother,—
“The pretty little darling dear!
“The image of her mother!”
And do make such a pother,—
“The pretty little darling dear!
“The image of her mother!”
But if papa but turns his eye,
Or leaves me in their arms,
Why, in their arms they let me lie,
Unheeding then my charms.
Or leaves me in their arms,
Why, in their arms they let me lie,
Unheeding then my charms.
Ah! cousin dear, Experience
Has taught me how to prize
The flattery of the faithless crowd,
Who laud my lips and eyes;
Has taught me how to prize
The flattery of the faithless crowd,
Who laud my lips and eyes;
And I have learned, with stoic smile
And brow serene, to hear,
Whene'er they choose to praise and pet
“The little darling dear.”
And brow serene, to hear,
Whene'er they choose to praise and pet
“The little darling dear.”
282
But these are trifles; I have woes,
'Twill grieve thy loving heart
To hear,—and in those radiant eyes
The pitying tear will start!
'Twill grieve thy loving heart
To hear,—and in those radiant eyes
The pitying tear will start!
Then listen, love, but breathe it not!—
I would not, that the gay
And heartless world should know my lot,—
And thou wilt not betray?
I would not, that the gay
And heartless world should know my lot,—
And thou wilt not betray?
In truth, to others' eyes, I seem
A tranquil child, and blest,
And none, not e'en mamma, doth dream
The sorrows of my breast!
A tranquil child, and blest,
And none, not e'en mamma, doth dream
The sorrows of my breast!
The cheek may glow, the eye may smile,
The lips in laughter part,
While coldly, 'neath them all the while,
Slow throbs the suffering heart!
The lips in laughter part,
While coldly, 'neath them all the while,
Slow throbs the suffering heart!
And first—(I know the child is blamed,
Who e'er a parent blames;—
But who such trial tamely bears?)
My father calls me names!
Who e'er a parent blames;—
But who such trial tamely bears?)
My father calls me names!
283
Last night, he dipped me, head and all,
The naughty, cruel man!
And just because I chanced to fall
He called me “Pitchapan!”
The naughty, cruel man!
And just because I chanced to fall
He called me “Pitchapan!”
And then, when struggling for my food,
(I'd been three hours without,)
And could not find it quick enough,
'Twas little “Bobabout!”
(I'd been three hours without,)
And could not find it quick enough,
'Twas little “Bobabout!”
Mamma, too, when she takes me up,
To fondle me, begins
And calls me “cherub,” “snow-drop,” “star!”
I can't think what she means!
To fondle me, begins
And calls me “cherub,” “snow-drop,” “star!”
I can't think what she means!
What is a star?—do you know, love?
This morn, when on mamma
I smiled,—the nurse exclaimed, “She's woke
As smiling as a star!”
This morn, when on mamma
I smiled,—the nurse exclaimed, “She's woke
As smiling as a star!”
This is not all,—whenever I
(I can't do well without it,)
Think to enjoy a quiet cry,
There's such a fuss about it!
(I can't do well without it,)
Think to enjoy a quiet cry,
There's such a fuss about it!
284
The “luxury of tears,” we all
Have read in poets' dreams,
'Tis left for babes like us to tell
The luxury of “screams.”
Have read in poets' dreams,
'Tis left for babes like us to tell
The luxury of “screams.”
But scarce do hapless I begin,
Than all are crowding round me,
And pull and push to find the pin,
With which my nurse has bound me!
Than all are crowding round me,
And pull and push to find the pin,
With which my nurse has bound me!
Yet, when the pin does really prick,
And I begin to whimper,
To cry and struggle, scream and kick,
'Tis—“Goodness! What a temper!”
And I begin to whimper,
To cry and struggle, scream and kick,
'Tis—“Goodness! What a temper!”
Ah! should I pain that gentle breast,
With all my infant troubles,
You'd own that hope's a dream at best,
And pleasures are but bubbles!
With all my infant troubles,
You'd own that hope's a dream at best,
And pleasures are but bubbles!
E'en now to think of all my woe,
My baby heart is swelling;
But you will sympathise, I know,
And love your cousin,
My baby heart is swelling;
But you will sympathise, I know,
And love your cousin,
Ellen.
285
P. S. And, dearest, when again you play
Beside our grandpa's knee,
Remember one who's far away,
And talk to him of me!
Beside our grandpa's knee,
Remember one who's far away,
And talk to him of me!
LITTLE ELLEN'S REPLY TO HER COUSIN.
Your letter came safely, dear Anna,
And much I'm indebted to thee
For the graceful and delicate manner
In which it comments upon me.
But your pardon, sweet coz, if I ask you
Who wrote an epistle so fine?
I'm sorry so closely to task you,
But really some parts are divine.
Dont imagine I doubt your own power
To perpetrate verses sublime;
I dare say you rhyme by the hour,
With many a musical chime.
And much I'm indebted to thee
For the graceful and delicate manner
In which it comments upon me.
But your pardon, sweet coz, if I ask you
Who wrote an epistle so fine?
I'm sorry so closely to task you,
But really some parts are divine.
Dont imagine I doubt your own power
To perpetrate verses sublime;
I dare say you rhyme by the hour,
With many a musical chime.
286
But steep is the path up Parnassus,
And long for steps tiny as ours;
And feet more experienced pass us,
While we at its foot gather flowers.
I am sure we should stumble alone,
And I should like to know who helped thee;
I am perfectly willing to own
That my own dear mamma aided me.
And long for steps tiny as ours;
And feet more experienced pass us,
While we at its foot gather flowers.
I am sure we should stumble alone,
And I should like to know who helped thee;
I am perfectly willing to own
That my own dear mamma aided me.
But as to your wish, love, of holding
So bouncing a baby as I,
My form in those fond arms enfolding,—
Some morning I'll just let you try.
They say you are slight as a fairy,—
I'm strong, and a bit of a shrew;
Now you dear little thing, light and airy,
Pray dont you think I could hold you?
But if you're inclined for a frolic,
My own little cousin, with me,
Some morning when I'm melancholic,
I'll take a trip over the sea;—
I'll wear my best frock and blue band,
I'll curl up my hair over night,
I'll clasp my sweet bells in my hand,
To tinkle me tunes in my flight;
I'll climb to thy knee for my throne, love,
I'll nestle my head on thy breast,
I'll lay my light hand in thine own, love,
I'll pinch thee—but only in jest;
I'll wreathe round my rosy-tipped fingers
Thy ringlets of silk with delight;
But my hand's apt to pull where it lingers—
Would you weep if I pulled them too tight?
Upon thy soft shoulder reposing,
I'll give thee sweet kisses and light;
But my lips have a sad trick of closing—
Shall you scold if I happen to bite?
So bouncing a baby as I,
My form in those fond arms enfolding,—
Some morning I'll just let you try.
They say you are slight as a fairy,—
I'm strong, and a bit of a shrew;
Now you dear little thing, light and airy,
Pray dont you think I could hold you?
But if you're inclined for a frolic,
My own little cousin, with me,
Some morning when I'm melancholic,
I'll take a trip over the sea;—
I'll wear my best frock and blue band,
I'll curl up my hair over night,
I'll clasp my sweet bells in my hand,
To tinkle me tunes in my flight;
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I'll nestle my head on thy breast,
I'll lay my light hand in thine own, love,
I'll pinch thee—but only in jest;
I'll wreathe round my rosy-tipped fingers
Thy ringlets of silk with delight;
But my hand's apt to pull where it lingers—
Would you weep if I pulled them too tight?
Upon thy soft shoulder reposing,
I'll give thee sweet kisses and light;
But my lips have a sad trick of closing—
Shall you scold if I happen to bite?
I dont know what mother will say,
When she looks, and in vain, all about,
To find her young “star” flown away,—
She will fancy that I am “put out!”
When she looks, and in vain, all about,
To find her young “star” flown away,—
She will fancy that I am “put out!”
Oh! I did as you told me last night,
I stole to the edge of the bed,
And I peeped through a pin-hole so slight,
'Twas “a bird's-eye view,” you'd have said;
“I'm sure I can't think where they are,
These glittering creatures,” thought I,
“In the sky I must look for the star,
But where must I look for the sky?
There's something that's shining like fire
On mother's work-table, close by,
But it cannot be what I desire,
For it is not so pretty as I.”
At last, I looked up into Heaven,
(I know where that is from mamma,)
And I saw a blue curtain unriven,
But not the least sign of a star.
Yet I think, dearest, that was the curtain
You bade me so slyly peep through,
For of this I am perfectly certain,
That as I was watching its hue,
I suddenly saw a bright face
Peeping out of a little loophole;
And the very next moment, no trace
Was left of it, love, on my soul!
But again it appeared, with a smile
So beaming with heavenly glee,
So loving and lovely the while,
I am sure it was looking at me!
I imagine it must have been one
Of those bright little cherubs, you know,
Who with Heaven's messages run,
On their winged feet of light, to and fro;
I dont think it could be a star,—
However, I mean to ask mother;
How funny for two little stars
To be playing “bopeep” with each other!
I stole to the edge of the bed,
And I peeped through a pin-hole so slight,
'Twas “a bird's-eye view,” you'd have said;
“I'm sure I can't think where they are,
These glittering creatures,” thought I,
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But where must I look for the sky?
There's something that's shining like fire
On mother's work-table, close by,
But it cannot be what I desire,
For it is not so pretty as I.”
At last, I looked up into Heaven,
(I know where that is from mamma,)
And I saw a blue curtain unriven,
But not the least sign of a star.
Yet I think, dearest, that was the curtain
You bade me so slyly peep through,
For of this I am perfectly certain,
That as I was watching its hue,
I suddenly saw a bright face
Peeping out of a little loophole;
And the very next moment, no trace
Was left of it, love, on my soul!
But again it appeared, with a smile
So beaming with heavenly glee,
So loving and lovely the while,
I am sure it was looking at me!
I imagine it must have been one
Of those bright little cherubs, you know,
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On their winged feet of light, to and fro;
I dont think it could be a star,—
However, I mean to ask mother;
How funny for two little stars
To be playing “bopeep” with each other!
Mamma bids me say, though I warn her
That I shall take up the whole space,
She has still in her heart a warm corner
For dear cousin Anna's bright face.
But I shan't let you have it, my darling!
Lest, looking your lodgings about,
You should see me, and cry, like Sterne's starling,
What's that? “let me out! let me out!”
I assure you, I'm fierce as a hero,
I fight with my hands and my feet;
I'm quite as relentless as Nero,
(You've read of that gentleman, sweet?)
But if you will change places with me,
And let me have your mother's heart,
Perhaps mine would let me go free,—
Ah, no! it would kill us to part!
That I shall take up the whole space,
She has still in her heart a warm corner
For dear cousin Anna's bright face.
But I shan't let you have it, my darling!
Lest, looking your lodgings about,
You should see me, and cry, like Sterne's starling,
What's that? “let me out! let me out!”
I assure you, I'm fierce as a hero,
I fight with my hands and my feet;
I'm quite as relentless as Nero,
(You've read of that gentleman, sweet?)
But if you will change places with me,
And let me have your mother's heart,
Perhaps mine would let me go free,—
Ah, no! it would kill us to part!
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Hark! I hear her quick step on the stair,
She would scold should my pen meet her view;
I must put on an innocent air;—
My sweet correspondent, adieu!
Give my love to each uncle, aunt, cousin,
That cares for me, dearest, I pray;
I hear I have them by the dozen,
“Cui bono”—so far, far away?
And give to my darling grandma, love,
And grandpa, whom mother loves so;—
Fond kisses, just such as “a star,” love,
Would be apt on a friend to bestow.
Alas! these farewells make me sigh,
They are things to be sad and to sob about,
But it must be,—my cousin, good bye!
Your own little
She would scold should my pen meet her view;
I must put on an innocent air;—
My sweet correspondent, adieu!
Give my love to each uncle, aunt, cousin,
That cares for me, dearest, I pray;
I hear I have them by the dozen,
“Cui bono”—so far, far away?
And give to my darling grandma, love,
And grandpa, whom mother loves so;—
Fond kisses, just such as “a star,” love,
Would be apt on a friend to bestow.
Alas! these farewells make me sigh,
They are things to be sad and to sob about,
But it must be,—my cousin, good bye!
Your own little
Pitchapan Bobabout.
P. S. You've a brother, named Willie,
Has he heard of his cousin afar?
Dont think me coquettish and silly,—
Once more, your affectionate
Has he heard of his cousin afar?
Dont think me coquettish and silly,—
Once more, your affectionate
291
THE ABSENT MOTHER'S PORTRAIT.
I marvel not her pleasant face so sweet a smile doth wear,
Her only son was in her heart when she was pictured there;—
She fancied how, with tearful eyes and quivering lip, the while,
He'd gaze upon the welcome prize, and kiss that lovely smile!
Oh! never with the portrait part, while life and sense are thine!
'Twill prove a guardian to thy heart, through Fortune's shade and shine;
Thou couldst not find in fairy realms an amulet or spell,
Would hallow thee from grief and sin so faithfully and well!
For while those eyes are on thee still, to smile when thou art blest,
And fill with tears, or seem to fill, when Sorrow is thy guest,
To glance a glad approval down on noble thought and deed,
Or change to mournful tenderness, if Error should mislead,
My life on it—no word, which thou wouldst blush to have her hear,
Will stain thy lip—no reckless act will cause her heart a tear!
No! holy Honour, fearless Truth, and Purity, will raise,
To that beloved and loving face, a fond and fearless gaze.
Her only son was in her heart when she was pictured there;—
She fancied how, with tearful eyes and quivering lip, the while,
He'd gaze upon the welcome prize, and kiss that lovely smile!
Oh! never with the portrait part, while life and sense are thine!
'Twill prove a guardian to thy heart, through Fortune's shade and shine;
Thou couldst not find in fairy realms an amulet or spell,
Would hallow thee from grief and sin so faithfully and well!
For while those eyes are on thee still, to smile when thou art blest,
And fill with tears, or seem to fill, when Sorrow is thy guest,
292
Or change to mournful tenderness, if Error should mislead,
My life on it—no word, which thou wouldst blush to have her hear,
Will stain thy lip—no reckless act will cause her heart a tear!
No! holy Honour, fearless Truth, and Purity, will raise,
To that beloved and loving face, a fond and fearless gaze.
When friends around thy festal board in social mirth are met,
And pledging thee—their generous host—the laughing lip is wet,
Then will the love-charm work, I ween,—for oh! the cup that's quaffed,
Where soft her hallowed semblance glows, will not be filled too oft!
Ah, no! no queen of fairy land could lend thee charm or spell,
Would guard thee from all grief and sin so faithfully and well!
Well may'st thou prize the portrait, and blest indeed is she
Whose son has chosen a mother's form for household deity!
And pledging thee—their generous host—the laughing lip is wet,
Then will the love-charm work, I ween,—for oh! the cup that's quaffed,
Where soft her hallowed semblance glows, will not be filled too oft!
Ah, no! no queen of fairy land could lend thee charm or spell,
Would guard thee from all grief and sin so faithfully and well!
293
Whose son has chosen a mother's form for household deity!
TO EMMA A---.
I shall not soon forget thee, with thy dark and flashing eye,
And the pretty little haughty head thou carriest so high,
With thy throat, whose swan-like curve is the loveliest I have seen,
And the spirit and the grace of thy merry maiden-mien.
And the pretty little haughty head thou carriest so high,
With thy throat, whose swan-like curve is the loveliest I have seen,
And the spirit and the grace of thy merry maiden-mien.
I shall not soon forget thee, with thy smile's bewildering charm,
With thy snow-white dimpled hand, and thy softly-rounded arm;
With thy form of fairy moulding, so perfect, yet petite,
And the light and restless movements of thy dainty little feet.
With thy snow-white dimpled hand, and thy softly-rounded arm;
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And the light and restless movements of thy dainty little feet.
I do not think I ever shall forget thee! for thine art
Of bewitching all about thee has entangled half my heart;
I am sure I never shall forget the kind and gentle thought
Which prompted the fair offering those tiny fingers wrought.
Of bewitching all about thee has entangled half my heart;
I am sure I never shall forget the kind and gentle thought
Which prompted the fair offering those tiny fingers wrought.
It is treasured in a memory where friendly deeds of yore
And loving words I've hoarded, as a miser hoards his store;
And when the rosy lustre of thy starlike gift is past,
And the rich, soft gloss upon it now is worn away at last,
The memory of thy kindness shall be fresh and fair as ever,
And bright within my soul shall be the image of the giver!
And loving words I've hoarded, as a miser hoards his store;
And when the rosy lustre of thy starlike gift is past,
And the rich, soft gloss upon it now is worn away at last,
The memory of thy kindness shall be fresh and fair as ever,
And bright within my soul shall be the image of the giver!
295
WRITTEN IN RUTH'S ALBUM.
What's in a name? the merry minstrel asks—
An idle question—idler my reply,—
And vain,—for who his plodding brain that tasks,
Can the bard's comment on those words deny?
The flower and thou would seem as sweet, in sooth,
Without the lovely names of Rose and Ruth.
An idle question—idler my reply,—
And vain,—for who his plodding brain that tasks,
Can the bard's comment on those words deny?
The flower and thou would seem as sweet, in sooth,
Without the lovely names of Rose and Ruth.
Yet feel I well there is a charm in thine,
Tender and soft, as it is plain and short,
So will I rhyme it with my simple line,
And thus upon the laughing bard retort.
Devoted constancy, and faith, and truth,
Dwell with that syllable of sweetness—“Ruth.”
Tender and soft, as it is plain and short,
So will I rhyme it with my simple line,
And thus upon the laughing bard retort.
Devoted constancy, and faith, and truth,
Dwell with that syllable of sweetness—“Ruth.”
Oh! who can hear it, and remember not
That lovely story of the olden-time,
Of her who joined her own fair blooming lot
With the sad wanderer's of the eastern clime;
Forgetting home, and hope, and love, and youth,
At duty's call,—the pure and patient Ruth!
That lovely story of the olden-time,
Of her who joined her own fair blooming lot
With the sad wanderer's of the eastern clime;
Forgetting home, and hope, and love, and youth,
At duty's call,—the pure and patient Ruth!
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And who that looks on thee, can fail to own
In thy dark, earnest eyes—that all but speak—
And in the pleading witchery of thy tone,
A tenderness like hers, as soft and meek,
And feel, remembering her unfaltering truth,
There's more than music in the name of Ruth?
In thy dark, earnest eyes—that all but speak—
And in the pleading witchery of thy tone,
A tenderness like hers, as soft and meek,
And feel, remembering her unfaltering truth,
There's more than music in the name of Ruth?
A PLEASANT DIVORCE.
Kate's nose was retroussée—her husband's a Roman,—
One day in a passion he bade her begone,—
“Which way?” said she,—“Follow your nose, silly woman!”
He answered with pointed and petulant scorn.
One day in a passion he bade her begone,—
“Which way?” said she,—“Follow your nose, silly woman!”
He answered with pointed and petulant scorn.
Kate laughed as she whispered,—“The taunt is forgiven,
It implies such a compliment, dearest, you know!
I'll follow my nose, sir, with pleasure—to Heaven,
If you'll follow yours—to the regions below!”
It implies such a compliment, dearest, you know!
I'll follow my nose, sir, with pleasure—to Heaven,
If you'll follow yours—to the regions below!”
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