Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood

Love! no more, with soul of fire,
Sweep the strings and sound the lyre!
All too wild the sad refrain,
When thy touch awakes the strain.
Thou henceforth must veil thy face
With its blush of childish grace,
Still thy sweet entrancing tone,
Fold thy wings and weep alone.
Mirth! oh! ne'er again come thou,
With thy careless, cloudless brow,
With thy frolic-fingers flying,
Lightly o'er the lyre replying,
Making music, like a smile,
Glisten through its strings the while.
Thou and I, gay sprite! must part,—
Go thou to some happier heart!

Lyre! amid whose cords my soul,
Lull'd, enchanted, proudly stole,
Folly, Vanity, and Mirth
Long have tuned thy tones to earth:
I will take thee, hush'd and holy,
Changed in heart, and sad and lowly,
Into Nature's mother-breast;
There I'll lay thee down to rest.
There her harmony shall blend
All its soul with thine, sweet friend!
Silent lie upon her shrine
Till some spirit more divine,
Mission'd from its home to thee,
Teach a holier melody;
Then, awaked by airs of heaven,
Be thy discord all forgiven!
Meekly let thy music low
With creation's chorus flow,
With the music of the spheres,
Into listening angels' ears!
Let, henceforth, thy sweetest lays
Be attuned to prayer and praise,
And naught earth-born e'er again
Thee, my pleading lyre, profane!

TO THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.

Leave me not yet! Leave me not cold and lonely,
Thou dear Ideal of my pining heart!
Thou art the friend—the beautiful—the only,
Whom I would keep, though all the world depart!
Thou that dost veil the frailest flower with glory,
Spirit of light and loveliness and truth!
Thou that didst tell me a sweet, fairy story,
Of the dim future, in my wistful youth!
Thou who canst weave a halo round the spirit,
Through which naught mean or evil dare intrude,
Resume not yet the gift, which I inherit
From Heaven and thee, that dearest, holiest good!
Leave me not now! Leave me not cold and lonely,
Thou starry prophet of my pining heart!
Thou art the friend—the tenderest—the only,
With whom, of all, 'twould be despair to part.

Thou that cam'st to me in my dreaming childhood,
Shaping the changeful clouds to pageants rare,

Peopling the smiling vale and shaded wildwood
With airy beings, faint yet strangely fair;
Telling me all the sea-born breeze was saying,
While it went whispering through the willing leaves,
Bidding me listen to the light rain playing
Its pleasant tune about the household eaves;
Tuning the low, sweet ripple of the river,
Till its melodious murmur seem'd a song,
A tender and sad chant, repeated ever,
A sweet, impassion'd plaint of love and wrong!
Leave me not yet! Leave me not cold and lonely,
Thou star of promise o'er my clouded path!
Leave not the life, that borrows from thee only
All of delight and beauty that it hath!

Thou that, when others knew not how to love me,
Nor cared to fathom half my yearning soul,
Didst wreathe thy flowers of light around, above me,
To woo and win me from my grief's control:—
By all my dreams, the passionate and holy,
When thou hast sung love's lullaby to me,
By all the childlike worship, fond and lowly,
Which I have lavish'd upon thine and thee:—
By all the lays my simple lute was learning
To echo from thy voice, stay with me still!
Once flown—alas! for thee there's no returning!

The charm will die o'er valley, wood, and hill.
Tell me not Time, whose wing my brow has shaded,
Has wither'd spring's sweet bloom within my heart;
Ah, no! the rose of love is yet unfaded,
Though hope and joy, its sister flowers, depart.

Well do I know that I have wrong'd thine altar,
With the light offerings of an idler's mind,
And thus, with shame, my pleading prayer I falter,
Leave me not, spirit! deaf, and dumb, and blind!
Deaf to the mystic harmony of nature,
Blind to the beauty of her stars and flowers,
Leave me not, heavenly yet human teacher,
Lonely and lost in this cold world of ours!
Heaven knows I need thy music and thy beauty
Still to beguile me on my weary way,
To lighten to my soul the cares of duty,
And bless with radiant dreams the darken'd day:
To charm my wild heart in the worldly revel,
Lest I, too, join the aimless, false, and vain;
Let me not lower to the soulless level
Of those whom now I pity and disdain!
Leave me not yet!—leave me not cold and pining,
Thou bird of paradise, whose plumes of light,
Where'er they rested, left a glory shining;
Fly not to heaven, or let me share thy flight!

ERMENGARDE'S AWAKENING.

Dear God! and must we see
All blissful things depart from us or ere we go to Thee?—
E. B. Barrett.

It was an altar worthy of a god!
All of pure gold, in furnace fire refined;
And never foot profane had near it trod,
And never image had been there enshrined;
But now a radiant idol claim'd the place,
And took it with a rare and royal grace.

And the proud woman thrill'd to its false glory,
And when the murmur of her own true soul
Told in low, lute-tones Love's impassion'd story,
She dream'd the music from that statue stole,
And knelt adoring at the silent shrine
Her own divinity had made divine.

And with a halo from her heart she crown'd it,
That shed a spirit-light upon its face,
And garlands hung of soul-flowers fondly round it,
Wreathing its beauty with immortal grace,

And so she felt not, as she gazed, how cold
And calm that Eidolon of marble mould.

Like Egypt's queen in her imperial play,
She, in abandonment more wildly sweet,
Melted the pearl of her pure Life away,
And pour'd the rich libation at its feet,
And in exulting rapture dream'd the smile
That should have answer'd in its eyes the while.

And all rare gifts she lavish'd on that altar,
Treasures the mines of India could not buy,
Nor did her foot-fall for a moment falter,
Though the world watch'd her with an evil eye,
And sad friends whisper'd, “Soon she'll wake to weep,
For lo! she walks in an enchanted sleep.”

Oh! glorious dreamer! with dark eyes upturn'd
In wondering worship to that godlike brow,
How the rare beauty of thy spirit burn'd
In the rapt gaze and in the glowing vow;
How didst thou waste on one thy soul should scorn
The glory of a blush that mock'd the morn!

She turn'd from all—from friendship and the world—
Only Love knew the way to that dim glade,

And calm her sweet yet queenly lip had curl'd
Had the world's whisper reach'd her in that shade;
But she was deaf and dumb and blind to all,
Save to the charm that held her heart in thrall.

And Love, who loved her, flew at her sweet will,
Bringing all gems that hoard the rainbow's splendour,
And singing-birds with magic in their trill,
And what wild-flowers fairy-land could lend her,
And flower and bird and jewel all were laid
To grace that golden altar in the shade.

Fair was that sylvan solitude, I ween—
The lady's charm'd and trancéd spirit lent
The starlight of its beauty to the scene,
And joy and music with the fountain went,
While in a still enchantment on its throne
The lucid statue cold and stately shone.

Love lent her, too, th' enchanted lute he play'd,
And she would let her light hand float at will
Across its chords of silver, half afraid,
Like a white lily on a murmuring rill,
Till Music's soul, waked by that touch, took wing,
And mingling with it hers would soar and sing:—

“Dost thou see—dost thou feel—oh, mine idol divine,
How I've yielded the soul of my soul for thy shrine?
Dost thou thrill to the tones of my melody sweet?
Does it glide to thy heart on its musical feet?
Dost thou love the light touch of my hand as I twine
My passion-flower wreath for thy beauty benign?

“Dost thou know how I've gather'd all gifts that I own
To bless and to brighten the place of thy throne;
How my thoughts like young singing-birds flutter and fly
With a song for thine ear and a gleam for thine eye;
How Truth's precious gems, that drink sunbeams for wine,
Are wreathed into chaplets of light for thy shrine?

“How Fancy has woven her fairy-land flowers
To garland with odour and beauty thine hours;
While Feeling's pure fountains play softly and free,
And chant in their falling, ‘For thee! for thee!’
Dost thou feel—dost thou see—oh! mine idol divine,
How I've yielded the soul of my soul for thy shrine.”

Thus sang the lady, but her waking hour
Drew near; for when her passionate song was mute,
And no fond answer thrill'd through that hush'd bower
Into her listening heart, she laid the lute

Within her loved one's clasp, and pray'd him play
Some idyl sweet to while the hours away.

From his cold hand the lute dropp'd idly down
And broke in music at the false god's feet;
Love's lute! ah heaven! how paled the peerless crown
Above that brow when, with a quick wild beat
Of fear and shame and sorrow at her heart,
The lady from her dazzling dream did start.

And the dream fell beside the broken lute,
And the flowers faded in their fairy grace,
And the fount stopp'd its glorious play, and mute
The birds their light wings shut in that sweet place,
While the deep night that veil'd the woman's soul
O'er shrine and idol cold and starless stole.

And in her desolate agony she cast
Her form beside Love's shiver'd treasure there,
And cried, “Oh, God! my life of life is past!
And I am left alone with my despair.”
Hark! from the lute one low, melodious sigh
Thrill'd to her heart a sad yet sweet reply.

Then through the darkness rose a voice in prayer,
“My Father! I have sinn'd 'gainst Thine and Thee.”

The idol, whom I deem'd so grandly fair
That its proud presence hid thy heaven from me,
Shorn of his glory, shrunk to common clay,
Behold, for him and for my heart I pray.

Take Thou the lute—the shatter'd lute of love—
And teach my faltering hand to tune it right
To some dear, holy hymn—which, like a dove,
From silver fetters freed, may cleave the night,
And, fluttering upward to thy starlit throne,
Die at Thy heart with blissful music moan.

EURYDICE.

With heart that thrill'd to every earnest line,
I had been reading o'er that antique story,
Wherein the youth half human, half divine,
Of all love-lore the Eidolon and glory,
Child of the Sun, with music's pleading spell,
In Pluto's palace swept, for love, his golden shell!

And in the wild, sweet legend, dimly traced,
My own heart's history unfolded seem'd:—
Ah! lost one! by thy lover-minstrel graced
With homage pure as ever woman dream'd,
Too fondly worshipp'd, since such fate befell,
Was it not sweet to die—because beloved too well!

The scene is round me!—Throned amid the gloom,
As a flower smiles on Etna's fatal breast,
Young Proserpine beside her lord doth bloom;
And near—of Orpheus' soul, oh! idol blest!—
While low for thee he tunes his lyre of light,
I see thy meek, fair form dawn through that lurid night!

I see the glorious boy—his dark locks wreathing
Wildly the wan and spiritual brow;
His sweet, curved lip the soul of music breathing;
His blue Greek eyes, that speak Love's loyal vow;
I see him bend on thee that eloquent glance,
The while those wondrous notes the realm of terror trance!

I see his face, with more than mortal beauty
Kindling, as, arm'd with that sweet lyre alone,
Pledged to a holy and heroic duty,
He stands serene before the awful throne,
And looks on Hades' horrors with clear eye,
Since thou, his own adored Eurydice, art nigh!

Now soft and low a prelude sweet uprings,
As if a prison'd angel—pleading there
For life and love—were fetter'd 'neath the strings,
And pour'd his passionate soul upon the air!
Anon, it clangs with wild, exultant swell,
Till the full pæan peals triumphantly through Hell!

And thou—thy pale hands meekly lock'd before thee—
Thy sad eyes drinking life from his dear gaze—
Thy lips apart—thy hair a halo o'er thee,
Trailing around thy throat its golden maze—

Thus—with all words in passionate silence dying—
Within thy soul I hear Love's eager voice replying:—

“Play on, mine Orpheus! Lo! while these are gazing,
Charm'd into statues by thy God-taught strain,
I—I alone, to thy dear face upraising
My tearful glance, the life of life regain!
For every tone that steals into my heart
Doth to its worn, weak pulse a mighty power impart.

“Play on, mine Orpheus! while thy music floats
Through the dread realm, divine with truth and grace,
See, dear one! how the chain of linkéd notes
Has fetter'd every spirit in its place!
Even Death, beside me, still and helpless lies;
And strives in vain to chill my frame with his cold eyes.

“Still, mine own Orpheus, sweep the golden lyre!
Ah! dost thou mark how gentle Proserpine,
With claspéd hands, and eyes whose azure fire
Gleams through quick tears, thrilled by thy lay, doth lean
Her graceful head upon her stern lord's breast,
Like an o'erwearied child, whom music lulls to rest?

“Play, my proud minstrel! strike the chords again!
Lo! Victory crowns at last thy heavenly skill!

For Pluto turns relenting to the strain—
He waves his hand—he speaks his awful will!—
My glorious Greek! lead on; but ah! still lend
Thy soul to thy sweet lyre, lest yet thou lose thy friend!

“Think not of me! Think rather of the time,
When, moved by thy resistless melody
To the strange magic of a song sublime,
Thy argo grandly glided to the sea!
And in the majesty Minerva gave,
The graceful galley swept, with joy, the sounding wave!

“Or see, in Fancy's dream, thy Thracian trees,
Their proud heads bent submissive to the sound,
Sway'd by a tuneful and enchanted breeze,
March to slow music o'er th' astonish'd ground—
Grove after grove descending from the hills,
While round thee weave their dance the glad, harmonious rills.

“Think not of me! Ha! by thy mighty sire,
My lord, my king! recall the dread behest!
Turn not—ah! turn not back those eyes of fire!
Oh! lost, for ever lost! undone! unblest!
I faint, I die!—the serpent's fang once more
Is here!—nay, grieve not thus! Life, but not Love, is o'er!”

UPBRAID ME NOT.

Upbraid me not, that having taken thee kindly
Into my earnest heart, and finding still
There, where I throned thy spirit somewhat blindly,
A depth, a height, which thou hast fail'd to fill—
That finding this—my faith I disavow,
And seek a nobler, holier love than thou.

That my soul asks it, pleads for it for ever,
Proves it a claim divine, and not a wrong.
Stay the wild rush of yon impetuous river,
Not the upsoaring of a spirit strong;
For I were wronging thee to meanly tame
Each winged impulse unto thy light claim!

Thus would our natures both be chain'd, degraded—
Be ours a larger, nobler, loftier care!
The flowers, with which yon summer bower is braided,
Plead always wistfully for light and air;
So grow thy soul—from love to love ascending—
Not to its mortal clay ignobly bending!

VICTORIA,

ON HER WAY TO GUILDHALL.

They told me the diamond-tiar on her head
Gleam'd out like chain-lightning amid her soft hair;
They told me the many-hued glory it shed
Seem'd a rainbow still playing resplendently there:
I mark'd not the gem's regal lustre the while,
I saw but her sunny, her soul-illumed smile.

They told me the plume floated over her face,
Like a snowy cloud shading the rose-light of morn:
I saw not the soft feather's tremulous grace,
I watch'd but the being by whom it was worn;
I watch'd her white brow as benignly it bent,
While the million-voiced welcome the air around rent.

They told me the rich silken robe that she wore
Was of exquisite texture and loveliest dye,
Embroider'd with blossoms of silver all o'er,
And clasp'd with pure jewels that dazzled the eye:

I saw not, I thought not of clasp, robe, or wreath,
I thought of the timid heart beating beneath.

I was born in a land where they bend not the knee,
Save to One—unto whom even monarchs bow down:
But lo! as I gazed, in my breast springing free,
Love knelt to her sweetness, forgetting her crown;
And my heart might have challenged the myriads there,
For the warmth of its praise, and the truth of its prayer.

And to her—to that maiden, young, innocent, gay,
With the wild-rose of childhood yet warm on her cheek,
And a spirit, scarce calm'd from its infantine play
Into woman's deep feeling, devoted and meek;
To her—in the bloom of her shadowless youth—
Proud millions are turning with chivalrous truth.

It is right,—the All-judging hath order'd it so;
In the light of His favour the pure maiden stands:
And who, that has gazed on that cheek's modest glow,
Would not yield without murmur his fate to her hands?
Trust on, noble Britons! trust freely the while!
I would stake my soul's hope on the truth of that smile!

A FLIGHT OF FANCY.

At the bar of Judge Conscience stood Reason arraign'd,
The jury impannell'd—the prisoner chain'd.
The judge was facetious at times, though severe,
Now waking a smile, and now drawing a tear;
An old-fashion'd, fidgety, queer-looking wight,
With a clerical air, and an eye quick as light.

“Here, Reason, you vagabond! look in my face;
I'm told you're becoming an idle scapegrace.
They say that young Fancy, that airy coquette,
Has dared to fling round you her luminous net;
That she ran away with you, in spite of yourself,
For pure love of frolic—the mischievous elf.

“The scandal is whisper'd by friends and by foes,
And darkly they hint, too, that when they propose
Any question to your ear, so lightly you're led,
At once to gay Fancy you turn your wild head;

And she leads you off in some dangerous dance,
As wild as the Polka that gallop'd from France.

“Now up to the stars with you, laughing, she springs,
With a whirl and a whisk of her changeable wings;
Now dips in some fountain her sun-painted plume,
That gleams through the spray, like a rainbow in bloom;
Now floats in a cloud, while her tresses of light
Shine through the frail boat and illumine its flight;
Now glides through the woodland to gather its flowers;
Now darts like a flash to the sea's coral bowers;
In short—cuts such capers, that with her, I ween,
It's a wonder you are not ashamed to be seen!

“Then she talks such a language!—melodious enough,
To be sure, but a strange sort of outlandish stuff!
I'm told that it licenses many a whapper,
And when once she commences, no frowning can stop her;
Since it's new, I've no doubt it is very improper!
They say that she cares not for order or law;
That of you, you great dunce! she but makes a cat's-paw.
I've no sort of objection to fun in its season,
But it's plain that this Fancy is fooling you, Reason!”

Just then into court flew a strange little sprite,
With wings of all colours and ringlets of light!

She frolick'd round Reason, till Reason grew wild,
Defying the court and caressing the child.
The judge and the jury, the clerk and recorder,
In vain call'd this exquisite creature to order:—
“Unheard of intrusion!”—They bustled about,
To seize her, but, wild with delight, at the rout,
She flew from their touch like a bird from a spray,
And went waltzing and whirling and singing away!

Now up to the ceiling, now down to the floor!
Were never such antics in courthouse before!
But a lawyer, well versed in the tricks of his trade,
A trap for the gay little innocent laid:
He held up a mirror, and Fancy was caught
By her image within it,—so lovely, she thought.
What could the fair creature be!—bending its eyes
On her own with so wistful a look of surprise!
She flew to embrace it. The lawyer was ready:
He closed round the spirit a grasp cool and steady,
And she sigh'd, while he tied her two luminous wings,
“Ah! Fancy and Falsehood are different things!”

The witnesses—maidens of uncertain age,
With a critic, a publisher, lawyer, and sage—
All scandalized greatly at what they had heard
Of this poor little Fancy, (who flew like a bird!)

Were call'd to the stand, and their evidence gave.
The judge charged the jury, with countenance grave:
Their verdict was “Guilty,” and Reason look'd down,
As his honour exhorted her thus, with a frown:—

“This Fancy, this vagrant, for life shall be chain'd
In your own little cell, where you should have remain'd;
And you—for your punishment—jailer shall be:
Don't let your accomplice come coaxing to me!
I'll none of her nonsense—the little wild witch!
Nor her bribes—although rumour does say she is rich.

“I've heard that all treasures and luxuries rare
Gather round at her bidding, from earth, sea, and air;
And some go so far as to hint, that the powers
Of darkness attend her more sorrowful hours.
But go!” and Judge Conscience, who never was bought,
Just bow'd the pale prisoner out of the court.

'Tis said, that poor Reason next morning was found,
At the door of her cell, fast asleep on the ground,
And nothing within but one plume rich and rare,
Just to show that young Fancy's wing once had been there.
She had dropp'd it, no doubt, while she strove to get through
The hole in the lock, which she could not undo.

THE COCOA-NUT TREE.

Oh, the green and the graceful—the cocoa-nut tree!
The lone and the lofty—it loves like me
The flash, the foam of the heaving sea,
And the sound of the surging waves
In the shore's unfathom'd caves;
With its stately shaft, and its verdant crown,
And its fruit in clusters drooping down;
Some of a soft and tender green,
And some all ripe and brown between;
And flowers, too, blending their lovelier grace
Like a blush through the tresses on Beauty's face.
Oh, the lovely, the free,
The cocoa-nut tree,
Is the tree of all trees for me!

The willow, it waves with a tenderer motion,
The oak and the elm with more majesty rise;
But give me the cocoa, that loves the wild ocean,
And shadows the hut where the island-girl lies.

In the Nicobar islands, each cottage you see
Is built of the trunk of the cocoa-nut tree,
While its leaves matted thickly, and many times o'er,
Make a thatch for its roof and a mat for its floor;
Its shells the dark islander's beverage hold—
'Tis a goblet as pure as a goblet of gold.
Oh, the cocoa-nut tree,
That blooms by the sea,
Is the tree of all trees for me!

In the Nicobar isles, of the cocoa-nut tree
They build the light shallop—the wild, the free;
They weave of its fibres so firm a sail,
It will weather the rudest southern gale;
They fill it with oil, and with coarse jaggree,
With arrack and coir, from the cocoa-nut tree.
The lone, the free,
That dwells in the roar
Of the echoing shore—
Oh, the cocoa-nut tree for me!

Rich is the cocoa-nut's milk and meat,
And its wine, the pure palm-wine, is sweet;
It is like the bright spirits we sometimes meet—
The wine of the cocoa-nut tree:

For they tie up the embryo bud's soft wing,
From which the blossoms and nuts would spring;
And thus forbidden to bless with bloom
Its native air, and with soft perfume,
The subtle spirit that struggles there
Distils an essence more rich and rare,
And instead of a blossom and fruitage birth,
The delicate palm-wine oozes forth.

Ah, thus to the child of genius, too,
The rose of beauty is oft denied;
But all the richer, that high heart, through
The torrent of feeling pours its tide,
And purer and fonder, and far more true,
Is that passionate soul in its lonely pride.
Oh, the fresh, the free,
The cocoa-nut tree,
Is the tree of all trees for me!

The glowing sky of the Indian isles,
Lovingly over the cocoa-nut smiles,
And the Indian maiden lies below,
Where its leaves their graceful shadow throw:
She weaves a wreath of the rosy shells
That gem the beach where the cocoa dwells;

She winds them into her long black hair,
And they blush in the braids like rosebuds there;
Her soft brown arm and her graceful neck,
With those ocean-blooms she joys to deck.
Oh, wherever you see
The cocoa-nut tree,
There will a picture of beauty be!

THE BABY AND THE BREEZE.

The breeze was high, and blew her sun-brown tresses
About her snowy brow and violet eyes;
And she—my Ellen—brave and sweetly wise,
In gay defiance of its rough caresses,
With rosy, pouting mouth, essay'd at length
To blow the rude airs back, that mock'd her baby-strength.

Ah! thus when Fortune's storms assail thy soul,
Yield not, nor shrink! but bear thee bravely still
Against their fury! With thine own sweet will
And childlike faith, oppose their fierce control.
So shalt thou bloom at last, my treasured flower,
Unharm'd by tempest-shock, in heaven's calm summer bower!

LABORARE EST ORARE.

Pause not to dream of the future before us;
Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us;
Hark, how Creation's deep, musical chorus,
Unintermitting, goes up into heaven!
Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing;
Never the little seed stops in its growing;
More and more richly the Roseheart keeps glowing,
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

“Labour is worship!”—the robin is singing:
“Labour is worship!”—the wild bee is ringing:
Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing
Speaks to thy soul from out nature's great heart.
From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower;
From the rough sod blows the soft breathing flower;
From the small insect, the rich coral bower;
Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part.

Labour is life!—'Tis the still water faileth;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;
Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth!
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.
Labour is glory!—the flying cloud lightens;
Only the waving wing changes and brightens;
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens:
Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune!

Labour is rest—from the sorrows that greet us;
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us,
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us,
Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill.
Work—and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;
Work—thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;
Lie not down wearied 'neath Wo's weeping willow!
Work with a stout heart and resolute will!

Labour is health!—Lo! the husbandman reaping,
How through his veins goes the life-current leaping!
How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping,
True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides.
Labour is wealth—in the sea the pearl groweth;
Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth;
From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth;
Temple and statue the marble block hides.

Droop not though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee!
Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee!
Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee:
Rest not content in thy darkness—a clod!
Work—for some good, be it ever so slowly;
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly:
Labour!—all labour is noble and holy:
Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God.

PURITY'S PEARL;

OR, THE HISTORY OF A TEAR.

A maiden, one summer's day, over Life's sea
In a pleasure-boat swiftly sailing,
Gazed back on the bowers of her childhood free,
That were dim in the distance failing.
She had clasp'd her zone with a brilliant stone,
In tint like the plume of a lory;
Through its heart the blush of the dawn had shone,
And left in it all its glory.
“False, false the talisman!” cries the girl,
“From my bosom the gem I sever!
Oh! give me back Purity's snow-white pearl,
And away with Love's ruby for ever!”

A tear, as she spoke, dimm'd her eye's blue fire,
And fell in the foaming water,
And hark! at the moment, an angel-lyre
Sounds the name of earth's sorrowing daughter.
'Tis the spirit of mercy floats from heaven,
Like light through the waves descending,
And the penitent feels her fault forgiven,
While smiles with her tears are blending.
And long ere that frail bark reach'd the shore,
Fair Mercy, her pledge redeeming,
Stole up through the moonlit sea once more,
With a pearl in her soft hand beaming.
“I bring thee back Purity's gem of Snow!
'Tis thy tear of remorse and devotion,
Transform'd to a pearl, in the wondrous flow
Of Time's mysterious ocean.”
And the maiden has bound her zone again
With the treasure she prized so truly,
And safe is her bark on the fathomless main,
For her talisman keeps it holy!

FRAGMENTS OF AN UNFINISHED STORY.

“A friend!” Are you a friend? No, by my soul!
Since you dare breathe the shadow of a doubt
That I am true as Truth: since you give not,
Unto my briefest look—my gayest word—
My faintest change of cheek—my softest touch—
Most sportive, careless smile, or low-breathed sigh—
Nay, to my voice's lightest modulation,
Though imperceptible to all but you:—
If you give not to these, unquestioning,
A limitless faith—the faith you give to Heaven—
I will not call you “friend.” I would disdain
A seraph's heart, as yours I now renounce,
If such the terms on which 'twere proffer'd me.

Deny me Faith—that poor, yet priceless boon—
And you deny the very soul of love!
As well withhold the lamp, whose light reveals
The sculptured beauty latent in its urn,
As proffer Friendship's diamond in the dark.

What though a thousand seeming proofs condemn me?

If my calm image smile not clear through all,
Serene and without shadow on your heart—
Nay! if the very vapours, that would veil it,
Part not illumined by its presence pure,
As round Night's tranquil queen the clouds divide,
Then rend it from that heart! I ask no place,
Though 'twere a throne, without the state becomes me—
Without the homage due to royal Truth!

And should a world beside pronounce me false,
You are to choose between the world and me.
If I be not more than all worlds to you,
I will not stoop to less! I will have all—
Your proudest, purest, noblest, loftiest love—
Your perfect trust—your soul of soul—or nothing!

Shall I not have them? Speak! on poorer spirits—
Who are content with less, because forsooth
The whole would blind or blight them, or because
They have but less to give—will you divide
The glory of your own? or concentrate
On mine its radiant life?—on mine! that holds
As yet, in calm reserve, the boundless wealth
Of tenderness its Maker taught to it.
Speak! shall we part, and go our separate ways,
Each with a half life in a burning soul,
Like two wild clouds, whose meeting would evoke
The electric flame pent up within their bosoms,

That, parted, weep their fiery hearts away,
Or waste afar—and darken into death?
Speak! do we part? or are we one for ever?

Since I must love thee—since a weird wild Fate
Impels me to thy heart against my will—
Do thou this justice to the soul I yield:
Be its ideal. Let it not blush to love.
Bid it not trail its light and glorious wings
Through the dull dust of earth, with downcast eyes
And drooping brow, where Shame and Grief usurp
Calm Honour's throne!—be noble, truthful, brave;
Love Honour more than Love, and more than me;
Be all thou wert ere the world came between
Thee and thy God.

Hear'st thou my spirit pleading
With suppliant, claspéd hands to thine, dear love?
Degrade her not, but let thy stronger soul
Soar with her to the seraph's realm of light.
She yields to thee; do with her as thou wilt.
She shuts her wings in utter weariness,
For she has wander'd all night long astray,
And found no rest—no fountain of sweet love,
Save such as mock'd her with a maddening thirst.
She asks of thine, repose, protection, peace,
Implores thee with wild tears and passionate prayers

To give her shelter through the night of Time,
And lead her home at morn; for long ago,
She lost her way.

Ah! thou mayst give, instead
Of that sweet boon she asks, if so thou wilt,
Wild suffering, madness, shame, self-scorn, despair!
But thou wilt not!—thine eyes—thy glorious eyes
Are eloquent with generous love and faith,
And through thy voice a mighty heart intones
Its rich vibrations, while thou murmurest low
All lovely promises, and precious dreams
For the sweet Future! So, I trust thee, love,
And place my hand in thine, for good or ill.

Do not my soul that wrong! translate not thus
The spirit-words my eyes are saying to thee:
I would not fetter that rich heart of thine,
Save by the perfect liberty I give it,
For all God's worlds of glory! Go thou forth—
Be free as air! Love all the good and pure;
Cherish all love that can ennoble thee;
Unfold thy soul to all sweet ministries,
That it may grow toward heaven—as a flower
Drinks dew and light, and pays them back in beauty.
And if—ah Heaven! these tears are love's, not grief's—
And if some higher ministry than mine,

Or some more genial nature, bless thee more,
Wrong not thyself, or me, or love, or truth,
By shrinking weakly from thy destiny.
I would not owe to pitying tenderness
The joy with which thy presence lights my life.
Thou shalt still love all that is thine, dear friend,
In my true soul—all that is right and great;
And that I still love thee, so proudly, purely—
That shall be my best joy! go calmly forth.

Would I were any thing that thou dost love!
A flower, a shell, a wavelet, or a cloud—
Aught that might win a moment's soul-look from thee.
To be “a joy for ever” in thy heart,
That were in truth divinest joy to mine:
A low, sweet, haunting Tune, that will not let
Thy memory go, but fondly twines around it,
Pleading and beautiful—for unto thee
Music is life—such life as I would be;—
A Statue, wrought in marble, without stain,
Where one immortal truth embodied lives
Instinct with grace and loveliness;—a Fane,
A fair Ionic temple, growing up,
Light as a lily into the blue air,
To the glad melody of a tuneful thought
In its creator's spirit, where thy gaze

Might never weary—dedicate to thee,
Thy image shrined within it, lone and loved!—
Make me the Flower thou lovest; let me drink
Thy rays, and give them back in bloom and beauty;—
Mould me to grace, to glory, like the Statue;—
Wake for my mind the Music of thine own,
And it shall grow, to that majestic tune,
A temple meet to shrine mine idol in!—
Hold the frail Shell, tinted by love's pure blush,
Unto thy soul, and thou shalt hear within
Tones from its spirit-home;—smile on the Wave,
And it shall flow, free, limpid, glad for ever;—
Shed on the Cloud the splendour of thy being,
And it shall float—a radiant wonder—by thee.

To love—thy love—so docile I would be,
So pliant, yet inspired, that it should make
A marvel of me, for thy sake, and show
Its proud chef d'œuvre in my harmonious life.

I would be judged by that great heart of thine,
Wherein a voice more genuine, more divine
Than world-taught Reason, fondly speaks for me,
And bids thee love and trust, through cloud and shine,
The frail and fragile creature who would be
Naught here—hereafter—if not all to thee!
Thou call'st me changeful as the summer cloud,

And wayward as a wave, and light as air.
And I am all thou sayst—all, and more;
But the wild cloud can weep, as well as lighten,
And the wave mirrors heaven, as my soul thee;
And the light air, that frolics without thought
O'er yonder harp, makes music as it goes.
Let me play on the soul-harp I love best,
And teach it all its dreaming melody—
That is my mission—I have nothing else,
In all the world, to do; and I shall go
Musicless, aimless, idle, through all life,
Unless I play my part there—only there.
In the full anthem which the universe
Intones to heaven, my heart will have no share,
Unless I have that soul-harp to myself,
And wake it to what melody I please.

So wrote the Lady Imogen—the child
Of Poetry and Passion—all her frame
So lightly, exquisitely shaped, we dream'd
'Twas fashion'd to some melody of heaven,
The fairest, airiest creature ever made—
Flower-like in her fragility and grace,
Childlike in sweet impetuous tenderness,
Yet with a nature proud, profound, and pure,
As a rapt sybil's. O'er her soul had passed

The wild simoom of wo, but to awake
From that Eolian lyre the loveliest tones
Of mournful music, passionately sad.

Not thus her love the haughty Ida breathed:
Alone, apart, in her own soul world dreaming—
Of an ideal beauty calm and high,—
O'er the patrician paleness of her cheek
Came seldom, and how softly! the faint blush
Of irrepressible tenderness.

Your course has been a conqueror's through life;
You have been follow'd, flatter'd, and caress'd;
Soul after soul has laid upon your shrine
Its first, fresh, dewy bloom of love for incense:
The minstrel-girl has tuned for you her lute,
And set her life to music for your sake;
The opera-belle, with blush unwonted, starts
At your name's casual mention, and forgets,
For one strange moment, Fashion's cold repose;
The village maiden's conscious heart beats time
To your entrancing melody of verse;
And, from that hour, of your belovéd image
Makes a life-idol. And you know it all,
And smile, half-pleased, and half in scorn, to know.

But you have never known, nor shall you now,
Who, mid the throng you sometimes meet, receives

Your careless recognition with a thrill
At her adoring heart—worth all that homage!

You see not, 'neath her half-disdainful smile,
The passionate tears it is put on to hide;
You dream not what a wild sigh dies away
In her laugh's joyous trill; you cannot guess—
You, who see only with your outer sense,—
A warp'd, chill'd sense, that wrongs you every hour—
You cannot guess, when her cold hand you take
That a soul trembles in that light, calm clasp!

You speak to her with your world-tone; ah, not
With the home-cadence of confiding love!
And she replies; a few, low, formal words
Are all she dares, nay deigns, return; and so
You part, for months, again. Yet in that brief,
Oasis-hour of her desert-life,
She has quaff'd eagerly the enchanted spring—
The sun-lit wave of thought in your rich mind;
And passes on her weary pilgrimage
Refresh'd, and with a renovated strength.

And this has been for years. She was a child—
A school-girl—when the echo of your lyre
First came to her, with music on its wings,
And her soul drank from it the life of life!

Then, in a festive-scene, you claim'd her hand
For the gay dance, and, in its intervals,

Spake soothingly and gently—for you saw
Her timid blush, but did not dream its cause.
Even then her young heart worshipp'd you, and shrank,
With a vague sense of fear and shame, away.

She who, with others, was, and is, even now,
Light, fearless, joyous, buoyant as a bird,
That lets the air-swung spray beneath it bend,
Nor cares, so it may carol, what shall chance,
With you, forgets her song, foregoes her mirth,
And hushes all her music in her heart.
It is because your soul, that should know hers
With an intuitive tenderness, is blind!

But once again you met. Then years went by,
And in a throng'd, luxurious saloon,
You drew her fluttering hand within your arm—
A few blest moments next your heart it lay!
And still the lady mutely veil'd from yours,
Eyes where her glorious secret wildly shone.
And you, a-weary of her seeming dullness,
Grew colder day by day. But once you paused
Beside her seat, and murmur'd words of praise.
Praise from your lips! Ah, God! the ecstasy
Of that dear moment! Each bright word, embalm'd
In Memory's tears of amber, gleams there yet—
The costliest beads in her rich rosary.

But you were blind! And after that a cloud,

Colder and darker, hung between her heart
And yours. There were malicious, lovely lips,
That knew, too well, the poison of a hint,
And it work'd deep and sure. And years again
Stole by, and now once more we meet. We meet! ah, no!
We ne'er have met! Hand may touch hand, perchance,
And eye glance back to eye its idle smile;
But our souls meet not: for, from boyhood, you
Have been a mad idolater of beauty.
And I! ah, Heaven! had you return'd my love,
I had been beautiful in your dear eyes;
For Love and Joy and Hope within the spirit,
Make luminous the face. But let that pass:
I murmur not. In my soul Pride is crown'd
And throned—a queen; and at her feet lies Love,
Her slave—in chains—that you shall ne'er unclasp.

Yet, oh! if aspirations, ever rising
With an intense idolatry of love,
Toward all of grace and purity and truth
That we may dream—can shape the soul to beauty,
(As I believe,) then, in that better world,
You will not ask if I were fair on earth.

You have loved often—passionately, perchance—
Never with that wild, rapturous, poet-love
Which I might win—and will—not here on earth
I would not have the ignoble, trivial cares

Of common life come o'er our glorious union
To mar its spirit-beauty. In His home
We shall meet calmly, gracefully, without
Alloy of petty ills. . . . . . . .

Meantime, I read you as no other reads;
I read your soul—its burning, baffled hopes;
Its proud, pure aims, whose wings are melted off
In the warm sunshine of the world's applause;
Its yearning for an angel's tenderness:
I read it all, and grieve, and sometimes blush,
That you can desecrate so grand a shrine
By the false gods you place there! you who know
The lore of love so perfectly—who trace
The delicate labyrinth of a woman's heart,
With a sure clue, so true, so fine, so rare—
Some Angel-Ariadne gave it you!

If I knew how to stoop, I'd tell you more:
I'd win your love, even now, by a slight word;
But that I'll say in heaven! Till we meet there,
Unto God's love I leave you. . . . . . .

You will glance round among the crowd hereafter,
And dream my woman's heart must sure betray me.
Not so: I have not school'd, for weary years,
Eye, lip, and cheek, and voice, to be shamed now
By your bold gaze. Ah! were I not secure
In my Pride's sanctuary—this revelation

Were an act, Heaven, nor you, could ever pardon;
And still less I. Nor would I now forego—
Even for your love—the deep, divine delight
Of this most pure and unsuspected passion,
That none have guess'd, or will, while I have life.
You smile, perchance. Beware! I shall shame you,
If with suspicion's plummet you dare sound
The unfathom'd deeps of feeling in this heart.
It shall bring up, 'stead of that love it seeks,
A scorn you look not for. Ay, I would die
A martyr's death, sir, rather than betray
To you by faintest flutter of a pulse—
By lightest change of cheek or eyelid's fall—
That I am she who loves, adores, and flies you!

Ask why the holy starlight, or the blush
Of summer blossoms, or the balm that floats
From yonder lily like an angel's breath,
Is lavish'd on such men! God gives them all
For some high end; and thus the seeming waste
Of her rich soul—its starlight purity,
Its every feeling delicate as a flower,
Its tender trust, its generous confidence,
Its wondering disdain of littleness—
These, by the coarser sense of those around her
Uncomprehended, may not all be vain:

But win them—they unwitting of the spell—
By ties unfelt, to nobler, loftier life.
And they dare blame her! they whose every thought,
Look, utterance, act, has more of evil in't,
Than e'er she dream'd of or could understand;
And she must blush before them, with a heart
Whose lightest throb is worth their all of life!
They boast their charity: oh, idle boast!
They give the poor, forsooth, food, fuel, shelter;
Faint, chill'd, and worn, her soul implored a pittance,
Her soul ask'd alms of theirs, and was denied!

It was not much it came a-begging for—
A simple boon, only a gentle thought,
A kindly judgment of such deeds of hers
As pass'd their understanding, but to her
Seem'd natural as the blooming of a flower:
For God taught her—but they had learn'd of men
The meagre doling of their measured love,
A selfish, sensual love, most unlike hers.
God taught the tendril where to cling, and she
Learn'd the same lovely lesson, with the same
Unquestioning and pliant trust in Him.

And yet that He should let a lyre of heaven
Be play'd on by such hands, with touch so rude,
Might wake a doubt in less than perfect faith,
Perfect as mine, in his beneficence.

ADDRESS,

FOR THE REOPENING OF THE FEDERAL STREET THEATRE.

Again they come! Enchanted Fancy hears
Their airy steps, with mingled smiles and tears—
The immortal pair, that grace the Drama's page—
The sister-muses of the classic stage!

Hark to the rustling sweep of silk attire—
'Tis stern Melpomene!—With eyes of fire,
A jewell'd dagger in her haughty hand,
Brow on whose lightest bend is throned command,
And dark, dishevell'd locks, that float adown
Beneath the splendour of a queenly crown—
There with imperial mien she walks alone,
Proud, as each step were on a trampled throne!
Yet ah! what majesty of grief appears
In those dark eyes, too wildly sad for tears!
And ah! what words, of subtlest power, can speak
The soul of sorrow on her hueless cheek!

But list that laugh of girlish glee and grace!
With frolic footstep, frank and cordial face,

And a soft “golden-tinted” cloud of curls
That careless 'scape the clasp of wreathing pearls;
In tunic gay, that lightly veils her form,
Lo! like a sunbeam—lovelier for the storm—
The glad Thalia, buoyant as a child,
Trips o'er the stage, in bloom and beauty wild!

All hail! all hail! ye peerless pair, once more!
Ye loved and lost—that bless'd these scenes of yore!

And now, around yon gorgeous throne of gold
Where rests our tragic queen in state, behold—
And round the couch too where demure doth sit
The sportive daughter of Delight and Wit—
A shadowy train with soundless footsteps glide,
The Drama's glory in her hour of pride!

There, mad with love and doubt, the goaded Moor
Rends the young heart, so flower-like, soft, and pure,
Whose tender truth, amazed at such strange blame,
Half wild with sorrow, sighs, “Am I that name?”

There weak Macbeth beholds the dagger's hilt
That gleams in air and tempts to maddening guilt;
And she—his more than queen—looks grandly down
From her mind's throne, and waves him to the crown.

Light from the “cowslip's bell,” on filmy wings,
Where prison'd sunbeams play, our Ariel springs,
Makes of a purple cloud his fairy boat,
Unfurls its silvery sail in air to float,

While round him music melts in heavenly tides,
And to the slow, sweet tune, the aerial shallop glides.

Next young Miranda!—Nature's darling child—
Frank, fearless, fond, and innocently wild—
To whose fair frame the air, the earth, the wave,
Proud of their guest, their grace and glory gave!
Morn to her pure cheek lent its rose-mist rare,—
Sunset its gold to glisten in her hair,—
The sea, its undulating play,—the breeze,
Those low lute-tones it teaches to the trees,—
And earth, her dearest rose's balm and glow,
To breathe upon her lip, and warm her bosom's snow!

Ah see! forlorn Ophelia falters by!
And near her, heedless of her song and sigh,
Lo! princely Hamlet to the night complains!

There Egypt's queen, a glorious marvel, reigns!
Quaffs the rare pearl, while Rome's heroic son,
A costlier gem, her melting heart has won;
And turns forgetful from the state's control,
To sway, with regnant smile, the empire of his soul.

There bright Titania chides her truant-king,
And weaves with steps of light the “fairy ring;”
There brave Prince Hal his gallant foe defies,
And peerless Percy, “child of honour,” dies!

There Beatrice, in graceful, gay disdain,
Mocks with arch'd lip at Love's enchanted chain,

Unconscious that, despite her saucy smile,
Round her warm heart 'tis twining all the while.
There loveliest Hero, too, in truth serene,
Shames with her modest grace the bridal scene,
And wondering questions, in her maiden-pride,
“Is my lord mad, that he doth speak so wide?”

There the boy Arthur pours on Hubert's ear
His sweet child-eloquence, half faith, half fear;
And Constance cries, “Here I and Sorrow sit,
This is my throne—let kings come bow to it!”

There subtle Richard, snake-like, winds his way
To Anne's frail heart, with soft persuasion's sway;
And Lear, blind, poor, yet kingly to the last,
With regal wrath all grandly mocks the blast,
Till true Cordelia comes, and on her breast
Love's magic music lulls his great heart's grief to rest.

Behold! with loosen'd locks and flashing eyes,
And scornful gibe, where haughty Katharine flies!
Stay, courteous damsel! meekly meet your fate!
“Kate of Katehall—my super-dainty Kate!”

There, brave and beauteous with the might of mind,
Enchanting Portia, Shylock's bond doth bind;
And dark-eyed Jessica, the truant fay,
Through bars and bolts, with Love has run away!

Look! from yon lattice, bathed in starlight clear,
What radiant being leans with rapturous fear?

Oh, loved Italia's lost, impassion'd child,
Dear Juliet! whispering words so sweetly wild,
She seems a stray young angel pleading there,
While heaven has hush'd its harps to hear her “music-prayer!”

But who comes here, with timid, tearful grace,
And faltering step and half-averted face?
That shy, sweet glance, that wavy, silken tress,
That tell-tale blush, belie the page's dress.
Sweet Viola! not even thy man's array
Can hide or hush the maiden-spirit's play;
For Purity is such a gem, I ween,
As no disguise can veil its glorious sheen;
Like the clear diamond of Golconda's mines,
Placed in the dark, it more divinely shines.

Yet see! another metamorphosis!
What airy elf, what archer-boy is this!
Ha! that droop'd eye betrays no manly mind;
By Dian's silver bow—'tis Rosalind!
You “golden creature!” with your pranks and wiles,
Your arch, wild wit, quick frowns and dazzling smiles,
Give to Ardennes your shafts from tongue and bow;
'Twere hard to tell which sharpest be, I trow,—
Trip by, nor aim your spicy wit at me!
For one behind you flits, I fain would see;
Wreath'd with wild blooms, herself the “flower of flowers,”
A wood-nymph from Bohemia's sylvan bowers!

The chasten'd glory of a royal line
Gleams like a halo round her form divine,
Ennobles still her soft, unconscious mien,
And lends to every step a pride serene.
Turn, Perdita! for there, in tranquil grace,
“Queen of herself,” the wrong'd Hermionè doth pace.

But my scene-painter, Fancy, drops her brush,
The pageant's hues of beauty fainter flush;
And now—queen, sylph, and hero all are fled,
But not for ever! oft this stage they'll tread:
Left to implore, for all that fleeting train
Whose mimic forms you yet shall see again,
Assumed by some, the pride of our own days,
Favour, forbearance, patronage, and praise.

Nor these alone. Creations rich and rare
Of modern genius here your smiles shall share.
Here the lithe spirit of the dance shall spring,
Like an embodied zephyr on the wing;
Or like a choral chant, caught as it came,
And fetter'd for an hour with mortal frame,
To soar and fall, and still for freedom yearn,
All grace and harmony, where'er it turn!
Here too the soul of song shall float in air,
And on its wings your hearts enchanted bear.

Ah! yield to them—to us—the meed we claim,
Your smiles to light the path that leads to Fame.

So shall this life of mockery seem more sweet,
And flowers shall rise to rest our pilgrim-feet,
While from our lips, inspired by Hope divine,
Like fire shall flow the bard's melodious line.

No more—the Drama's scenes my exit wait;
The prompter whispers, “Come, 'tis getting late!”
I'd much to say, and to the purpose, too,
But Mr. Wyman vows 'twill never do!
So, as I make my courtsey, with all speed,
Up with the drop-scene! Let the play proceed!

THE INDIAN MAID'S REPLY TO THE MISSIONARY.

Half earnest, half sportive, yet listening, she stood,
That queenly young creature, the child of the wood;
Her curving lips parted—her dark eyes downcast—
Her hands lock'd before her—her heart beating fast;
And around her the forest's majestic arcade,
With the pure sunset burning like fire through the shade:
He spake of the goodness, the glory of Him

Whose smile lit the heavens—whose frown made them dim.
And with one flashing glance of the eyes she upraised
Full of rapture impassion'd, her Maker she praised.
He spake of the Saviour, his sorrow, his truth,
His pity celestial, the wrong and the ruth;
And quick gushing tears dimm'd the gaze that she turn'd
To his face, while her soul on her sunny cheek burn'd.
Then he thought in his fond zeal to wile her within
The pale of the church; but as well might he win
Yon cloud that floats changefully on in the light,
A fawn of the forest, a star-ray of light,
As tame to his purpose, or lure from her race
That wild child of freedom, all impulse and grace.
She listens in sad, unbelieving surprise;
Then shakes back her dark, glossy locks from her eyes,
And with eloquent gesture points up to the skies.
At last, to awaken her fears he essays;
He threatens God's wrath if thus freely she strays.
Wild, sweet, and incredulous rang through the wood
The laugh of the maiden, as proudly she stood.
Soft, thrilling, and glad woke the echo around;
True nature's harmonious reply to that sound.
Then lowly and reverent answer'd the maid:—
“God speaketh afar in the forest,” she said,
“And he sayeth—‘Behold in the woodland so wild,
With its heaven-arch'd aisle, the true church of my child.’”

The friend who related to me this incident was, I believe, himself an eye-witness to the scene.

WOMAN.

A FRAGMENT.

Within a frame, more glorious than the gem
To which Titania could her sylph condemn,
Fair woman's spirit dreams the hours away,
Content at times in that bright home to stay,
So that you let her deck her beauty still,
And waltz and warble at her own sweet will.

Taught to restrain, in cold Decorum's school,
The step, the smile, to glance and dance by rule;
To smooth alike her words and waving tress,
And her pure heart's impetuous play repress;
Each airy impulse—every frolic thought
Forbidden, if by Fashion's law untaught,
The graceful houri of your heavenlier hours
Forgets, in gay saloons, her native bowers,
Forgets her glorious home—her angel-birth—
Content to share the passing joys of earth;
Save when, at intervals, a ray of love
Pleads to her spirit from the realms above,

Plays on her pinions shut, and softly sings
In low Æolian tones of heavenly things.

Ah! then dim memories dawn upon the soul
Of that celestial home from which she stole;
She feels its fragrant airs around her blow;
She sees the immortal bowers of beauty glow;
And faint and far, but how divinely sweet!
She hears the music where its angels meet.

Then wave her starry wings in hope and shame,
Their fire illumes the fair, transparent frame,
Fills the dark eyes with passionate thought the while,
Blooms in the blush and lightens in the smile:
No longer then the toy, the doll, the slave,
But frank, heroic, beautiful, and brave,
She rises, radiant in immortal youth,
And wildly pleads for Freedom and for Truth!

These captive Peris all around you smile,
And one I've met who might a god beguile.
She's stolen from Nature all her loveliest spells:
Upon her cheek morn's blushing splendour dwells,
The starry midnight kindles in her eyes,
The gold of sunset on her ringlets lies,
And to the ripple of a rill, 'tis said,
She tuned her voice and timed her airy tread!

No rule restrains her thrilling laugh, or moulds
Her flowing robe to tyrant Fashion's folds;

No custom chains the grace in that fair girl,
That sways her willowy form or waves her careless curl.
I plead not that she share each sterner task;
The cold reformers know not what they ask;
I only seek for our transplanted fay,
That she may have—in all fair ways—her way!

I would not see the aerial creature trip,
A blooming sailor, up some giant ship,
Some man-of-war—to reef the topsail high—
Ah! reef your curls—and let the canvas fly!

Nor would I bid her quit her 'broidery frame,
A fairy blacksmith by the forge's flame:
No! be the fires she kindles only those
With which man's iron nature wildly glows.
“Strike while the iron's hot,” with all your art,
But strike Love's anvil in his yielding heart!

Nor should our sylph her tone's low music strain,
A listening senate with her wit to chain,
To rival Choate in rich and graceful lore,
Or challenge awful Webster to the floor,
Like that rash wight who raised the casket's lid,
And set a genius free the stars that hid.

Not thus forego the poetry of life,
The sacred names of mother, sister, wife!
Rob not the household hearth of all its glory,
Lose not those tones of musical delight,

All man has left, to tell him the sweet story
Of his remember'd home—beyond the night.

Yet men too proudly use their tyrant power;
They chill the soft bloom of the fairy flower;
They bind the wing, that would but soar above
In search of purer air and holier love;
They hush the heart, that fondly pleads its wrong
In plaintive prayer or in impassion'd song.

Smile on, sweet flower! soar on, enchanted wing!
Since she ne'er asks but for one trifling thing,
Since but one want disturbs the graceful fay,
Why let the docile darling have—her way!

TO A CHILD PLAYING WITH A WATCH.

Art thou playing with Time in thy sweet baby-glee?
Will he pause on his pinions to frolic with thee?
Oh! show him those shadowless, innocent eyes,
That smile of bewilder'd and beaming surprise;
Let him look on that cheek where thy rich hair reposes,
Where dimples are playing “bopeep” with the roses;
His wrinkled brow press with light kisses and warm,
And clasp his rough neck with thy soft wreathing arm.
Perhaps thy bewitching and infantine sweetness
May win him, for once, to delay in his fleetness;
To pause, ere he rifle, relentless in flight,
A blossom so glowing of bloom and of light.
Then, then would I keep thee, my beautiful child,
With thy blue eyes unshadow'd, thy blush undefiled;
With thy innocence only to guard thee from ill,
In life's sunny dawning, a lily-bud still!
Laugh on! my own May! since that voice, which to me
Gives a warning so solemn, makes music for thee;
And while I at those sounds feel the idler's annoy,
Thou hear'st but the tick of the pretty gold toy;

Thou seest but a smile on the brow of the churl;
May his frown never awe thee, my own baby-girl!
And oh! may his step, as he wanders with thee,
Light and soft as thine own little fairy-tread be!
While still in all seasons, in storms and fair weather,
May Time and my May be but playmates together.

TO ---.

They tell me in Fashion's illumined saloon,
Where the dance lightly echoes the melody's tune,
Where Beauty and Grace weave the spell of delight,
And the waltz and mazourka mock Time in his flight,
Where they crown the gay hours with rarest of flowers,
No forms floating there are more lovely than yours;
That the brightest of balls wants a charm and a grace,
If your eyes refuse their soft light to the place.

I seek not—I love not the halls of the gay,
Where my lone spirit pines for its dear ones away;
I see not your beauty when deck'd for the dance,
When blossom and gem mock the blush and the glance;
You come not to me in the glow of your pride,

For you know I've a welcome, but nothing beside;
Yet you bring me a smile that is sweeter by far
Than the gay one whose light is the festival's star;
While with heart full of love, as your hands are of toys,
You bless sunny childhood by sharing its joys.
Oh! dearer its innocent rapture than all
The praises that follow the belle of the ball;
And you seem at such moments more graceful to me,
Than you would when array'd for the festival's glee.

A REMEMBRANCE.

I know a dear dwelling, that's fairer to me
Than the silk-hung saloons of a palace could be.
Oh! goldenly round it, the sunbeams steal through
The dark cluster'd leaves of the graceful jallou;
And acacias wave softly their light tassels there;
And blooming catalpas pour balm on the air.

And grape vines are wreathing o'er soft purple bloom,
And happy flowers breathing a priceless perfume.
Beneath in the valley, where blue waters gleam,
The boat's wingéd beauty glides by, like a dream;

And cool mid that foliage the pure breezes blow,
While the city lies basking in sunshine below.

And a gush of glad music is sure to be heard,
In each pause of our converse, from breeze or from bird:
But not for the sunlight, and not for the shade,
And not for the picture that nature has made;
Nor the gleam of the wave, nor the blossom's perfume,
Nor the gay notes that glide from the leaves' lovely gloom;

Not for these does my spirit return to that spot,
With a love that is never foregone or forgot!
Warm hearts in that dwelling beat kindly for me;
They shared in my sorrow, they gladden'd my glee;
When the cold cloud of care o'er my wayward heart lay,
A voice that I love sang the shadow away.

Ah! whether in sunshine or whether in shade,
Wherever the wanderer's way may be made,
The picture of beauty affection has traced,
On memory's pages, shall ne'er be effaced;
But still will her spirit return to that spot,
With a love that is never foregone or forgot!

THE MAGIC PRISM.

How softly, how softly, oh! maiden, they shine,
Through poetry's prism, those colours divine!
Array'd in their beauty, illumed by their beams,
How fair to thy spirit, life's sunny way seems!
Ah! Fancy—the fairy—has met thee to-day,
And hers is the toy thou art taking away!
Keep, keep it for ever, that talisman rare;
Nor yield it to time, to misfortune or care!
Dim shapes, in the distance, of evil, arise;
Thou see'st not, thou fear'st not, enchanted thine eyes!

And while through the magical prism they gaze,
Those phantoms will hide from its beautiful rays;
But once let it fall, and around thee they throng,
With the serpent's cold hiss, and the siren's wild song.

Nay! dash from the hands the false prism for ever,
And brave the dark trial with lofty endeavour!

Gird on the stern armour of courage and truth,
Now, now in the bloom of thy beautiful youth!
With resolute purpose, prepared for the strife,
Go forth, frank and wise, to the battle of life!
Give back to gay fancy the prism you stole,
And wear for thy guerdon, God's smile in thy soul;
And the darker the earth-night that smile shall illume,
The fairer in heaven thy pure life shall bloom!

A picture representing a young girl looking through a prism.

THE CID.

FROM FROISSART.

Come, sword of Mudara, the deadly and true!
Rodrigo de Lara thy searching blade knew;
And ruthless like his is the heart thou shalt cleave
Ere shines o'er yon mountain the starlight at eve.
Cold and firm as thy steel be my soul for the fray,
For the caitiff of Gormaz makes light of his prey;
And brands by the thousand flash forth at his call
From the hills of Asturia; yet shall he fall!
For never till now had our scutcheon a stain,
And the house of Lair Calvo no yielding shall deign!

Rest tranquil, my father! the deed he shall rue;
Thy boy has a spirit to dare and to do.
He may smile at my youth, at thy age he could sneer;
But thy honour—thy life—have their champion here.
On his side are craft and the courtier's might;
On mine, O my father, the truth and the right;
And glory go with me, or shame be my meed,
As I, in this contest, shall fail or succeed.

Though feeble my frame be, my courage is strong,
And God will be by me in righting thy wrong.
Come, sword of Mudara, best servant at need;
Like the homicide Lara, Lorano shall bleed!
Let us fly to avenge in his life-blood his guilt!
If we fail, in mine own be thou sheathed to the hilt.
For I swear by yon sun, ere it sink to the sea,
It shall rise but on one—but on him or on me.

FIRST AFFECTION.

The glory of sunset is filling the air,
It has kindled the wood with a radiance rare,
It gleams on the lake, and the swan's snowy plume
Has caught from its crimson a tint of rose-bloom;
And see! in the white marble vase—with a smile
That illumes all the sculpture—'tis resting a while.
Now the rose-wreathéd lattice lights up with its rays,
And now o'er the maiden it tenderly plays;
It seems like a spirit, gay, loving, and free,
It would woo her to wake from her fond reverié;
With sportive allurement it plays with her curl,
And kisses her blush and her bracelet of pearl;
But the blush is more warm than the sunbeam can be,
And the bracelet is clasp'd o'er a pulse throbbing wild,
And the maid has forgotten wave, blossom, and tree,
For Love's sunny morn o'er her young heart has smiled.

And vain is the song of her petted canary,
For Love's lightest cadence is sweeter by far,

And the skies and the flowers are unnoticed by Mary,
For Love's blush and smile are her rose and her star;
And, hark! from her lips, with a gush of wild feeling,
Her heart's hallow'd music is tenderly stealing:—

He tells me I am dear to him,
And in that precious vow
Is more than music—more than life—
I never lived till now!
This heart will break with too much joy—
Ah me! my maiden pride,
It strives in vain to hush my sighs,
To still my spirit's tide;
And I may watch his dear dark eyes,
Nor shrink to meet his gaze;
And I may joy to hear his step,
And list to all he says.
'Twill not be wrong now he has vow'd
He loves me best of all,
'Twill not be wrong to care for naught
But him in festive hall;
'Twill not be wrong to dream of him,
And love him night and day,
To smile on him when he is here
And bless him when away;
To sing the song he loves the best—
I learn'd it long ago,

But never dared to tell, because
I blush'd to love him so;
And I may think his blessed smile
The loveliest on the earth,
And glory in his noble mind
And in his manly worth;
And I—perhaps—I cannot tell—
Perhaps some day I'll dare
To lay my hand upon his brow—
To smooth his glossy hair!
But no! I dare not think of this,
For still the story ran
That she whose love is lightly won
Is lightly held by man.
Ah! will it not be joy enough
To know I have his heart;
To feel, e'en when he's far away,
Our souls can never part;
To hear his gentle praise or blame—
For e'en reproof of his
Seems dearer, sweeter far to me
Than others' flattery is;
To whisper to him all my thoughts,
To share his joy and wo,
To read, to walk, to pray with him—
To love, and tell him so.

I wonder what will Marion
And what will mother say?
They said I must not think of him,
That he was light and gay;
They said his fond devotion
Was but an idler's whim;
I knew, I knew he loved me,
And oh! I worshipp'd him.
He's not like any other
That I have ever seen;
He has a purer, truer smile,
A loftier, manlier mien;
His soft hair waves upon his brow
In clusters light and free,
His soul is in his hazel eyes
Whene'er they gaze on me;
And when he speaks and when he sings,
His soft melodious tone
With love's deep, sacred meaning thrills
From his heart to my own!
He does not stoop to flatter me—
I do not wish him to—
I should not think he loved so much
Did he as others do;
But once he laid his darling hand
Upon my drooping head,

Because he saw my soul was pain'd
By something he had said,—
Some warmer word to Marion
Than he had dared to me,—
And oh! that light and timid touch,
That no one else could see,
How eloquent of love it was!
It soothed my very soul,
My eyes were fill'd with happy tears
That nothing could control;
And from that moment well I knew
His full, warm heart was mine:
Ah! how shall I deserve that heart,
Deserve his truth divine?
I'll strive to be as good as he—
I'll check each error vain
That dims the holy mirror of
My soul with earthly stain;
And it shall be my prayer to God,
My Guardian and my Guide,
That he I love may have no ill
To blush for in his bride!

A DREAM.

I slept, and dreaming wander'd in
The hall of an enchanted palace,
And from some viewless hand I took
An emerald-lighted chalice.
I quaff'd from it the liquid light,
And instant to my charméd view,
Above, around me, everywhere
A thousand radiant fairies flew.
High in the centre of the dome,
A single, lustrous diamond burn'd,
That to and fro swung beaming there,
And shed soft beauty through the air
And all it touch'd to glory turn'd;
Proud carvéd columns rose around,
Of marble pure and white,
Engarlanded with costly gems
That fill'd the hall with colour'd light;
And fair as flowers the beings were
That floated here and there;

Deep eyes, whose looks were words of love—
And tones like music in a dream—
And fair soft hair, that loosely fell
With a pale, golden moonlight gleam;
And one, more lovely than the rest
Because more kind, beside me stole,
And murmur'd, “Be the wish confess'd
That dearest seems unto thy soul;
And dwelleth what thou dost desire,
In earth or water, air or fire,
It shall be thine—the fairy-fate
Doth on thy instant bidding wait.”
Then lowly from the luminous throng,
Arose a wild, sweet, choral song:—

Now speak but one wish, mortal, breathe but one prayer;
We will bring thee the treasures of earth and of air;—
Lo! see'st thou where night looketh down on you lake?
She braids in that mirror her dark-flowing hair,
With the star-gems of heaven; her purest we'll take,
If that be the aim of thy wish and thy prayer.
Oh! sigh but one hope—but one moment's desire;—
We will bring thee the glories of ocean and fire.

We know where the diamonds of loveliest glow
Lie hid in the earth's rocky bosom below;
We will light thee with one, where the rainbow has play'd,
And the wings of the lightning a moment have stay'd,

Till they left in its heart half the glory they bore,
And it burn'd with a beauty it knew not before.
Oh, speak but one wish, mortal—breathe but one prayer!
We will bring thee the treasures of earth and of air,
Oh, sigh but one hope, but one moment's desire;
We will show thee the wonders of wave and of fire.

Far down where the coral halls gleam in the waters,
In the light of their beauty, roam Ocean's glad daughters;
We will dive for the pearls and the sea-flowers rare,
That they wind through the curls of their amber-hued hair.
Dost thou covet the violet clouds and vermilion
That float round the setting sun's golden pavilion?
We will weave them for thee round a chariot of fire,
That shall fly with the speed of thy wildest desire!
Oh, breathe but one wish—mortal, speak but one prayer!
We will bring thee the treasures of earth and of air;
Fair pearls from the sea-deeps—pure gold from the mine;
The star and the rose-cloud, all, all shall be thine;
Oh, if higher thy hope be—fame, riches, and power,
The jewel of genius or beauty's soft flower,—
One word of our magic, one touch of our wand,
They are thine—they are thine—at thy will and command.

“Ah, no! not the sea-flower or gem of the mine,
Nor the diamond that Night in her tresses doth twine,
Nor the splendours that light up at sunset the sky,
Nor the wealth of a world, can awaken my sigh;

Not for these, not for them, does my lone spirit pine:
Oh, give me a heart that will answer to mine!
Offer power and fame to the proud and the cold:—
What are they to a woman—and what is your gold?
The jewel of genius a treasure may be;
But idle its glory to love and to me:
And beauty unloved will but wither and pine!—
Oh, give me a heart that can answer to mine!”

“Nay, mortal, thou askest a treasure more rare
Than the jewels of earth or the stars of the air.
There breathes but one Being that gift can bestow,
And seldom the blessing is met with below:
No seeking will find it;—keep pure in its pride
Thine own lonely heart, and in patience abide,
And if here be denied thee that rapture so rare,
Look trusting to heaven—it waits for thee there.”

LULIN; OR, THE DIAMOND FAY.

A FAIRY LEGEND, SENT BY A LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS, WITH A DIAMOND RING.

I.

Fair Lilith, listen, while I sing
The legend of this diamond ring;
And in its moral, maiden, heed
A quiet “hint, your heart may need.”
In fairy archives, where 'tis told,
I found the story quaint and old,
Writ on a richly-blazon'd page
Of parchment, by some elfin sage.

Long was the night to Lulin!—Discontent
With dew and flowers,—with fairy dance and song,—
Her pearl-shell boat upon the little stream,
Lit by a firefly, which her spells transfix'd,
And lined with a warm blush some flower had given,
Where she was wont to lie and furl at will
The lily-leaf, and ply her elfin oar,—

Her white moth-courser, harness'd with gold hair,—
Her tiny, silver-chorded lute, on which
She play'd the violet's lullaby, until
It bent in balmy slumber,—all were vain,
All wearied her. Vague yearnings for a sphere
More high and vast had fill'd her ardent soul.
And once, at dawn, when soft the signal rang
That every morning warn'd the dainty troop
On pain of death to fly the approach of Day,
Our wilful Lulin lingered!—but an instant—
Yet in that instant she was seen and loved,
And loved again. Alas! The first, rich ray,
The glorious herald of the coming morn,
Lit on the greensward at her very feet!
She fled in fear, yet with a rapturous thrill
At heart that haunted her. And now she lay
Upon her rose-leaf couch, half wild with doubt
And hope, when lo! just ere the dawn,
A bubble, blown by some blithe cottage imp,
Floated above her! Like a gleam of light,
Up glided Lulin from her fragrant bed,
And clapp'd her delicate hands and cried, “For me!
For me—the strange balloon! 'Tis bound to heaven!
Thus then I leave the cares of life for ever,
And meet my love!” She plumed her luminous wings,
She flew to mount the slowly soaring orb,

And, poised upon it, proudly looked below!
Ah, heaven! what warm embrace enfolds her form?
Her sunlit god alights beside her there!
And the car, suddenly illumined, glows
Beneath the glory of his smile; and up
They sail exulting in their joy;—but hark!
The signal sounds! the musical fairy gong!
Once—twice—ah, fate! ere thrice its tones resound,
The fragile bubble breaks! Alas for Lulin!
Down from her dizzy height, in sight of all,
Of all the troop dismay'd, she gleaming fell!
Still radiant in the sunbeam's bright embrace:
And crush'd—a little heart's-ease in her fall.

II.

And lo! bewilder'd, tranced as in a dream,
The wondering band too late remain'd; for Day
Surprised them with his fatal, fiery glance,
And from that hour they vanish'd from the earth!
Yet ere they pass'd away—to our lost Lulin,
Outspake her fairy majesty; and calm
And cold her sentence fell, as falls the snow
On some young flower:—“Soars the sprite so high?
Her pride shall have due deference. Henceforth,
A diamond shall our Lulin's prison be,—
A palace rarely carved and lighted up;

Nor shall the culprit liberty regain,
Till, set in ring of gold, she goes to grace
The finger of a maid, whose dainty love,
Like hers, disdains all fellowship with earth,
And soars to meet some spirit of the skies.
When that maid shall forego her airy dream
To wed with clay,—the sprite, her penance o'er,
Her sin forgiven, shall fly her diamond-cell.”

The tale is told.—To Lilith's care,
I give my lovely, diamond sprite,
My prisoner-fay, with golden hair,
And tiny wings of purple light,
And cheek of rose, and eyes of blue,
And fluttering scarf of emerald hue.

But I've a faint misgiving, sweet,
That still the wilful lovers meet!
Methinks 'twere sweet to watch all day
The sunbeam flirting with the fay!
And oft I've seen some radiant thing
(That waved so fast its flashing wing,
Its shape escaped my dazzled eyes,—
Perhaps her lover in disguise!)
Into the diamond-palace dart!
And sudden, waking with a start,

My sprite, that lay so still and cold,
Flings back her locks of gleaming gold;
Waves her bright wings, in glad surprise,
With radiant blush and beaming eyes;
And, with her light scarf, strives to chain
Her brilliant guest,—alas, in vain!
Recall'd, to heaven her angel flies,
And all the diamond's rainbow dies!

So, Lilith, take the culprit fay,
And let her have her fairy way.
Think—how would you like, thus to pine
Within a prison, lady mine?
Recall your soul to things below,
And let the dainty creature go;
And while you set one subject free,
Another captive take—in me!
Believe me, you, whose spirit now
So coldly looks from eye and brow,
If once you let Love's heavenly ray
Glide in upon your heart to play,
Would wake like her to glorious bloom,
And all your lovely cage illume;
And not, like her, the hapless sprite,
Should Lilith mourn her lover's flight!

Young Lilith took the diamond ring,
And while she watch'd the fairy's wing
Within it play, she listen'd, mute
And blushing to her lover's suit.
Ah! woe the morn, sweet Lilith gave
Her troth to him—the minstrel brave!
The bridal now was scarcely said,
Ere from the gem the fairy fled,
And as she glanced like light away,
In Lilith's dark eyes paled the ray;
And ere the sprite was lost to view,
Her cheek had changed its glowing hue:
Her eyelids closed!—can it be death?
Ah, heaven! that fluttering, failing breath,—
The fay has fled—and Lilith's soul,
Too pure for this world, heavenward stole!

THE STATUE TO PYGMALION.

Gaze on! I thrill beneath thy gaze,
I drink thy spirit's potent rays;
I tremble to each kiss they give:
Great Jove! I love, and therefore live.

IDA TO ERNEST.

Not because I turn to you
As the wild rose toward the light,
With an impulse high and true,
Seeking day and shunning night;
Seeking that which most it needs,
That which most its being feeds—
Taking to its balmy breast
The one ray which loves it best:
The dear, sacred, only ray,
Which can bid its beauty play,
In whose light it blooms aright,
Glowing with divine delight—
Not for this, your heart shall give
That sweet love in which I live.

Not because, in form or face,
Aught of changeful, winsome grace,
Fairy Fancy's eye may trace—
Not for Love's endearing vow,
Not for charm of lip or brow,
Not for beauty—love me thou!

Not for tenderest touch or tone,
Lavish'd still on thee alone;
Not because, in word and wile,
Woman-wit would thee beguile,—
Not for pleading tear and smile;
Not because, with airy art,
I may flutter round thy heart,
Weaving witchery's web of light,
Till it dazzle Reason's sight;
Not for these, that heart must give
That dear love on which I live!

But, if in this soul of fire,
Glows one generous, high desire,—
If one great and glorious aim
Reverence from thy spirit claim,—
If my love for lovely things
Plumes for heaven its holy wings,—
If my scorn of false and mean
Grow not proud and unserene;
If my truth, by trial met,
Hold its honour calmly yet;
Love thou these, that these may grow
Bravely in the light you give;
Love me best, when noblest—so
In thy love I truly live!

THE FAN.

A LOVER'S FANTASY.

Dainty spirit, that dost lie
Couch'd within the zephyr's sigh,
Murmur in mine earnest ear
Music of the starry sphere!
Softest melody divine
Lend unto each lyric line,
Till the lay of love shall seem
Light and airy as its theme.

Ah! not unto mortal wight
Wilt thou whisper, frolic sprite!
Fancy! wave thy fairy wing,
While the magic Fan I sing!

Airy minister of fate,
On whose meaning motions wait
Half a hundred butterflies,
Idle beaux—more fond than wise—
Basking in the fatal smile
That but wins them to beguile!

Blest be they who fashion'd thee
Beauty's graceful toy to be!
Virgin gold from Orient cave—
Veinéd pearl from ocean's wave—
Showing, like her temples fair,
Through her curls of lustrous hair,
Tints of richest glow and light
From a master's palette bright,
On the parchment rarely wrought,
Till the painting life has caught—
All have made thee plaything fit
For a maiden's grace and wit.
She can teach thee witchery's spell,
Make thy lightest motion tell,
Bid thee speak, though mute thou art,
All the language of the heart.

When her eyes say softly “Yes,”
Thou canst hide and yet express
All the enchanting blush would speak
While it warms her modest cheek;
And thy motion well can show,
With one flutter to or fro,
Her disdain's indignant “No.”

Queen of fans! the downy pressure
Of her snow-white, dimpled hand,

As it clasps the costly treasure,
Wrought in India's glowing land,
Has it not a soul impress'd
On the toy by her caress'd?

Ah! what ministry divine,
Frail, yet love-taught fan, is thine!
Thou shouldst be a beauteous bird,
Flying at her lightest word,
Nestling near her silken zone,
Like a gem on Beauty's throne,
Or a young aerial sprite
Watching every smile of light:
Art thou not? Methinks I trace,
Now and then, an angel face
Gleaming, as thy painted wing
Flies before her—happy thing!
Sometimes I could almost swear
Love himself had hidden there,
Aiming thence his shafts of fire,
Now in sport and now in ire.
Hearts obey each proud behest
By thy lightest touch express'd,
As thou glancest to and fro,
Fluttering in her hand of snow.
So, fair spirit, fold thy wing
While thy ministry I sing!

100

Softly wave each careless curl
O'er her brow—the radiant girl;
Fan each pure and precious tint
Feeling on her cheek doth print;
Wake it from its pure repose,
Till the dear blush comes and goes;
Shade the dimple's frolic grace
Sporting o'er her sunny face;
Hide the smile of playful scorn
From her spirit's buoyance born;
Veil the timid sigh that parts,
Trembling, from her “heart of hearts;”
Aid the glances—words of light—
Flashing from her eye's blue night,
And her dearest bidding do,
Like an Ariel fond and true!

All sweet airs and incense wait
On thy wave, fair wand of fate!
Soft and balmy as her sigh,
Be each zephyr thou dost wake,
Round her graceful head to fly,
Blest be thou for Beauty's sake!

Yet, O spirit! fold thy wing,
While thy ministry I sing!
Show her how some touch, too bold,
Marr'd thy robe of pearl and gold;

101

Whisper, as thou wavest by,
Beauty's light like thine will die
If she waste its bloom divine
On the idlers round her shrine;
Warn her that her spirit's wing
Be not ever fluttering;
For if that should break, or show
Lightest shade upon its snow,
Lives no mortal artisan
That can make it bright again!
Tears may bathe the broken plume,
Sighs may mourn its early doom—
Only may it hope for rest
Folded on the Father's breast.

So, fair spirit, wave thy wing,
And my message softly sing!
“Do thy spiriting gently” there,
Lest thou wound a soul so rare;
And be this the warning dear
Murmur'd in her ivory ear:
“Lovely lady, have a care!
Words are more than idle air;
Smiles can surer wound or heal
Than the stars, whose light they steal.
She whose power is undenied
Should have pity with her pride,

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Should remember, while her frown
Clouds the hope she may not crown,
Rarest skill and subtlest art
Cannot mend the broken heart!”
So, fair spirit, wave thy wing,
And thy warning softly sing!

NO!

If the dew have fed the flower,
Shall she therefore, from that hour,
Live on nothing else but dew?
Ask no more, from dawn of day—
Never heed the sunny ray,
Though it come, a glittering fay,
To her bower?
Though upon her soul it play,
Must she coldly turn away,
And refuse the life it brings,
Burning in its golden wings—
Meekly lingering in the night,
To herself untrue?

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Though the humming-bird have stole,
Floating on his plumes of glory,
Softly to her glowing soul,
Telling his impassion'd story—
If the soaring lark she capture,
In diviner love and rapture,
Pouring music wild and clear,
Round her till she thrills to hear—
Shall she shut her spirit's ear?
Shall the lesson wasted be
Of that heavenly harmony?
No! by all the inner bloom,
That the sunbeam may illume,
But that else the stealing chill
Of the early dawn might kill:
No! by all the leaves of beauty,
Leaves that, in their vestal duty,
Guard the shrined and rosy light
Hidden in her “heart of heart,”
Till that music bids them part:
No! by all the perfume rare,
Delicate as a fairy's sigh,
Shut within and wasting there,
That would else enchant the air—
Incense that must soar or die!
That divine, pure soul of flowers,

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Captive held, that pines to fly,
Asking for unfading bowers,
Learning from the bird and ray
All the lore they bring away
From the skies in love and play,
Where they linger every morn,
Till to this sad world of ours
Day in golden pomp is borne—
By that soul, which else might glow
An immortal flower: No!

ONE RADIANT EVE.

One radiant eve, in rosy June,
I lent my love a lute to tune,
A lute whose chords had still denied
Their timid tones to all beside.

At first with softest, tenderest care,
He touch'd the strings, in rapture rare,
And woke the soul of music there!
Until it learn'd to love so well
His wondrous, wizard, master-spell,

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If he but smiled, its chords of fire
Would wildly play like Memnon's lyre.
But soon he wearied of the toy
That once he press'd in pride and joy;
He swept with heedless hand the lute,
Or let it languish, lone and mute,
Until at last, one wintry day,
In reckless and disdainful play,
With touch so rude he strain'd a string,
It broke!—and music's soul took wing!
While he, for whom it, breaking, sigh'd,
Threw by the toy in careless pride.
And now my hours a blank must be,
For oh! that lute was life to me!
Ah! lutes and hearts are fragile things!
And only Love should tune the strings.

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CALUMNY.

A whisper woke the air,
A soft, light tone, and low,
Yet barb'd with shame and woe.
Ah! might it only perish there,
Nor farther go!

But no! a quick and eager ear
Caught up the little, meaning sound;
Another voice has breathed it clear;
And so it wander'd round
From ear to lip, from lip to ear,
Until it reached a gentle heart
That throbb'd from all the world apart,
And that—it broke!

It was the only heart it found—
The only heart 'twas meant to find,
When first its accents woke.
It reach'd that gentle heart at last,
And that—it broke!

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Low as it seem'd to other ears,
It came a thunder-crash to hers—
That fragile girl, so fair and gay.
'Tis said, a lovely humming-bird,
That dreaming in a lily lay,
Was kill'd but by the gun's report
Some idle boy had fired in sport;
So exquisitely frail its frame,
The very sound a death-blow came:
And thus her heart—unused to shame—
Shrined in its lily too—
(For who the maid that knew,
But own'd the delicate, flower-like grace
Of her young form and face?)
Her light and happy heart, that beat
With love and hope so fast and sweet,
When first that cruel word it heard,
It flutter'd like a frighten'd bird—
Then shut its wings and sigh'd,
And with a silent shudder died!

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TO S. S. OSGOOD.

SUGGESTED BY AN UNFINISHED PICTURE.

Forgive my weaker spirit, if it sigh
To see thee—careless of what others call
Renown—toil on with rapt, thrill'd heart and eye,
Thy very life to thy loved task in thrall!—
I sigh, while calmly silent thou dost smile,
Kindling the canvas with thy soul the while!
Yet oh! believe the sigh is worthy thee:
It is not breathed because thou bend'st no knee
For praise or gold;—because thy pride would shame
To bribe the hireling critic's supple pen,
That moves obedient to its master's chains;
Because thy soul, serene in power, disdains
The common meed that genius earns of men.
No—the lone eagle sunward soars for glory,
Above the rainbow's evanescent story;
And thou, my gifted one! I know thy name
The great and true shall keep. Thou shalt not stoop to Fame!

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THE FLOWERS AND GEMS OF GENIUS.

In the sun-tinted airy bow,
That lightens through the gloom,
Illumining yon clouded heaven
With beauty, joy, and bloom,
We cannot trace a glimpse of all
Those tears, through which the storm
Entwined with grace and purity
Its light-evolving form.

The flowers that wreathe the robe of Spring,
And bless with sweets the air,
The gems that change their sparkling hues
In Beauty's braided hair,
Tell never of the secret toil
With which, in silent gloom,
Great Nature wrought, in earth's deep heart,
Their splendour and perfume.

Ah! thus the child of Genius pours,
In solitude and tears,

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On one poor fleeting page, the light,
The love of long, long years;
And the gay world receives the ray
Without a thought of all
The clouds of fear and grief, through which
Its prism'd glories fall!

Nor cares to know how long, how wild,
The task that Feeling learns,
Ere it reveal, to all, the thought
With which it inly burns;
The thought that, like a lily, bends
Its incense to the skies,
While its deep hidden root is nursed
With showers from Passion's eyes.

FORGIVE AND FORGET.

“Forgive—forget! I own the wrong!”
You fondly sigh'd when last I met you;
The task is neither hard nor long—
I do forgive—I will forget you!

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A FAREWELL TO A HAPPY DAY.

Good-bye, good-bye, thou gracious, golden day:
Through luminous tears thou smilest, far away
In the blue heaven, thy sweet farewell to me,
And I, through my tears, gaze and smile with thee.

I see the last faint, glowing amber gleam
Of thy rich pinion, like a lovely dream,
Whose floating glory melts within the sky,
And now thou'rt pass'd for ever from mine eye!

Were we not friends—best friends—my cherish'd day?
Did I not treasure every eloquent ray
Of golden light and love thou gavest me?
And have I not been true—most true to thee?

And thou—thou camést like a joyous bird,
Whose sacred wings by heaven's own air were stirr'd,
And lowly sang me all the happy time
Dear, soothing stories of that blissful clime!

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And more, oh! more than this, there came with thee,
From heaven, a stranger, rare and bright to me—
A new, sweet joy—a smiling angel guest,
That softly ask'd a home within my breast.

For talking sadly with my soul alone,
I heard far off and faint a music tone:
It seem'd a spirit's call—so soft it stole
On fairy wings into my waiting soul.

I knew it summon'd me to something sweet,
And so I follow'd it with faltering feet—
And found—what I had pray'd for with wild tears—
A rest, that soothed the lingering grief of years!

So for that deep, perpetual joy, my day!
And for all lovely things that came to play
In thy glad smile—the pure and pleading flowers
That crown'd with their frail bloom thy flying hours:

The sunlit clouds—the pleasant air that play'd
Its low lute-music mid the leafy shade—
And, dearer far, the tenderness that taught
My soul a new and richer thrill of thought:

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For these—for all—bear thou to heaven for me
The grateful thanks with which I mission thee!
Then should thy sisters, wasted, wrong'd, upbraid,
Speak thou for me—for thou wert not betray'd!

'Twas little, true, I could to thee impart—
I, with my simple, frail, and wayward heart;
But that I strove the diamond sands to light,
In Life's rich hour-glass, with Love's rainbow flight:

And that one generous spirit owed to me
A moment of exulting ecstasy;
And that I won o'er wrong a queenly sway—
For this, thou'lt smile for me in heaven, my Day!

THANK GOD, I GLORY IN THY LOVE!

Thank God, I glory in thy love, and mine!
And if they win a warm blush to my cheek,
It is not shame—it is a joy divine,
That only there its wild bright life may speak.

114

From that most sacred and ecstatic hour,
When, soul to soul, with blissful thrill we met,
My love became a passion, and a power,
Too proud, too high, for shame or for regret.

Come to me, dearest, noblest!—lean thy head,
Thy gracious head, once more upon my breast;
I will not shrink nor tremble, but, instead,
Exulting, soothe thee into perfect rest.

I know thy nature, fervent, fond, yet strong,
That holds o'er passion an imperial sway;
I know thy proud, pure heart, that would not wrong
The frailest life that flutters in thy way;

And I, who love and trust thee, shall not I
Be safe and sacred on that generous heart?
Albeit, with wild and unavailing sigh,
Less firm that thou, I grieve that we should part!

Ah! let thy voice, in dear and low replies,
Chide the faint doubt I sooner say than think;
Come to me, darling!—from those earnest eyes
The immortal life of love I fain would drink!

115

HAD WE BUT MET.

Had we but met in life's delicious spring,
When young romance made Eden of the world;
When bird-like Hope was ever on the wing,
(In thy dear breast how soon had it been furl'd!)

Had we but met when both our hearts were beating
With the wild joy—the guileless love of youth—
Thou a proud boy—with frank and ardent greeting—
And I, a timid girl, all trust and truth!

Ere yet my pulse's light, elastic play
Had learn'd the weary weight of grief to know,
Ere from these eyes had pass'd the morning ray,
And from my cheek the early rose's glow;

Had we but met in life's delicious spring,
Ere wrong and falsehood taught me doubt and fear,
Ere hope came back with worn and wounded wing,
To die upon the heart she could not cheer;

116

Ere I love's precious pearl had vainly lavish'd,
Pledging an idol deaf to my despair;
Ere one by one the buds and blooms were ravish'd
From life's rich garland by the clasp of Care.

Ah! had we then but met!—I dare not listen
To the wild whispers of my fancy now!
My full heart beats—my sad, droop'd lashes glisten—
I hear the music of thy boyhood's vow!

I see thy dark eyes lustrous with love's meaning,
I feel thy dear hand softly clasp mine own—
Thy noble form is fondly o'er me leaning—
Love's radiant morn—but ah! the dream has flown!

How had I pour'd this passionate heart's devotion
In voiceless rapture on thy manly breast!
How had I hush'd each sorrowful emotion,
Lull'd by thy love to sweet, untroubled rest!

How had I knelt hour after hour beside thee,
When from thy lips the rare, scholastic lore
Fell on the soul that all but deified thee,
While at each pause, I, childlike, pray'd for more.

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How had I watch'd the shadow of each feeling
That moved thy soul glance o'er that radiant face,
“Taming my wild heart” to that dear revealing,
And glorying in thy genius and thy grace!

Then hadst thou loved me with a love abiding,
And I had now been less unworthy thee,
For I was generous, guileless, and confiding,
A frank enthusiast—buoyant, fresh, and free.

But now,—my loftiest aspirations perish'd,
My holiest hopes a jest for lips profane,
The tenderest yearnings of my soul uncherish'd,
A soul-worn slave in Custom's iron chain,—

Check'd by those ties that make my lightest sigh,
My faintest blush, at thought of thee, a crime—
How must I still my heart, and school my eye,
And count in vain the slow dull steps of Time.

Wilt thou come back? Ah! what avails to ask thee,
Since honour, faith, forbid thee to return?
Yet to forgetfulness I dare not task thee,
Lest thou too soon that easy lesson learn!

118

Ah! come not back, love! even through Memory's ear
Thy tone's melodious murmur thrills my heart—
Come not with that fond smile, so frank, so dear;
While yet we may, let us for ever part!

THE FOLDED FLOWER.

Ah! let our love be still a folded flower,
A pure, moss rose-bud, blushing to be seen,
Hoarding its balm and beauty for that hour
When souls may meet without the clay between.

Let not a breath of passion dare to blow
Its tender, timid, clinging leaves apart;
Let not the sunbeam, with too ardent glow,
Profane the dewy freshness at its heart!

Ah! keep it folded like a sacred thing;
With tears and smiles its bloom and fragrance nurse;
Still let the modest veil around it cling,
Nor with rude touch its pleading sweetness curse.

119

Be thou content, as I, to know, not see,
The glowing life, the treasured wealth within—
To feel our spirit-flower still fresh and free,
And guard its blush, its smile, from shame and sin!

Ah! keep it holy! once the veil withdrawn—
Once the rose blooms—its balmy soul will fly
As fled of old in sadness, yet in scorn,
The awaken'd god from Psyche's daring eye!

120

BELIEVE ME, 'TIS NO PANG.

Believe me, 'tis no pang of jealous pride
That brings these tears I know not how to hide;
I only grieve because—because—I see
Thou find'st not all thy heart demands in me.

I only grieve, that others who care less
For thy dear love, thy lightest wish may bless;
That while to them thou'rt nothing—all to me,
They may a moment minister to thee!

Ah! if a fairy's magic might were mine,
I'd joy to change with each new wish of thine;
Nothing to all the world beside I'd be,
And every thing thou lov'st, in turn to thee!

Pliant as clouds, that haunt the sun-god still,
I'd catch each ray of thy prismatic will;
I'd be a flower—a wild, sweet flower I'd be,
And sigh my very life away for thee.

121

I'd be a gem, and drink light from the sun,
To glad thee with, if gems thy fancy won;
Were birds thy joy, I'd light with docile glee
Upon thy hand and shut my wings for thee!

Could a wild wave thy glance of pleasure meet,
I'd lay my crown of spray-pearls at thy feet;
Or could a star delight thy heart, I'd be
The happiest star that ever look'd on thee!

If music lured thy spirit, I would take
A tune's aerial beauty for thy sake,
And float into thy soul, so I could see
How to become all melody to thee.

The weed, that by the garden blossom grows,
Would, if it could, be glorious as the rose;
It tries to bloom—its soul to light aspires;
The love of beauty every fibre fires:

And I—no luminous cloud floats by above,
But wins at once my envy and my love,
So passionately wild this thirst in me,
To be all beauty and all grace to thee!

122

Alas! I am but woman, fond and weak,
Without even power my proud, pure love to speak,
But oh! by all I fail in, love not me
For what I am—but what I wish to be.

“WE PART FOR EVER!”

“We part for ever!” Silent be our parting;
Let not a word its sacred grief profane!
Heart press'd to heart—with not a tear upstarting,
An age of anguish in that moment's pain!

'Tis just and right. It is our “crown of sorrow:”
Bravely we'll meet it as becomes our love—
A love so strong, so pure, it well may borrow
Bright wings to waft it to the joy above.

We part for ever!—o'er my soul in sadness,
No more the music of thy voice shall glide
Low with deep feeling—till a passionate gladness
Thrill'd to each tone and in wild tears replied.

123

No more thy light caressing touch shall calm me,
With its dear magic on my lifted brow;
No more thy pen of fire shall pour to charm me,
The poet-passion of thy fervent vow!

We part for ever! Proud shall be the story
Of hearts that hid affection fond as ours;
The joy that veil'd the universe in glory
Fades with thy presence from her skies and flowers.

The soul that answer'd, like the sun-touch'd lyre,
To thy dear smile—to every tone of thine,
Henceforth is hush'd, with all its faith—its fire,
Till thou rewaken it in realms divine?

We part for ever! Ah! this world's for ever—
What is its fleetness unto hearts so strong?
Here in our wordless agony we sever;
There we shall meet where love will be no wrong.

“In Paradise!” Dost thou e'er dream as I, love,
Of that sweet life when all the truth—the grace—
All the soft melodies in our souls that sigh, love,
Shall make the light and beauty of the place?

124

We meet for ever! Tenderly lamenting
The wild, dear weakness of our earthly day,
Beneath the passionate tears of that repenting,
What luminous flowers shall spring to bless our way!

And for all tuneful tones, our love revealing,
Some bird or rill shall wake in sweet reply;
And every sigh of pity or of feeling
Shall call a cloud of rose light from the sky.

To thy rare, gorgeous fantasies responding,
Rich palaces mid wondrous scenes shall rise;
To thy proud harp's impassion'd tones resounding,
The minstrel-wind shall play its wild replies.

Visions of unimagined grace and splendour,
For ever changing round thy rapturous way,
Now beauteous sculpture bathed in moonlight tender,
Now radiant paintings to thy wish shall play.

But I will speak a fair bower into being,
With tender, timid, wistful words and low,
And tune my soul, until, with heaven agreeing,
It chords with music to which blossoms grow.

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And they, the flowers, and I will pray together,
While thou, for “Love's sweet sake,” shalt join the prayer,
Till all sweet influences of balmy weather
And lovely scenery make us good and fair.

And ever to our purer aspirations
A lovelier light and bloom the flowers shall take;
With rarer grace shall glow our soul's creations,
With mellower music every echo wake.

“We meet in Paradise!” To hallow'd duty,
Here with a loyal, an heroic heart,
Bind we our lives—that so divinest beauty
May bless that heaven where naught our souls can part.

126

FAREWELL.

We parted. Cold and worldly eyes
Upon that parting fell,
And bravely we kept back our sighs,
And calmly said, Farewell.

But there are looks we learn'd of Love,
That only Love can read,
And like the flash from cloud to cloud,
From heart to heart they speed.

Yes! in one eloquent glance thy soul,
On wings of light, to mine
In wild and passionate sorrow stole,
And whisper'd words divine.

Heaven's blessing on that royal heart,
That thus could lavish feeling!
'Twas almost sweet, though sad, to part,
Our silent love revealing.

127

ALONE.

Once more alone—and desolate now for ever,
In truth, the heart whose home was once in thine;
Once more alone on Life's terrific river,
All human help exulting I resign.

Alone I brave the tempest and the terror,
Alone I guide my being's fragile bark,
And bless the Past with all its grief and error,
Since heaven still bends above my pathway dark.

At last, I taste the joy of self-reliance;
At last I reverence, calmly, my own soul;
At last, I glory in serene defiance
Of all the wrong that would my fate control.

Elastic bounds above the waves of sorrow
The bark, wo's lightest breath could once o'erwhelm;
It turns triumphant to the radiant morrow—
Faith at the mast and Courage at the helm.

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Away! away! its pure sail softly swelling
With the glad gale, that springs to speed its flight,
The beauteous sunset of the Past foretelling
How rich shall be the Future's morning light.

Too long it trusted Love, the treacherous pilot,
Who, lingering, lured it toward the whirlpool wild,
And, idly moor'd to many a flowery islet,
Forgot the glorious shore afar that smiled.

But now untrammell'd, buoyant as a bird,
Without one coward fear, one poor regret,
By heaven's melodious breath to rapture stirr'd,
It springs, inspired, with all its white sails set.

And rosy bowers may woo it from its duty,
Where Joy supine sits weaving garlands frail,
And other barks, freighted with love and beauty,
May tempt,—but it glides onward with the gale.

True to its destined port, through storm and shine,
Though sails be rent and waves in fury rise,
Its beacon light a burning hope divine,
For ever bright, though tempests sweep the skies!

129

TO SLEEP.

Come to me, angel of the weary-hearted.
Since they, my loved ones, breathed upon by thee,
Unto thy realms unreal have departed,
I, too, may rest—even I: ah! haste to me.

I dare not bid thy darker, colder brother
With his more welcome offering appear,
For those sweet lips, at morn, will murmur, “Mother,”
And who shall soothe them if I be not near?

Bring me no dream, dear Sleep, though visions glowing
With hues of heaven thy wand enchanted shows;
I ask no glorious boon of thy bestowing,
Save that most true, most beautiful—repose.

I have no heart to rove in realms of Faëry—
To follow Fancy at her elfin call;
I am too wretched—too soul-worn and weary;
Give me but rest, for rest to me is all.

130

Paint not the future to my fainting spirit,
Though it were starr'd with glory like the skies;
There is no gift immortals may inherit
That could rekindle hope in these cold eyes.

And for the Past—the fearful Past—ah! never
Be memory's downcast gaze unveil'd by thee:
Would thou couldst bring oblivion for ever
Of all that is, that has been, and will be!

A WEED.

When from our northern woods pale summer, flying,
Breathes her last fragrant sigh—her low farewell—
While her sad wild-flowers' dewy eyes, in dying,
Plead for her stay, in every nook and dell,

A heart, that loved too tenderly and truly,
Will break at last; and in some dim, sweet shade,
They'll smooth the sod o'er her you prized unduly,
And leave her to the rest for which she pray'd.

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Ah! trustfully, not mournfully, they'll leave her,
Assured that deep repose is welcomed well;
The pure, glad breeze can whisper naught to grieve her,
The brook's low voice no wrongful tale can tell.

They'll hide her where no false one's footstep, stealing,
Can mar the chasten'd meekness of her sleep;
Only to Love and Grief her grave revealing,
And they will hush their chiding then—to weep!

And some—for though too oft she err'd, too blindly—
She was beloved—how fondly and how well!
Some few, with faltering feet, will linger kindly,
And plant dear flowers within that silent dell.

I know whose fragile hand will bring the bloom
Best loved by both—the violet—to that bower;
And one will bid white lilies bless the gloom;
And one, perchance, will plant the passion-flower!

Then do thou come, when all the rest have parted—
Thou, who alone dost know her soul's deep gloom—
And wreathe above the lost, the broken-hearted,
Some idle weed, that knew not how to bloom.

132

TO ---.

You would make hearts your stepping-stones to power,
And trample on them in your triumph-hour;
But mine was form'd for nobler fate than this,
It knows the treachery of your Judas-kiss.

You talk of “lofty feelings, pure and high—
Too pure, alas!” and then you gently sigh;
You mourn the trials which a soul like yours—
So true—amid the meaner herd endures.

You say 'tis sad, but yet you would not part,
For worlds, with that proud dignity of heart!
Now never breathed in woman's breast, I ween,
So poor a spirit, 'neath so bold a mien.

I've learn'd you well—too well: your serpent-smile
Is fond and fair; but cannot “me beguile.”
I've seen it call'd, and on your soft lip worn,
To win a heart those lips had laugh'd to scorn.

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I've heard that voice—'tis very sweet, I own,
Almost too much of softness in its tone;
I've heard its tender modulations tried
On one you'd just been slandering—aside.

I've seen you welcome, with that fond embrace,
A friend who trusted in your frank, bright face;
And while her parting steps the threshold press'd,
Her love, her looks, her manners turn'd to jest.

You triumph in the noble trick you've found,
Of winning love and trust from all around;
While cold and reckless, with a sneer at heart,
You plead, manœuvre, bind with Circe art.

But, day by day, the flimsy veil grows thin,
And clearer shows the worthless waste within;
And one by one, th' idolaters resign
The wavering flame of their Parhelion's shrine.

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OH! BEAUTIFUL ART THOU.

Oh! beautiful art thou as glowing Morn,
When, from her dewy, rose-wreathed, orient bower,
She flings to every cloud beside her borne,
To warm its heart of snow, a blushing flower.

And thou art graceful as the jasmine spray,
Waved to Eolian melody in air;
And free and joyous as a rivulet's play,
And true as Truth, and pure as holy prayer.

I've wreathed with heart-flowers many a beauty's shrine,
And pour'd, in song, the soul of passion there;
But oh! that melody and bloom divine
Were worse than wasted on the false as fair!

To thee—to thee—with pilgrim heart I turn;
For thee my lute I fondly tune again;
Of thee love's sweet and glowing lore I'll learn;
Thy starlight smiles shall be his beaming chain!

135

NEW ENGLAND.

Ah, yes! in the mist, whose soft splendour
Is shed like a smile o'er the scene,
So rich, yet so meltingly tender,
So radiant, yet so serene,—

In the azure air veiling the mountain,
Far off, with its own robe of light,
In the gleam and the foam of the fountain,
In the foliage so gorgeously bright,—

I see a wild beauty belonging
To one sunny region alone—
New England, belovéd New England!
The soul-waking scene is thine own!

And gazing entranced on the picture,
Mine eyes are with tears running o'er;

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For my heart has flown home to those mountains,
And I am an exile no more!

Again through the woodlands I wander,
Where autumn trees, lofty and bold,
Are stealing from bright clouds above them
Their wealth of deep crimson and gold.

Where Nature is scepter'd and crown'd,
As a queen in her worshipping land;
While her rock-pillar'd palaces round
All matchless in majesty stand!

Where the star of her forest dominions,
The humming-bird, darts to its food,
Like a gem or a blossom on pinions,
Whose glory illumines the wood.

Where her loftiest, loveliest flower,
Pours forth its impassion'd perfume;
And her torrents, all regal in power,
Are wreathed with the sun-circle's bloom.

137

Where, on cloud-pillows soft but resplendent,
Our day-spirit floats to his rest;
And the moon, like a pure jewel-pendent,
Is hung on night's love-breathing breast.

New England! belovéd New England!
I breathe thy rich air as of yore;
For my heart is at home in those mountains,
And I am an exile no more!

Yet not for thy beauty or glory,
Though lofty and lovely thou art,
And not for thy proud haunts of story,
These tears of deep tenderness start;—

There's a home in the heart of New England,
Where once I was fondly caress'd!
Where strangers ne'er look'd on me coldly,
And care never came to my breast!

Though warm hearts have cherish'd the exile
In moments of sorrow and pain,
There's a home in the heart of New England,—
Oh! when shall I see it again!

Written in London, on seeing a landscape by Doughty, called “The Indian Summer.”

The Magnolia.

138

NEW ENGLAND'S MOUNTAIN-CHILD.

Where foams the fall—a tameless storm—
Through Nature's wild and rich arcade,
Which forest-trees entwining form,
There trips the Mountain-maid!

She binds not her luxuriant hair
With dazzling gem or costly plume,
But gayly wreathes a rose-bud there,
To match her maiden-bloom.

She clasps no golden zone of pride
Her fair and simple robe around;
By flowing riband, lightly tied,
Its graceful folds are bound.

And thus attired,—a sportive thing,
Pure, loving, guileless, bright, and wild,—
Proud Fashion! match me, in your ring,
New England's Mountain-child!

139

She scorns to sell her rich, warm heart,
For paltry gold, or haughty rank;
But gives her love, untaught by art,
Confiding, free, and frank!

And once bestow'd, no fortune-change
That high and generous faith can alter;
Through grief and pain—too pure to range—
She will not fly or falter.

Her foot will bound as light and free
In lowly hut as palace-hall;
Her sunny smile as warm will be,—
For Love to her is all!

Hast seen where in our woodland-gloom
The rich magnolia proudly smiled?—
So brightly doth she bud and bloom,
New England's Mountain-child!

140

THE EXILE'S LAMENT.

I am not happy here, mother!
I pine to go to you;
I weary for your voice and smile,
Your love—the fond and true!

My English home is cold, mother,
And dark and lonely too!
I never shall be happy here,—
I pine to go to you!

Full many a simple melody
I make of home and you;
But no one loves and sings the song
As Lizzie used to do!

I've friends, who kindly welcome give,
And whom I'll ne'er forget;
But they love others more than me,
And I am not their pet!

141

In at my lattice laughs the sun,
And plays about my feet;
I'd welcome it if you were here
Its summer warmth to greet!

The sky ne'er seems so blue, mother,—
So balmy soft the air!
And oh! the flowers are not so pure
As those I used to wear!

My baby Ellen gayly plays,
But none are here to note,
With partial praise, her winning ways,
Or catch the gems that float—

The gems of thought that sparkle o'er
Her mind's untroubled sea;
Then vanish in its depths before
We well know what they be!

How oft, when lovelier than their wont
Her cheeks' pure roses glow,
And fairer 'neath the sunlit hair
Her veinéd temples show,

142

I want it watch'd by other eye,
That face—so bright to me;
And sigh, “If mother now were by!—
If Lizzie could but see!”

Oh! my English home is cold, mother,
And dark and lonely too;
I never shall be happy here,—
I pine to go to you!

I will not call it “home,” mother,
From those I love so far!—
That only can be home to me,
Where you and Lizzie are.

143

ON PARTING FOR A TIME WITH AN INFANT'S PORTRAIT.

Fair image of my fairer child!
Full many a moment's weary wo
By those blue eyes has been beguiled!
How can I let my idol go?

For when my living treasure sleeps,
And hides her bashful glance of glee,
Thy cherub face unchanging keeps
Its precious bloom and smiles for me!

There still I see the flossy hair
That bathes with light her glowing face;
Her dimpled hands so round and fair,
Her fragile form, her childish grace!

Yet go! and with those earnest eyes,
O'ershadow'd by thy silken curl,
Gaze smiling into stranger-hearts,
And bid them bless my fairy girl!

144

FANNY'S FIRST SMILE.

It came to my heart—like the first gleam of morning,
To one who has watch'd through a long, dreary night—
It flew to my heart—without prelude or warning—
And waken'd at once there a wordless delight.

That sweet pleading mouth, and those eyes of deep azure,
That gazed into mine so imploringly sad,
How faint o'er them floated the light of that pleasure,
Like sunshine o'er flowers, that the night-mist has clad!

Until that golden moment, her soft, fairy features
Had seem'd like a suffering seraph's to me—
A stray child of heaven's, amid earth's coarser creatures,
Looking back for her lost home, that still she could see!

But now, in that first smile, resigning the vision,
The soul of my loved one replies to mine own:
Thank God for that moment of sweet recognition,
That over my heart like the morning light shone!

145

ELLEN LEARNING TO WALK.

My beautiful trembler! how wildly she shrinks!
And how wistful she looks while she lingers!
Papa is extremely uncivil, she thinks,—
She but pleaded for one of his fingers!

What eloquent pleading! the hand reaching out,
As if doubting so strange a refusal;
While her blue eyes say plainly, “What is he about
That he does not assist me as usual?”

Come on, my pet Ellen! we won't let you slip,—
Unclasp those soft arms from his knee, love;
I see a faint smile round that exquisite lip,
A smile half reproach and half glee, love.

So! that's my brave baby! one foot falters forward,
Half doubtful the other steals by it!
What, shrinking again! why, you shy little coward!
'Twon't kill you to walk a bit!—try it!

146

There! steady, my darling! huzza! I have caught her!
I clasp her, caress'd and caressing!
And she hides her bright face, as if what we had taught her
Were something to blush for—the blessing!

Now back again! Bravo! that shout of delight,
How it thrills to the hearts that adore her!
Joy, joy for her mother! and blest be the night
When her little light feet first upbore her!

CONTENTMENT.

“I wish I had yon golden star,
I'd wreathe it in my hair;
Look, sister, how it shines afar!
'Tis like a jewel rare!”

“Yes, love; but see! you might have had
A treasure far more sweet;
In gazing on that star, you've crushed
The Heart's-ease at your feet!”

147

“WEARY OF YOU!”

“Weary of you!” I should weary as soon
Of a fountain, playing its low lute-tune,
With its mellow contralto lapsing in,
Like a message of love through this worldly din!
“Weary of you!”
I could tire as well of a graceful flower,
Breathing beside me hour by hour,
With its perfumed sighs and its delicate bloom,
Hushfully hallowing all the room!
“Weary of you!”
If a dove at my couch should softly light,
And fold its wings like the fall of night,
And arch its throat, with its tranquil coo,
Till the sunbeam touch'd its purple hue,
And play'd on each exquisite fairy plume,
Till it glisten'd and glow'd like an amethyst's bloom;
I should weary of any thing, fair and true—
Of moonlight and music—as soon as of you!

148

THE STARLIGHT AND MUSIC OF HOME.

Nay, lure me not again within the glare
Of the world-life, that gladly I forego;
Not mine the soul that seeks its solace there,
In merrier hours I shrank from all its show.

And now, when worn and weary with the strife
That every true and earnest heart must meet,
I have no strength to turn from this still life
And brave the bustle of saloon or street.

Let those—the gay, the young—who only see
Its radiant roses, NOT the snake below—
Who hear no discord in the music's glee,
Nor dream of danger—through its mazes go.

They will be lull'd awhile, and wake like me
From the sweet trust—the unquestioning delight,
The fearless, childlike faith—to feel, to see
How more than mockery is that pageant bright.

149

I have a dearer melody to listen,
Where no false note can mar the music tide;
A starry gleam around my way doth glisten,
For childhood's voice and smile are by my side.

At eve, when in the hush'd and hallow'd room,
Hallow'd by love and faith, our circle sits,
When from the hearth comes glory through the gloom,
A fair child-angel round us softly flits,

Mute like a vision, save when shade of sorrow
Saddens the face she loves—then stealing near,
She kisses—murmuring of a happier morrow—
From brow and heart the shadow and the fear.

And on my bosom nestling, clings to bless me,
A rosy, radiant darling, with dark eyes,
And voice whose every cadence doth caress me,
And smile that gladdens like a clear sunrise.

And if I miss the dear face of another,
The fairyest shape that ever lit below,
Who, ere her sweet lips learn'd to murmur mother,
Died like a dream of loveliness and wo,—

150

And if I weep—their little arms are winding
Around me, while in whispers low with love
They talk of heaven and its new angel, finding
All lovely flowers to light her path above.

And so, I would not change, for all the glare
Of the world-life, its pomp and sound and show,
One ray of those pure smiles my dear ones wear,
One tone of their true voices, soft and low.

TO MY MOTHER.

Sweet mother! you fear while no longer you guide me,
The Past will be lost in the Present's gay show;
But ah! whether joy or misfortune betide me,
I love you too dearly, your love to forego!

I would not, for all that the Future can bring me,
Forget the dear hours when I sat at your feet,
The song, that was sure of approval, to sing thee,
The look, that was always so loving, to meet.

151

When I flew to your smile with each joyous emotion,
But hid from your heart every sorrow I knew;
Oh! wayward perhaps was my childish devotion,
But it ne'er for a moment was cold or untrue.

And still, when the chill wing of wo darkens o'er me,
I am grateful its shadow extends not to thee;
While if praise thrill my heart or if joy smile before me,
I sigh, “Could she know it, how glad she would be!”

Sweet mother! too fondly your darling you cherish'd,
For me to forget you, wherever I go;—
Ah no! not till memory's power has perish'd;
I love you too dearly to turn from you so!

152

TO A DEAR SISTER.

“I touch this flower of silken leaf, which once our childhood knew,
Its soft leaves wound me with a grief whose balsam never grew.”—
Emerson.

In Memory's rich mosaic,
Those hours are glowing still,
When you and I went wandering
By woodland rock and rill:

Two merry, reckless children,
That saw not in the air
The future storm-clouds looming up,
O'er all the azure there.

If either found a king-cup,
The sunbeam's laughing bride,
Our El Dorado seem'd the flower—
We sought no gold beside.

But flowers we used to smile with,
Now waken tears instead;
There's no such sunshine in us now
As then that smiling fed.

153

The spring in our young spirits,
Too early it took wing,
And where were summer's radiant hours
Should winter follow spring?

Alas! I see thy dark eyes
Fill fast with burning tears;
We both have buried folded buds,
To bloom in other spheres.

As melts the lovely snow-flake,
As fades the rainbow's bloom,
As dies the dearest melody,
As flits the faint perfume:

Those delicate dreams of being,
Those fairy infants fell,
Ere the angels, that had led them here,
Had whisper'd their farewell.

And now for other sunshine
And other bloom we look,
Than those our joyous childhood found
Beside the woodland brook.

154

Ah! let us bless the winter,
Though dark, though cold it lowers,
That leads where heaven's eternal spring
Is breathing o'er our flowers!

TO A MAIDEN IN DOUBT.

Silly maiden, weigh them not—
Butterflies are earthly things;
Thou forget'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?

Love,—ethereal, holy Love!
Buoyant, joyous, proud, and free,—
Maiden, see! he soars above
Worldly Pride and Vanity.

155

Rightly to its native earth
Sinks the gilded insect-fly;
Love—of holier, heavenlier birth—
Rises toward his home on high!

Maiden! throw the scales away,
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.

If he must be proved and tried,
Weigh him in thine own true heart,
'Gainst a frowning world beside,—
Wealth and rank with 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!

On a picture of a Maiden with Scales, weighing Love with a Butterfly: the winged boy rises, and the motto beneath is, “Love is the lightest!”

156

TO MARY.

I've watch'd you well, my sweet, new friend,
(They wrong true Love who say he's blind,)
And there's one fault I fain would mend—
A fault of taste, I grieve to find.

'Tis this: that you perversely choose
Such gay attire to robe your graces,
That, dazzled by its glaring hues,
We scarce see where your daintier face is.

When Nature painted you, my pet,
Her softest tints she fondly chose;
Ah, take her hint, and never let
A rainbow glitter round a rose.

In Quaker gray or simple white,
Your modest loveliness array;
And sometimes, with an azure light,
Let a soft riband o'er it play.

157

Too oft you braid amid your hair
The brilliant flowers of art profane;
Your cheek a lovelier flower doth wear,
That pales beneath their gaudier stain;

And following fashion's wanton beck,
A thought too low your robe is folded;
Ah, hide, for your heart's sake, your neck,
Like Juno's own, to beauty moulded.

Remember, sweet, the dearest rose
Blooms through the moss-veil clinging o'er it,
All chary of its charms its glows,
And all the more our hearts adore it!

I were less frank were you less fair;
Pure gems the lightest flaw betray;
The mote we miss in clouded air,
Shows darkly in the sunbeam's way.

See Nature! from her palette rare,
With violet, azure, rose, or gold,
How soft she tints the sky and air!
And so forgive my counsel bold.

158

TO MRS. O.

They told me Beauty, o'er thy face,
Had breathed her rarest, richest spell,
And lightly twined an airy grace
In every curl that round it fell.

We met—and 'neath the veil of light
And bloom that beauty round thee flung,
I found a charm of holier might,
For Love had tuned thy heaven-taught tongue.

'Tis said in Erin's sunny isle,
That they who wear the shamrock leaf,
A blessing bring where'er they smile,
That lights and warms the wildest grief.

Hast thou, within thy bosom, hid
The charméd flower from Erin's shore,
Which some fond fairy found amid
Her blooming fields, and hither bore?

159

Ah, no! within those dark blue eyes,
Those graceful words, that winning smile,
A deeply sweet enchantment lies,
Beyond the spell from Erin's isle!

Thou dost not need the charméd flower,
Thou dost not need the fairy's art;
In feeling dwells thy magic power,
The leaf of love is in thy heart!

TO AMELIA WELBY.

Darling of all hearts that listen
To your warble wild and true!
As a lovely star doth glisten
In the far West—so do you!

Are you sure you are a mortal?
Or a Peri in disguise,
Watching till the heavenly portal
Lets you into Paradise?

160

Whiling all the weary hours
With the songs you used to sing
In those bright aerial bowers
Where the rainbow dips its wing?

Peri! no!—all woman-feeling
Pleads in that impassion'd lay;
Yet 'tis woman proudly stealing
Some fond angel's harp away.

Mingling, with divine emotion
Holy as a seraph's thought,
Human love and warm devotion,
Into rarest pathos wrought.

Sweep again the silver chords!
Pour the soul of music there!
Write, for your heart's tune, the words,—
All our hearts will play the air!

161

TO SIBYL.

“Soothe her in sorrow and brighten her smile;
Chide her most gently if folly beguile;
One so unsullied and trustful of heart,
From the good shepherd will never depart.

“Now she adores thee as one without spot,
Dreams not of sorrow to darken her lot.
Joyful, yet tearful, I yield her to thee;
Take her, the light of thy dwelling to be.”

Yes! go to him—thy young heart full
Of passionate romance,
And be the fiat of thy fate
His lordly word and glance!

Be thy soul's day, his careless smile;
His frown, its clouded night;
His voice, the music of thy life;
His love, thy one delight!

Sit at his feet, and raise to his
Those large, pure, dreaming eyes,
And tell him all thy lovely thoughts
As radiantly they rise.

162

Press to his hand that childish cheek,
And stroke his stern dark face,
And charm him with thy ways so meek,
Thy glad, aerial grace!

Look for his coming with clasp'd hands
And hush'd and listening heart,
And strive to hide thy joyous tears
With woman's bashful art.

And in thy low Eolian tones,
Melodiously wild,
Falter thy fond, sweet welcome out,
O, rare, enchanting child!

Then if he coldly turn away,
In silence to him steal,
And touch his soul with one long gaze
Of passionate appeal.

I know them all—the endearing wiles—
The sweet, unconscious art—
The graceful spells that nature taught
Her darling's docile heart.

163

I know them all—I've seen thee lift,
At some unkindly tone,
Those dark, upbraiding eyes of thine,
Where sorrowing wonder shone,

And sudden tears would dim the glance,
And then—the wrong forgiven—
A smile would steal up in the cloud,
Like starlight into heaven.

Go—try them all—those girlish wiles!
He cannot choose but love,
He cannot choose but guard from ill
His little, nestling dove!

For rare, my Sybil, 'tis to see
Thy iris-mind unfold;
The magic of thy maiden glee,
That turns all gloom to gold;—

The aurora blush that on thy cheek
Thy heart's love-story tells;
The wondrous world within thine eyes
Lit up like the gazelle's.

164

But if thou think'st, dear, dreaming child!
That he will watch as now,
In after years, each smile and shade
That cross thy changing brow;

And modulate his tone to meet
The pleading of thy soul,
And feel in all his wanderings
Thy gentle breast his goal;

And daily feed thy mind and heart
With hallow'd love and lore,
Nor turn from those imploring eyes,
That wistful look for more;

And watch thee where—as borne in air—
Thou float'st the dance along,
And deem thy form alone is fair,
Of all the fairy throng;

In transport look and listen when
Thy light caressing hands
Lure forth the harp's harmonious soul,
From all its silver bands;

165

Indulgent stoop his falcon-will
To let it fly with thine,
And smile in manly pride to see
His pet's soft plumage shine;

And yield to every gay caprice,
And grieve for every sigh,
And grant all airy hopes that play
On pleading lip or eye;—

If this thy dream, enthusiast, be,
I can but idly pray,
Heaven shield thee in thy waking hour,
And keep it long away!

166

TO SARAH,

ARRANGING HER HAIR.

Oh, rich in heart! what matter how
The silken tresses shade your brow?
What matter, whether gem or rose,
Or simple riband wreathe your hair,
While that soft blush so purely glows,
While those dark eyes such beauty wear?

No rich array could lend your form,
Thus airy-light, one added charm;
No jewel gift that girlish face
With lovelier glow or softer grace;
And he who looks on you with eyes
Where all his soul to yours replies,
Is prouder of you simply so,
Than when adorn'd your graces glow;
And joys to know his fairy flower
Can gayly bloom in home's sweet bower,
While some, less fair, the hot-house air

167

Of flattery and excitement need,
Their frail and fleeting smiles to feed.

Ah! “bonnie bird!”—thus ever rest,
Confiding in your love-built nest;
And when around you throng the few
I leave, who share my love with you,
Oh! warble soft, in friendship's ear,
Her name, who'd gladly share your glee,—
But do not sing too sweetly, dear,
Lest you beguile them all from me.

TO LITTLE MAY VINCENT.

My wee-bit, bonny, blue-eyed May.
Well fits the name we gave in play;
For Spring, with all her tears and smiles,
Her frolic frowns and wooing wiles,
Is just like thee—so fresh, so bright,
With breath of balm and eyes of light.
My treasure, May! my nestling dove!
My wild-flower, nursed by Hope and Love!

168

My sunlit gem! my morning star!
Oh! there is nothing near or far,
Of soft or beautiful or free,
That does not mind my heart of thee.
Yet all combined,—star, blossom, bird,
Bring to it no such joy divine,
As the first charily-utter'd word
That falters from those lips of thine.

Twelve times the maiden-queen of night
Has donn'd her veil of silver light,
And walk'd the silent, heavenly plain,
Majestic mid her radiant train,
Since May first oped her playful eyes;
And yet she is not over-wise;
For even now she shouts with joy
When on the floor the sunshine plays,
And deems the spot a golden toy,
And creeps to lift its mocking rays.

Ah, May! be still a child in this,
Through life, amid its gloom and bliss:
Though clouds of care be all about,
Those eyes will find the sunshine out,
Then pass the shade with Hope's delight,
And stop to play where Joy is bright.

169

TO MY PEN.

Dost know, my little vagrant pen,
That wanderest lightly down the paper,
Without a thought how critic men
May carp at every careless caper,—

Dost know, twice twenty thousand eyes,
If publishers report them truly,
Each month may mark the sportive lies
That track, oh shame! thy steps unruly?

Now list to me, my fairy pen,
And con the lessons gravely over;
Be never wild or false again,
But “mind your Ps and Qs,” you rover!

While tripping gayly to and fro,
Let not a thought escape you lightly,
But challenge all before they go,
And see them fairly robed and rightly.

170

You know that words but dress the frame,
And thought's the soul of verse, my fairy!
So drape not spirits dull and tame
In gorgeous robes or garments airy.

I would not have my pen pursue
The “beaten track”—a slave for ever;
No! roam as thou wert wont to do,
In author-land, by rock and river.

Be like the sunbeam's burning wing,
Be like the wand in Cinderella;
And if you touch a common thing,
Ah, change to gold the pumpkin yellow!

May grace come fluttering round your steps,
Whene'er, my bird, you light on paper,
And music murmur at your lips,
And truth restrain each truant caper.

Let hope paint pictures in your way,
And love his seraph-lesson teach you;
And rather calm with reason stray
Than dance with folly, I beseech you!

171

In faith's pure fountain lave your wing,
And quaff from feeling's glowing chalice;
But touch not falsehood's fatal spring,
And shun the poisoned weeds of malice.

Firm be the web you lightly spin,
From leaf to leaf, though frail in seeming,
While Fancy's fairy dew-gems win
The sunbeam Truth to keep them gleaming.

And shrink not thou when tyrant wrong
O'er humble suffering dares deride thee:
With lightning step and clarion song,
Go! take the field, all Heaven beside thee.

Be tuned to tenderest music when
Of sin and shame thou'rt sadly singing;
But diamond be thy point, my pen,
When folly's bells are round thee ringing!

And so, where'er you stay your flight,
To plume your wing or dance your measure,
May gems and flowers your pathway light,
For those who track your tread, my treasure!

172

But what is this? you've tripp'd about,
While I the mentor grave was playing;
And here you've written boldly out
The very words that I was saying!

And here, as usual, on you've flown
From right to left—flown fast and faster,
Till even while you wrote it down,
You've miss'd the task you ought to master.

TO A SLANDERED POETESS.

My brilliant Blue Belle! droop no more;
But let them mock, and mow, and mutter!
I marvel, though a whirlwind roar,
Your eagle soul should deign to flutter!

So low the pigmies aim'd the dart,
(Ah, yes! your looks of scorn reveal it,)
You must have stoop'd your haughty heart,
O wilful, wayward child!—to feel it.

173

My dark-eyed darling! don't you know,
If you were homely, cold, and stupid,
Unbent for you were Slander's bow?
Her shafts but follow those of Cupid.

'Tis but the penalty you pay
For wit so rare and grace so peerless;
So let the snarlers say their say,
And smile to hear them, free and fearless.

Nay! hear them not! Oh, you should listen
To spheral tunes! the angels love you!
The stars with kindred beauty glisten;—
No “evil eye” can lower above you!

Dear child of Genius! strike the lyre,
And drown with melody delicious,
Soft answering to your touch of fire,
The envious hint—the sneer malicious.

Remember it is Music's law,
Each pure, true note, though low you sound it,
Is heard through Discord's wildest war
Of rage and madness, storming round it.

174

You smile!—Nay, raise your queenly head;
Braid up your hair, lest I upbraid it;
Be that last coward tear unshed,
Or in your dancing dimple shed it!

Serenely go your glorious way,
Secure that every footstep onward
Will lead you from their haunts away,
Since you go up, and they go—downward.

Yet from your love-lit, heavenly flight,
Some pity dole to those who blame you;
You only can forgive them quite,
You only smile while they defame you.

Oh! think how poor in all the wealth
That makes your frame a fairy palace—
The mind's pure light,—the heart's sweet health,—
Are they whose dearest joy is malice.

175

TO AN IDEA THAT WOULDN'T “COME.”

“Why thus longing, thus for ever sighing
For the far off, unattain'd, and dim?”
“Has Hope, like the bird in the story,
That flitted from tree to tree,
With the talisman's glittering glory,
Has Hope been that bird to thee?”

Oh! fondly wished for, why delay?
This virgin page awaits thee—
It's waited since the dawn of day—
What can it be belates thee?

Thou ne'er wilt find a nicer couch,
A softer, or a fairer—
Thou ne'er wilt find a desk to which
Thy coming could be rarer.

Oh! airy rover, rainbow-wing'd!
Oh! coy and cold deceiver!
Alight upon this beggar leaf,
And blesséd be for ever!

176

Alight, and shut your gleaming wing,
And let my verse be amber,
To make for you, while glad you sing,
A fitting, fairy chamber!

Whether around the dainty tip
Of Whitman's pen you hover,
Or rest on Greenwood's rosy lip,
To greet some poet-lover;

Or hide in glorious Hewitt's heart
Until you're robed divinely;
Or lend impassion'd Eva's line
The glow she paints so finely.

Oh! fly them all, and fly to me!
I'll entertain ye rarely;
My happy pen your host shall be,
And introduce you fairly.

I'll dress you in the prettiest words
You possibly can think of;
I'll let you sip the purest ink
That e'er you tried to drink of.

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Your rich relations throng to them,
While I'm alone and needy;
And, though I cannot sing, my gem,
In tones so rich and reedy,

Be sure I'll make the most of thee!
While throned in state and glory,
Oh! think what pride alone to be,
Unrivall'd in my story!

Oh! fairy treasure, fine and fleet!
Oh! subtle, rare creation!
Whatever obstacles you meet,
Accept my invitation!

I'll give you welcome warm and true,
However strange you be;
And take what route it pleases you,
It's all the same to me.

Oh! come by telegraph from Maine,
Or by a junk from China,
By steamboat from the shores of Spain,
Or cars from Carolina!

178

But come—at all events—without
Another doubt or fear;
Fly, fly to this devoted heart,
And be—“my own Idea!”

ON SIVORI'S VIOLIN.

A dryad's home was once the tree
From which they carved this wondrous toy,
Who chanted lays of love and glee,
Till every leaflet thrill'd with joy.

But when the tempest laid it low,
The exiled fay flew to and fro;
Till finding here her home once more,
She warbles wildly as before!

179

WHAT CAN BE THE MATTER?

What can be the matter with Lizzie to-night?
Her eyes, that in tears were so touchingly tender,
For twenty-four hours have been filling with light,
Till I scarcely dare meet their bewildering splendour.

You'd almost imagine a star had been lighted
Within her—a new-born and beautiful flame,
To bless with its pure ray her spirit benighted,
And smile through those eyes to which sorrow's cloud came.

What can be the matter with Lizzie!—her cheek,
That of late has been dimpleless, colourless, cold,
Has gather'd a glow and a glory, that speak
Like an eloquent voice of a rapture untold.

What can be the matter with Lizzie!—her tone,
That was doubting and faint in its low melody
As the morning ray rising through mist-tears alone,
Or the sound of a bell ringing soft in the sea,—

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Has suddenly thrill'd to a richness and fervour,
A passionate sweetness, untroubled and deep—
You would think in her heart had arisen to nerve her,
An angel,—awaken'd from sorrow and sleep.

It is Love! it is Love! by the joy that is stealing
Like light o'er her forehead, I know it is Love!—
He has touch'd with his wand the wild fountain of feeling,
He floats like a spirit that fountain above.

He has kindled his star-lamp—the deathless—the pure—
Within—and her heart's hidden riches are shown;
His own seraph voice has breathed melody to her—
And hers has caught all its deep magic of tone.

Oh! still may that voice keep its sweetness and joy,
And still may that cheek wear its glow of delight,
And those dear eyes, unshadow'd by sorrow's alloy,
Still beam with the fondness that fills them to-night.

181

VENUS AND THE MODERN BELLE.

Young Beauty look'd over her gems one night,
And stole to her glass with a petulant air:
She braided her hair with their burning light,
Till they play'd like the gleam of a glow-worm there.

Then she folded, over her form of grace,
A costly robe from an Indian loom,—
But a cloud overshadow'd her exquisite face,
And Love's sunny dimple was hid in the gloom.

“It is useless!” she murmur'd,—“my jewels have lost
All their lustre, since last they illumined my curls!”
And she snatch'd off the treasures, and haughtily toss'd,
Into brilliant confusion, gold, rubies, and pearls.

Young Beauty was plainly provoked to a passion;
“And what?” she exclaim'd, “shall the star of the ball
Be seen by the beaux, in a gown of this fashion!”—
Away went the robe,—ribands, laces, and all!

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“Oh! Paphian goddess!” she sigh'd in despair,
“Could I borrow that mystic and magical zone,
Which Juno of old condescended to wear,
And which lent her a witchery sweet as your own!”—

She said, and she started; for lo! in the glass,
Beside her a shape of rich loveliness came!
She turn'd,—it was Venus herself! and the lass
Stood blushing before her, in silence and shame.

“Fair girl!” said the goddess—“the girdle you seek
Is one you can summon at once, if you will;
It will wake the soft dimple and bloom of your cheek,
And, with peerless enchantment, your flashing eyes fill.

“No gem in your casket such lustre can lend,
No silk wrought in silver such beauty bestow;
With that talisman, heed not, though simply, my friend,
Your robe and your ringlets unjewell'd may flow!”

“Oh, tell it me! give it me!” Beauty exclaim'd,
As Hope's happy smile to her rosy mouth stole:
“Nay! you wear it e'en now, since your temper is tamed,—
'Tis the light of Good Humour,—that gem of the soul!”

183

A REMONSTRANCE.

WRITTEN AT THE CATSKILL MOUNTAIN HOUSE.

What, here! where the soul feels an angel's elation,
Where the balm of the breeze is worth all the world's wealth!
Oh! profane not the place by so low a libation,
While pure from the rock springs the fountain of health!

What, here! where the wood-bird, its warble subduing,
Keeps holy our Sabbath with music and love,
And earth, her wild blossoms for ever renewing,
Sends up, in their perfume, her praises above!

Where the skies seem to bend, in their luminous beauty,
So loving and low o'er the green mountain-sod,
That the spirit, attuned to devotion and duty,
Sees Nature embracing her Father and God!

No temple can match, with a glory so solemn,
The forest-cathedral that rises around;
The pine's stately shaft, for the fair marble column,
All vein'd with the sunlight, and gracefully crown'd;

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Its dome—the unlimited arch glowing o'er us;
Its censer—yon budding spray, swung by the breeze;
Its music—the hymn of the fountain before us;
Its light—heaven's smile, stealing soft through the trees:

And oh! the bright treasures around and below us,
The buds of the wild mountain-laurel, behold!
So perfect, so gem-like! where, where will you show us
A richer mosaic in temple of old?

Profane not the place by so base a libation!
Look around ye—look upward! and drink if ye dare!
Away with the wine-cup, the curse of creation!
Yon fount has enough for us all, and to spare.

IMPROMPTU, TO ---.

I would be true to Truth, and so to be
How can I help Inconstancy to thee?
Since thou hast such a reverence for the maid,
That even to approach her, thou'rt afraid!

185

OLD FRIENDS.

Cold blows the bleak wind around the lone stranger,
Wild beat the snows in his thin waving hair,
One only true friend,—his old faithful Ranger,
Clings to his side in his wintry despair.

Sad and forsaken, his heart throbbing slowly,
His limbs numb'd and aching, his eyes dim with tears,
Back steals remembrance, with grief sweet and holy,
Back steals remembrance to happier years.

One only true friend, his old faithful Ranger,
Clings to his side in his wintry despair;
Wild blows the bleak wind around the lone stranger,
Drear drifts the snow in his thin waving hair

Hunger and age, they have done their work drearily,
Yet is the forest tree grand in its fall;
Faith and affection, still gleaming out cheerily,
Like the sun, o'er the scene, halo it all.

186

“THE HOURS AWAKING THE MORNING.”

A PICTURE BY HOWARD.

She sleeps! on her cloud-pillows softly reclining,
Her glowing cheek dimples with dreamy delight,
Around her white shoulders rich sun-tresses twining,
With dim, dewy lustre, illumine the night;—

Yes! faint through the mist that enwreathes her reposing,
The gleam of that golden hair glistens the while,
Making twilight on high;—till those blue eyes, unclosing,
Shall flash on creation the wealth of their smile!

She sleeps! and the stars have gone by in their glory,
Nor woke with their wing'd feet the dreamer they met!
And Dian has stolen to tell the love-story
Her blooming Endymion listens to yet!

She sleeps! the young goddess Aurora!—so glowing,
So sweet are her visions, she will not awake!
And silent and swift are the dim Hours going,—
But hark! o'er the stillness what music doth break!

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Behold! through the mist, the fair Hour of the Morning,
With smiles of arch meaning, floats gracefully by;
Her finger uplifted in frolicsome warning,
With song on her lip, and reproof in her eye!

“Sweet sluggard! awaken!—Apollo is near!
Oh! fly ere the god shall thy slumbers suprise!
His flame-wingéd coursers already I hear!
Aurora! my sister!—awaken! arise!”

And the goddess springs up from the slumbers that bound her,
And pauses in blushing bewilderment there;
Her rosy smiles melting the mist-wreath around her,—
Her gold-tresses shedding soft dew on the air!

Now slowly she comes!—Heaven kindles before her,—
Her lark warbles proudly his passionate lay,—
Earth woos with a smile the light step of Aurora,—
And Beauty and Music awake in her way!

188

THE LANGUAGE OF GEMS.

Fair Flora of late has become such a blue,
She has sent all her pretty dumb children to school;
And though strange it may seem, what I tell you is true,
Already they've learn'd French and English by rule.

Bud, blossom, and leaf have been gifted with speech,
And eloquent lips breathing love in each tone,
Delighting such beautiful pupils to teach,
Have lent them a language as sweet as their own.

No more is the nightingale's serenade heard;
For Flora exclaims, as she flies through her bowers,
“It is softer than warble of fairy or bird!
'Tis the music of soul—the sweet language of flowers!”

No longer the lover impassion'd bestows
The pearl or the ruby;—in Hope's sunny hours,
He twines for his maiden a myrtle and rose—
'Tis the echo of Love, the pure language of flowers.

189

But the pearl and the ruby are sadly dismay'd;
I saw a fair girl lay them lightly aside,
And blushingly wreathe, in her hair's simple braid,
The white orange flower that betray'd her a bride;

And I fancied I heard the poor jewels bewail,
At least they changed countenance strangely, I'm sure,
For the pearl blush'd with shame, and the ruby turn'd pale:—
Indeed 'twas too much for a stone to endure.

And I, who had ever a passion for gems,
From the diamond's star-smile to the ruby's deep flame;
And who envy kings only their bright diadems,
Resolved to defend them from undeserved shame.

What are jewels but flowers that never decay,
With a glow and a glory unfading as fair?
And why should not they speak their minds if they may?
There are “sermons in stones,” as all sages declare.

And a wild “tongue of flame” wags in some of them too,
That would talk if you'd let it—so listen a while;
They've a world of rich meaning in every bright hue—
A ray of pure knowledge in each sunny smile.

190

Then turn to the blossoms that never decay:—
Let the learned flowers talk to themselves on their stems,
Or prattle away with each other to-day;—
And listen with me to the Language of Gems.

The Diamond, emblem of Genius would seem,
In its glance, like the lightning, wild, fitful, divine—
Its point that can pierce with a meteor-gleam,
Its myriad colours—its shadow and shine.

And more in that magic, so dazzling and strange;
Let it steal from Apollo but one sunny ray,
It will beam back a thousand that deepen and change,
Till you'd fancy a rainbow within it at play.

Fair Truth's azure eyes, that were lighted in heaven,
Have brought to the Sapphire their smile from above,
And the rich glowing ray of the Ruby is given,
To tell as it blushes of passionate Love.

The Chrysolite, clouded, and gloomy, and cold,
Its dye from the dark brow of Jealousy steals;
But bright in the Crystal's fair face we behold
The image of Candour that nothing conceals.

191

Young Hope, like the spring, in her mantle of green,
Comes robed in that colour, soft, pleasant, and tender,
And lends to the Emerald light so serene,
That the eye never wearies of watching its splendour.

The rosy Cornelian resembles the flush
That faintly illumines a beautiful face,
And well in its lovely and tremulous blush
May Fancy the emblem of Modesty trace.

While Joy's golden smile in the Topaz is glowing,
And Purity dwells in the delicate Pearl,
The Opal, each moment new semblances showing,
May shine on the breast of some changeable girl.

Serene as the Turquoise, Content ever calm,
In her pure heart reflects heaven's fairest hue bright,
While Beauty, exulting in youth's sunny charm,
Beholds in the Beryl her image of light.

To the beaming Carbuncle, whose ray never dies,
The rare gift of shining in darkness is given;
So Faith, with her fervent and shadowless eyes,
Looks up, through earth's night-time of trouble, to heaven.

192

There's a stone—the Asbestos—that, flung in the flame,
Unsullied comes forth with a colour more pure,—
Thus shall Virtue, the victim of sorrow and shame,
Refined by the trial, for ever endure.

Resplendent in purple, the Amethyst sparkling,
On Pride's flowing garments may haughtily glow,
While Jet, the lone mourning-gem, shadow'd and darkling,
And full of sad eloquence, whispers of Wo.

But thousands are burning beneath the dark wave,
As stars through the tempest-cloud tremblingly smile,
Or wasting their wealth in some desolate cave,
And talking, perchance, like the rest all the while.

Then wreathe of the blossoms that never decay,
A chaplet, dear maiden, that fair brow above;
But within, wear their prototypes, purer than they,
Faith—Hope—Truth and Innocence—Modesty—Love.

And while in each jewel a lesson you see,
While one smiles approval—another condemns,
I'm sure you will listen, delighted with me,
To a language so true as the language of Gems!

193

GOLDEN RULES IN RHYME.

FROM A MATRON TO A MAIDEN.

“While I touch the string,
Wreathe my brows with laurel;
For the song I sing
Has for once a moral!”—
Moore.

Come listen, while, in careless rhyme,
Some golden rules I give you,
That you may hoard the wealth of Time
And life may not deceive you.

In childhood's hours, when in the sun
Our sportive group assembled,
And off our frail pipes, one by one,
The glittering bubbles trembled;

If mine with lovelier lustre shone,
Or higher soar'd,—what trouble!
My brother, leaving all his own,
Blew out my beaming bubble!

194

And thus the world—when young Romance
Her airy dreams is weaving,
And Hope's soft rainbows round them dance,
As radiant as deceiving—

Thus will the world, my child, destroy,
With treachery more refined,
The soaring dreams of love and joy,
The bubbles of the mind!

Then yet in time a lesson learn,
From one who learn'd too late,
That world, whose laugh we laugh to scorn,
Her fiat here is fate!

When honour, placed in reason's scales,
Outweighs THE OWL'S opinion,
All free and fearless, trim your sails,
And steer for heaven's dominion!

But still in trifles, where no wrong
Can come of yielding to her,
Oh! chord with hers your careless song,
And of her smiles be sure!

195

When Love would fling his flowery net
Around your joyous spirit,
Ask not for rank, or wealth, or wit,
But yield to manly merit.

Remember—Love but seldom strings
His flowers on golden wire;
Remember—Wit has wanton wings,
That might put out his fire.

Your heart be like a stainless glass,
Where fleeting, outward graces
But lend their beauty as they pass,
And leave behind no traces;

On which—its subtle nature's such,
The gem of gems—in glory—
The diamond, with its lightning touch,
Alone can write love's story.

As to the moon, the ocean's tide
Subjects its strength unruly,
So let a light from heaven, love, guide
The tide of passion truly.

196

If sorrow come—resist it not,
Nor yet bow weakly to it;
Look up to meet the heaven-sent storm;
But see the rainbow through it!

And let not pleasure's reckless hands
Too often shake time's glass, love:
At best, the few and priceless sands
Too surely, swiftly pass, love!

And seek not bliss on airy heights,
Where dizzy power doth rally!
The “fragrant little heart's-ease” lights
The lowliest, humblest valley.

The gem that clasps a royal robe
The worldling's eye may dazzle,
But Love will light his glow-worm lamp
In cot as well as castle.

The magic flower in Erin's Isle,
That bears about a blessing,
Perchance is but good-humour's smile,
A kindly heart's caressing.

197

If comes a blow, from friend or foe,
With earnest good avenge it;
“The sandal-tree, with fragrant sigh,
Perfumes the axe that rends it.”

Be like the sun, whose eye of joy
Ne'er on a shadow lay, love!
Be like the rill that singeth still,
Whate'er be in its way, love!

Ne'er waste your heart in vain regret,
Though youth be dimm'd by care;
“For lovelier flowers than summer wreathes
May twine in winter's hair.”

With childlike trust look forward still,
For heaven is always near;
“Full oft our very fear of ill
Exceeds the ill we fear.”

Nor question Fate! the world-ship still
Under seal'd orders sailing;
'Twere best the great Commander's skill
To trust with faith unfailing.

198

Nor idly waste the golden hours,
The plumes of Time's swift wings:
The watch must still be wound to work,
Or rust corrodes its springs.

If once a purpose pure and high
You form, for naught forego it!
“The mulberry leaf to silk is changed
By patience,” says the poet.

Let Fancy fly her fairy kite,
And light with wit its wing, dear;
But oh, lest it go out of sight,
Bid Reason hold the string, dear.

For, soaring where the poet's heaven
With starry gems is spangled,
It might, by Folly's zephyr driven,
In moonshine get entangled.

Yet sneer not thou at those who rise
To loftier delusions;
“Great truths are oft,” the sage replies,
“Foreshadow'd by illusions.”

199

Confide in Friendship's right good-will,
But not too often task it;
“It is the highest price we pay
For any thing, to ask it.”

If Nature's glorious overture
Discordant seem to be, love,
Be sure your heart is out of tune,
And try the sounding key, love!

Let more than the domestic mill
Be turn'd by Feeling's river;
Let Charity “begin at home,”
But not stay there for ever.

Look on the poor with pitying eyes,
And “reason not the need;”
For angels in that mean disguise
May often ask their meed.

But if a debt by honour seal'd
Uncancell'd yet remain,
Oh, ne'er to generous impulse yield
What Justice asks in vain!

200

Be frank and pure, and brave and true,—
True to thyself and heaven;
And be thy friends, the gifted few;
And be thy foes forgiven.

And hold thyself so dear, so high,
That evil come not near thee,
That meanness dare not meet thine eye,
And falsehood fly and fear thee!

Shrink not to aim the shafts of wit
At all that's mean or narrow;
But oh, before you bend the bow,
Be sure it holds the arrow!

Command your temper, guard your tongue,
Lest they have sway undue;
For deeds, not words, the bell be rung,
Which fame may ring for you!

And so, if from my careless rhyme,
You cull the rose of Reason,
I have not wasted all my time,
But said “a word in season.”

201

MARION'S SONG IN THE SCHOOL-ROOM.

Away with you, ye musty tomes!
I'll read no more this morning!
The wildwood rose unlesson'd grows—
I'm off—your sermons scorning!

I found a problem, yester eve,
In wondering where the brook led,
More pleasant far for me to solve
Than any one in Euclid.

I heard a bird sing, sweet and low,
A truer lay than Tasso—
A lay of love—ah! let me go,
And fly from Learning's lasso!

I saw a golden missal, too,
'Twas writ in ancient ages,
And stars—immortal words of light—
Illumined all its pages!

202

The hand of God unclasp'd the book,
And oped its leaves of glory;
I read, with awed and reverent look,
Creation's wondrous story.

I will not waste these summer hours,
The gift that He has given;
I'll find philosophy in flowers,
Astronomy in heaven!

Yon morning-glory shuts its leaves,
A worm creeps out from under;
Ye volumes, take the hint she gives,
And let the book-worm wander!

I'll scan no more old Virgil's verse,
I'd rather scan the heavens;
I'll leave the puzzling Rule-of-Three
At sixes and at sevens;

The only sum I'll cipher out
Shall be the “summum bonum;”
My only lines shall fish for trout,
Till Virgil wouldn't own 'em!

203

A costly cover has my book,
Rich blue, where light is winding;
How poor, beside its beauty, look
Your calf and cotton binding.

Away! the balmy air—the birds—
Can teach me music better
Than all your hard, high-sounding words,
That still my fancy fetter.

The waves will tell me how to play
That waltz of Weber's rightly;
And I shall learn, from every spray,
To dance with grace, and lightly.

Hush! hark! I heard a far-off bird,
I'll read no more this morning;
The jasmine glows—the woodbine blows!
I'm off—your sermons scorning!

204

BEAUTY'S PRAYER.

Round great Jove his lightnings shone,
Roll'd the universe before him,
Stars, for gems, lit up his throne,
Clouds, for banners, floated o'er him.

With her tresses all untied,
Touch'd with gleams of golden glory,
Beauty came, and blush'd and sigh'd
While she told her piteous story.

“Hear! O Jupiter! thy child:
Right my wrong, if thou dost love me!
Beast and bird, and savage wild,
All are placed in power above me.

“Each his weapon thou hast given,
Each the strength and skill to wield it:
Why bestow—Supreme in heaven!
Bloom on me, with naught to shield it?

205

“Even the rose—the wild-wood rose,
Fair and frail, as I, thy daughter,
Safely yields to soft repose,
With her lifeguard thorns about her.”

As she spake in music wild,
Tears within her blue eyes glisten'd,
Yet her red lip dimpling smiled,
For the god benignly listen'd.

“Child of heaven!” he kindly said,
“Try the weapons Nature gave thee;
And if danger near thee tread,
Proudly trust to them to save thee.

“Lance and talon, thorn and spear:
Thou art arm'd with triple power
In that blush, and smile, and tear!
Fearless go, my fragile flower.

“Yet dost thou, with all thy charms,
Still for something more beseech me?—
Skill to use thy magic arms?
Ask of Love—and Love will teach thee!”

206

I DEARLY LOVE A CHANGING CHEEK.

I dearly love a changing cheek,
That glows or pales as feeling chooses,
And lets the free heart frankly speak
Upon it what the tongue refuses;

Where eloquent blushes burn and fade,
Rich with the wealth of warm emotion;
Or starry dimples mock the shade,
Like jewels in a restless ocean.

I dearly love a speaking eye,
That tells you there's a soul to wake it;
Now fired with fancies wild and high,
Now soft as sympathy can make it;

An eye whose dreamy depths and dark
In Passion's storm can proudly lighten!
But where Love's tears can quench the spark,
And Peace the sky serenely brighten!

207

I love a lip that eye to match,
Now curl'd with scorn, now press'd in sadness,
And, quick each feeling's change to catch,
Next moment arch'd with smiles of gladness.

I love a hand that meets mine own
With grasp that causes some sensation;
I love a voice whose varying tone
From Truth has learn'd its modulation.

And who can boast that regal eye?
That smile and tone, untaught by art?
That cheek of ever-changing dye?
That brave, free, generous, cordial heart?

I need not name her! None who've heard
Her welcome true—her parting blessing—
Her laugh, by lightest trifle stirr'd—
Her frank reply—will fail in guessing!

208

TO A TRIFLER.

'Tis well—the blow is felt—forgiven!
I stoop'd a starry wing,
That might have proudly soar'd to heaven,
On thy poor heart to cling.

For thee, frail flutterer of the earth,
I deign'd my flight to stay;
On thee, who dream'd not half its worth,
I pour'd my spirit's ray.

The proudest, truest, loftiest love,
That ever burn'd the shrine
Whereon its costly incense rose,
My heart vouchsafed to thine.

And thus the penalty I pay,
As few have paid before;
When God-lit spirit bends to clay,
What should it look for more?

209

Ay! ever thus 'twill be for those
Who, graced with starry wing,
Forego a golden dawn in heaven,
To round a taper sing.

And whose the loss?—or mine or thine?
I offer'd to thy lip
A chalice brimm'd with glorious wine,
Whence thou didst lightly sip.

Thou didst not dream that life was there,—
Soul-life, for such as thou!
Thy hand dash'd down the beaker rare,
Thy lip belied the vow.

And I?—oh, God! 'twas I who lost
The immortal draught divine;
For thou, who couldst not feel its cost,—
What was that heart to thine?

Yet, even now, to ruin lured—
Betray'd, condemn'd, forgot—
My wounded pinions still I wave
Beyond thy soulless lot!

210

Yet guerdon just this fate to me,
Who stoop'd a starry wing,
That might have bathed in Eden airs,
Around a rose to sing.

THE LOVE MY HEART ACCORDED YOU.

The love my heart accorded you
Was proud, and pure, and strong:
It might have well rewarded you
For years of ruth and wrong.

You saw my spirit soaring high,
Nor follow'd where it flew;
But strove, with wild, adoring sigh,
To make it stoop to you.

In vain; the fire it cherishes
For ever upward tends,
And when this frail frame perishes,
With heaven's own glory blends.

211

For no ignoble flame of yours
Foregoes my love its light;
If it leave you, the shame be yours,
Who dared not share its flight.

Each tender grace I granted you,
Your passion false profaned;
Each whisper that enchanted you,
Your senses, only, chain'd.

And now but calm disdain I give,
Where once my soul I lent;
Escaped your thrall, again I live
In high and cold content.

212

CAPRICE.

Reprove me not that still I change
With every changing hour,
For glorious Nature gives me leave
In wave, and cloud, and flower.

And you and all the world would do—
If all but dared—the same;
True to myself—if false to you,
Why should I reck your blame?

Then cease your carping, cousin mine—
Your vain reproaches cease;
I revel in my right divine—
I glory in caprice!

Yon soft, light cloud, at morning hour
Look'd dark and full of tears:
At noon it seem'd a rosy flower—
Now, gorgeous gold appears.

213

So yield I to the deepening light
That dawns around my way:
Because you linger with the night,
Shall I my noon delay?

No! cease your carping, cousin mine—
Your cold reproaches cease;
The chariot of the cloud be mine—
Take thou the reins, Caprice!

'Tis true you play'd on Feeling's lyre
A pleasant tune or two,
And oft beneath your minstrel fire
The hours in music flew;

But when a hand more skill'd to sweep
The harp, its soul allures,
Shall it in sullen silence sleep
Because not touch'd by yours!

Oh, there are rapturous tones in mine
That mutely pray release;
They wait the master-hand divine—
So tune the chords, Caprice!

214

Go—strive the sea-wave to control;
Or, wouldst thou keep me thine,
Be thou all being to my soul,
And fill each want divine:

Play every string in Love's sweet lyre—
Set all its music flowing;
Be air, and dew, and light, and fire,
To keep the soul-flower growing;

Be less—thou art no love of mine,
So leave my love in peace;
'Tis helpless woman's right divine—
Her only right—caprice!

And I will mount her opal car,
And draw the rainbow reins,
And gayly go from star to star,
Till not a ray remains;

And we will find all fairy flowers
That are to mortals given,
And wreathe the radiant, changing hours,
With those “sweet hints” of heaven.

215

Her humming-birds are harness'd there—
Oh! leave their wings in peace;
Like “flying gems” they glance in air—
We'll chase the light, Caprice!

A DANCING GIRL.

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.

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!

Or that the melody's sweet flow
Within the radiant creature play'd,
And those soft wreathing arms of snow
And white sylph feet the music made.

216

Now gliding slow with dreamy grace,
Her eyes beneath their lashes lost,
Now motionless, with lifted face,
And small hands on her bosom cross'd.

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!

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.

IMPROMPTU AT SEA.

But two events dispel ennui
In our Atlantic trip:
Sometimes, alas! we “ship a sea,”
And sometimes—see a ship!

217

THE POET'S REPLY TO UNDESERVED PRAISE.

I wrong not so your noble heart,
As fear you'd play the flatterer's part,
Though far from all desert in me
Your soul-inspiring praises be.

The star that sees, within the lake,
Its own illumined image wake,
May deem some sea-born gem has risen
To greet it from its darkling prison.

And well I know the ardent mind,
Where honour's self is proudly shrined,
O'er others sheds its radiance rare,
And deems the light is native there.

Yet I must shrink, in shame and pride,
From praise by conscience still denied,
And rather half your faith forego
Than lure it by a hollow show.

218

And since not all is dark within,
Some dear esteem I still may win,
Divested of the halo thrown,
By your warm heart, around my own.

And truth to tell, (you'd have me true?)
I look for loftier gifts from you,
And wait for music sweeter far
Than softest words of flattery are.

The lightest modulation lent
By heart to voice on truth intent,—
The faintest cadence Love lets fall
On one low tone, is worth them all.

And oh! so high a hope is mine!—
The boon my spirit claims from thine
Is not the fleeting love of earth,
But friendship that has holier birth.

When soul meets soul in happier clime,
Where truth unveil'd shall walk sublime,
How may my conscious spirit brook
The frank, calm questioning of your look,

219

If vainly, in its form and face,
You seek for some imagined grace,
And miss the beauty, rare and dear,
Your own rich fancy lent it here!

UNDINE TO ---.

If I alight, in happy rest,
A moment on your heart,
Think not your wild, impetuous guest
Is never thence to part!

I only pause to plume my wings,
Prepared for higher flight;
Far up, to me, a spirit sings
A song of fond delight!

It calls me always, soft and low,
And fain be there would I;
But ah! it seems so far to go:—
I cling to what is nigh!

220

I cannot wait so long for love,
A childish heart is mine,
I pine for all that heaven above,
But linger while I pine!

And like the Grecian neophyte,
In Egypt's halls alone,
Who scarce had touch'd one step of light,
Ere yet another shone;

While one by one, beneath his tread,
They vanish'd as he rose;
From heart to heart, my faith has fled,
And found no calm repose.

Yet as the vine that would be free
Can only climb to light,
By twining round some kingly tree,
Supported by its might,—

A fragile flower of impulse, I
Shall reach no life divine,
Though still my heart turns toward the sky,
Unless I lean on thine.

221

OH! HASTEN TO MY SIDE.

Oh! hasten to my side, I pray!
I dare not be alone!
The smile that tempts, when thou'rt away,
Is fonder than thine own.

The voice that oftenest charms mine ear
Hath such beguiling tone,
'Twill steal my very soul, I fear;
Ah! leave me not alone!

It speaks in accents low and deep,
It murmurs praise too dear,
It makes me passionately weep,
Then gently soothes my fear;

It calls me sweet, endearing names,
With Love's own childlike art;
My tears, my doubts, it softly blames—
'Tis music to my heart!

222

And dark, deep, eloquent, soul-fill'd eyes
Speak tenderly to mine;
Beneath that gaze what feelings rise!
It is more kind than thine!

A hand, even pride can scarce repel,
Too fondly seeks mine own;
It is not safe!—it is not well!
Ah! leave me not alone!

I try to calm, in cold repose,
Beneath his earnest eye,
The heart that thrills, the cheek that glows—
Alas! in vain I try!

Oh trust me not—a woman frail—
To brave the snares of life!
Lest—lonely, sad, unloved—I fail,
And shame the name of wife!

Come back! though cold and harsh to me,
There's honour by thy side!
Better unblest, yet safe to be,
Than lost to truth, to pride.

223

Alas! my peril hourly grows,
In every thought and dream;
Not—not to thee my spirit goes,
But still—yes! still to him!

Return with those cold eyes to me,
And chill my soul once more
Back to the loveless apathy
It learn'd so well before!

THE GENTLE WORD.

It came, when pain and sorrow bow'd
A soul too much alone;
Like music came that kindly word,
From one I ne'er have known.

Too sensitive to praise or blame,
My childish heart I know;
And lightly yields my fragile frame
To touch of joy or wo.

224

It brought a glow of glad surprise
To pallid cheek and brow;
It brought the tears to drooping eyes,
It brings them even now.

'Twas but a word—a little word—
'Twas one I often meet;
Yet utter'd then, so far away,
It sounded passing sweet.

For well I know some friendly heart,
I dream'd not of before,
First thought for me that little word—
Nay, maybe thought of more!

Ah, if the clarion tones of fame
Shall ever ring for me,
They shall not drown—my heart shall hear
The praise I won from thee!

225

JE VEILLE SUR TOI, MA MÈRE!

Suggested by a mourning-locket, in which was painted a winged cherub, with the motto—“Je veille sur toi, ma mère!”

Je veille sur toi, ma mère!
I hear thy softest sigh of love,
I listen to thy lightest prayer,
And echo it above.

I see thee when, in lonely hour,
My semblance wins thy ready tear;
Thou canst not hear my spirit step,
But, mother! I am near!

When glowing morn the mountain treads
With foot of fire and dewy eye,
And dazzled seraphs veil their heads
Before the light on high,—

And when beneath my home of joy
The stars are smiling through the air,
Where angels roam on blest employ,
Je veille sur toi, ma mère!

226

While o'er thy wearied frame is shed
The welcome balm of soothing sleep,
Lightly o'er that belovéd head
My vigils still I keep!

Dost thou not see in visions fair,
A radiant being wander by,
And hear a soft voice murmuring there,
“My mother! it is I?”

And when above my early grave
Thy gentle spirit prays relief,
Feel'st thou no angel-plumage wave
Above thee in thy grief?

Je veille sur toi, ma mère!
Oh! still thy lost but happy boy
Is near thee, with thee everywhere,
In sorrow and in joy.

Forget not then, where'er thou art,
The promise-words that bless thy prayer,
But wear them in thy “heart of heart,”
“Je veille sur toi, ma mère!”

University of Virginia Library

POEMS

BY FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.

[Love! no more, with soul of fire]

TO THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.

ERMENGARDE'S AWAKENING.

EURYDICE.

UPBRAID ME NOT.

VICTORIA,

ON HER WAY TO GUILDHALL.

A FLIGHT OF FANCY.

THE COCOA-NUT TREE.

THE BABY AND THE BREEZE.

LABORARE EST ORARE.

PURITY'S PEARL;

OR, THE HISTORY OF A TEAR.

FRAGMENTS OF AN UNFINISHED STORY.

ADDRESS,

FOR THE REOPENING OF THE FEDERAL STREET THEATRE.

THE INDIAN MAID'S REPLY TO THE MISSIONARY.

WOMAN.

A FRAGMENT.

TO A CHILD PLAYING WITH A WATCH.

TO ---.

A REMEMBRANCE.

THE MAGIC PRISM.

THE CID.

FROM FROISSART.

FIRST AFFECTION.

A DREAM.

LULIN; OR, THE DIAMOND FAY.

A FAIRY LEGEND, SENT BY A LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS, WITH A DIAMOND RING.

I.

II.

THE STATUE TO PYGMALION.

IDA TO ERNEST.

THE FAN.

A LOVER'S FANTASY.

NO!

ONE RADIANT EVE.

CALUMNY.

TO S. S. OSGOOD.

SUGGESTED BY AN UNFINISHED PICTURE.

THE FLOWERS AND GEMS OF GENIUS.

FORGIVE AND FORGET.

A FAREWELL TO A HAPPY DAY.

THANK GOD, I GLORY IN THY LOVE!

HAD WE BUT MET.

THE FOLDED FLOWER.

BELIEVE ME, 'TIS NO PANG.

“WE PART FOR EVER!”

FAREWELL.

ALONE.

TO SLEEP.

A WEED.

TO ---.

OH! BEAUTIFUL ART THOU.

NEW ENGLAND.

NEW ENGLAND'S MOUNTAIN-CHILD.

THE EXILE'S LAMENT.

ON PARTING FOR A TIME WITH AN INFANT'S PORTRAIT.

FANNY'S FIRST SMILE.

ELLEN LEARNING TO WALK.

CONTENTMENT.

“WEARY OF YOU!”

THE STARLIGHT AND MUSIC OF HOME.

TO MY MOTHER.

TO A DEAR SISTER.

TO A MAIDEN IN DOUBT.

TO MARY.

TO MRS. O.

TO AMELIA WELBY.

TO SIBYL.

TO SARAH,

ARRANGING HER HAIR.

TO LITTLE MAY VINCENT.

TO MY PEN.

TO A SLANDERED POETESS.

TO AN IDEA THAT WOULDN'T “COME.”

ON SIVORI'S VIOLIN.