Forest leaves :: :: University of Virginia Library

Born of the sunlight, and the dew,
That met amongst the flowers,
That on the river margin grew,
Beneath the willow bowers;
Her earliest pillow was a wreath
Of violets newly blown,
And the meek incense of their breath
At once became her own.

Her cradle-hymn the river sung,
In that same liquid tone
With which it gave, when earth was young,
Praise to the Living One.
The breeze that lay upon its breast,
Responded with a sigh;—
And there the ring dove built her nest
And sung her lulaby.

The only nurse she ever knew
Was Nature, free, and wild,—

Such was her birth, and so she grew
A moody, wayward child,
Who lov'd to climb the rocky steep,
To wade the mountain stream,
To lie beside the sounding deep,
And weave the magic dream.

She lov'd the path with shadows dim,
Beneath the dark leav'd trees,
Where Nature's feather poets sing
Their sweetest melodies;
To dance amongst the pensile stems
Where blossoms bright and sweet,
Threw diamonds from their diadems
Upon her fairy feet.

She lov'd to watch the day star float
Upon the ærial sea,
Till morning sunk his pearly boat
In floods of radiancy.
To see the angel of the storm
Upon his wind-wing'd car,
With dark clouds wrap'd around his form,
Come shouting from afar.

And pouring treasures rich and free,
The pure refreshing rain,
Till every weed and forest tree
Could boast its diamond chain.

Then rising, with the hymn of praise,
That swell'd from hill and dale,
Display the rainbow, sign of peace,
Upon its misty veil.

She lov'd the waves' deep utterings—
And gaz'd with frenzied eye,
When night shook lightning from his wings,
And winds went sobbing by.
Full oft I chid the wayward child
Her wandering to restrain;
And sought her airy limbs to bind
With prudence's wordly chain.

I bade her stay within my cot,
And ply the housewife's art;—
She heard me, but she heeded not,
Oh who can bind the heart?
I told her she had none to guide
Her inexperienced feet
To where, through Tempe's valley, glide
Castalia's waters sweet.

No son of fame, to take her hand
And lead her blushing forth,
Proclaiming to the laurel'd band
A youthful sister's worth;
That there were none to help her climb
The steep and toilsome way,
To where, above the mists of time,
Shines Genius' living ray.

Where wreath'd with never fading flowers,
The Harp immortal lies,
Filling the souls that reach those bowers
With heavenly melodies.
I warn'd her of the cruel foes
That throng that rugg'd path,
Where many a thorn of misery grows,
And tempests wreak their wrath.

I told her of the serpents dread,
With malice pointed fangs,
Of yellow blossom'd weeds that shed
Derision's maddening pangs.
And of the broken, mouldering lyres
Thrown carelessly aside,
Telling the winds, with shivering wires,
How noble spirits died.

I said—her sandals were not meet
Such journey to essay,
(There should be gold beneath the feet
That tempt Fame's toilsome way,)
But while I spoke, her burning eye
Was flashing in the light
That shone upon that mountain high,
Insufferably bright.

While streaming from the Eternal Lyre,
Like distant echoes came
A strain that wrap'd her soul in fire,
And thrill'd her trembling frame.

She sprang away—that wayward child,
The harp! the harp! she cried;
And still she climbs, and warbles wild,
Along the mountain side.

THE WANDERING SPIRIT.

From where stupendous wrecks of ruin'd worlds,
No longer guided by Omnipotence
Through fields of light and glory, wander wild
In dim cold chaos, where the elements
Unyok'd and unrestrain'd, wage frantic war,
Each as it gains the mastery triumphing
With terrible rejoicing, showing forth
The fierceness of his strength; where horrid forms
Of all primeval monsters, and the shades
Of wicked demi-gods, and spirits fallen,
Like lurid meteors move amid the gloom,
Each agonizing in the deep despair
Of his own crush'd ambition, and lost hopes,
A Spirit came, who mission'd from above
Had err'd, and lost his way, by following
A shade, through the bright wilderness of worlds
Where system within system rolls along,
Wheels within wheels, each with its myriad eyes
Floating in glory round the throne of God;
From whence that Spirit went while earth was young,
Radiant with bliss and beauty, and sped on

Forgetful of his charge, until he sunk
In that abyss of wreck'd and worthless things
Which God has thrown away.
Amaz'd, he shrank
From all the strange cold horrors of the scene,
Where rough black masses, that were once fair worlds,
Reel'd through the dark and voiceless sea of space;
And fix'd white faces, and pale rigid forms,
Gleam'd from the surging waves, of flood, and fire,
Which winds, by God no longer held in check
Heav'd onward in their fury. Horribly
Glanc'd out the hideous phantoms, filling all
The Spirit with a shuddering agony,
A terror almost unendurable,
As restlessly he rov'd and sought in vain
The realms of light and order. When at length
Subdued and wearied, like an eagle toss'd
Amid the billows of a thunder cloud
He droop'd his wings despairingly, there fell
One glittering ray of mercy through the gloom,
One warm life-colour'd ray—and he sprang up
Rejoicing in its radiance into light,
The thrilling light and warmth and hue of life.
But not to his first bliss was he restor'd,
But sent a wanderer through the universe,
To follow shadows, and in weariness
To long for rest,—rest, even beneath the feet
Of the rejoicing angles.
This green Earth
Just then came sailing gloriously along

Waving her fragrant garlands in the light
And uttering as she mov'd a dreamy hymn
Of all sweet melodies, so that it seem'd
As if the atmosphere around her form
Was one soft sea of fragrance giving out
Delicious music from its moving waves.
Wild with delight he threw him on her breast,
And vow'd her fairer than his native heaven.
It was indeed a rich and lovely spot
That he alighted on. An orange grove,
All thickly sprinkled with the pearly stars
Of its luxuriant bloom. Sweet songs of birds
Gush'd from the breezy shade, and ruby wings
Flash'd mid'st the emerald foliage.
Then a strain
Of music, such as mingles with the soul
Awaking all sweet memories, all pure thoughts,
All high and deep emotions, floated past,
And seem'd a vocal zephyr worshipping
The purity of love. Heaven is not far!
The Wandering Spirit cried in ecstacy,
For, lo! a Spirit from its melodies
Is lingering near me. List—another strain
Richer and sweeter—and the Spirit rose
And sought the fountain of those harmonies,
Which he imagin'd came all fresh from Heaven.
He had forgotten how divinely pure
Heaven's tuneful spirits are. And now he stood
Before a gilded temple, which threw off
The dazzling sunbeams like a thousand shafts

Of glittering glory. Bosom'd deep it stood
In clustering rose-trees, and the fairest vines
Train'd o'er the portico their scented wreaths,
And bound the snowy columns; while within
A fountain of pure water threw its gems
Upon the blue-vein'd marble of the floor;
And o'er the delicate spice-breathing plants
That droop'd their pearly flowers, which seem'd so frail
That they might melt, and breathe themselves away
Upon the trembling air that bath'd the brow
And stir'd the dark locks of a maid, who lay
On crimson cushions, 'neath the azure folds
Of heavy silken curtains, sweeping low
With fringe of glittering gold, and rows of pearl.
That maid was slight, symmetrical and fair,
Not white like sculptur'd stone, but richly ting'd
With beauty, life, and health. The rose-hued gauze
That floated o'er the swelling loveliness
Of shoulders, neck, and bosom, only seem'd
To lend a modest blush to things too pure
And wholly beautiful to need a veil.
Her features all were perfect, and her face
A faultless temple of transparent pearl
Through which gleam'd out with warm and ardent light
The torch of every minister that came
To offer up his worship. In her eyes
So soft, so dark, so melting, liv'd a smile
Of maiden love, in its pure worshipping

Its perfect trust and truth. The spirit felt
That he had never touched a thing so fair
So worthy of his worship. From her lips
Breath'd melting music, filling all the air
With living melody.
Another sound—
A form approach'd the bower, a tall strong man
Of fierce expression, forehead high and clear
O'er which the ebon clusters of his hair
Lay in fine contrast, but his knitted brow
Bent like black clouds, above his lightning eyes,
That glanc'd with piercing splendour, and the lips
Were finely cut, expressing depth, and strength
Of purpose, and emotion. Such a one
He was, as woman of the melting heart
May love to adoration. For it seems
That love forever throws his richest light
And sweetest rose buds, over the stern heart
And haughty brow, where passions strong and fierce
Sit thron'd in dark dominion. Woman's soul
Seems ever to derive its highest bliss
From the proud ardent worshipping of one
Who never bow'd or sued to aught on earth
Except her worth and beauty. For she deems
That water pure and inexhaustible,
Which gushes from the flint rock; while the spring
Upon the green hill side, that bubbles up
Amongst sweet blossoms, in the time of dearth
Will fail, and leave the flowers it nurs'd, to die.

The Spirit shrank before that mortal form
And deem'd that some dark fiend had dared intrude
Thus on the presence of a deity.
Surely, he said, the gentle one will fly
From such a fearful presence. But she rose
At his approach; and with a cry of joy
Gave her white hand in greeting. Then it was
That Spirit witness'd first, and doubtingly,
The fond idolatry of human love,
The all-revealing worship of the eyes,
The smile that melts and mingles hearts in bliss,
The timid touch that thrills along the nerves,
And spreads a flush of beauty o'er the cheek
As if the altar fire upon the heart
Flash'd up, and fill'd the temple, beaming through
The half transparent walls, with crimson light.
Carlos—the maiden murmur'd o'er and o'er,
Luella—Dearest—was the fond reply.
And there was rapture in the low sweet tones
That came in fitful murmurs from red lips,
That trembled with emotion. Here is bliss
The Spirit said. The heaven I left has naught
More deep, and all-pervading.
It was night,
One of those sweet still nights that seem to shed
A peace upon the soul, subduing all
Its pains and passions into calm repose.
When moonlight calls young timid lovers forth
To weave fond fancies with its trembling beams,
And breathe soft messages to silvery clouds
That flit like angels 'tween the earth and heaven,

And hear responses in the balmy breath
Of winds, which with their pinions cool with dew
Linger amongst the rose buds, touch their lips
And catch the holy incense of their breath.
Long Carlos sat, conversing sigh for sigh
With this sweet soother, which would lovingly
Lift, like a playful sister, his damp curls
And bathe his throbbing temples and flush'd cheek,
With unction of rich balm, then sink away
With low and tender whisper, but to come
Again with richer offering. Carlos' soul
Grew faint and sorrowful in that soft night,
A heavy sadness press'd upon his mind,
As when the shadow of a hideous dream
Lies heavy on the morning. He arose
And wander'd musing through the orange grove
Which wav'd in dewy beauty like a flood
Of scented water, rich with pearly fleets
Of living blossoms, round Luella's bower.
His thoughts were with the maiden, and he dwelt
On all her fervent truth, and trusting love
All through the weary years, in which they knew
No comforter but hope—while sternly proud
His sire watch'd o'er the heir of his high name
And scorn'd the tree upon the last green bough
Of which, in lonely bloom, Luella hung.
And when he fled away, she knew not where,
Departing in his madness suddenly,
Without a farewell even unto her
To brave the sword, the ball, fatigue, and thirst,

Famine and death, amid the frantic scenes
Where madmen seek for glory—where the brave
Seek blessings, peace, and freedom; where he sought
Oblivion to the pangs that would not sleep;
The pangs of wounded pride, of hope deferr'd,
Of baffl'd passion, and of self reproach.
And when upon his casque the lurid light
That men call glory dwelt, he turned away
Disgusted, from the foul phosphoric light
That feeds on death, and torture, blood, and tears,
And sighs from withering hearts. So he came home
Way worn, and wounded, and in pilgrim guise
Hoping he knew not what. It was a night
Of fearful tempest, when he stood once more
Before his father's portal, and requir'd
The pilgrim stranger's boon, and then so chang'd
Was he, that servants who had dandled him
Upon their knees, no longer knew his face,
But told the stranger of young Carlos' flight
Or most mysterious death; and that their lord
Smil'd never from that day, but moan'd and sigh'd
And wander'd like one crazy, calling oft
On Carlos' name, in such a plaintive tone
Of broken-hearted sorrow, that the rocks
Which caught the echoes threw them back again
With voice of bitter weeping. For they said
The heart of their good lord was rich in love,
But that the rose of his affections died
While yet the dew of life's refulgent morn
Lay trembling in its bosom. From that hour

His spirit knew no joy, but in the child
Which with her dying blessing she bequeath'd
To his paternal love. The old men wept
As they rehears'd their grief, and Carlos' heart
Was full almost to bursting, as they told
How their good lord had died, with Carlos' name,
In mingled prayers and blessings, on his lips.
But not a word was said by these old men,
Of Carlos' lov'd Luella, and her name
His lips refus'd to utter, yet he stray'd
Still wrap'd in his disguise, to that dear grove
And met her weeping there—With timid glance
She scan'd his person, then with trembling joy
Sank on his bosom.
Days of full blown bliss
Had since been his; and now it but remain'd
To lead her to the altar. Musing thus
Upon Luella's sorrows, love, and truth,
And all his painful wanderings, and the peace,
The ecstatic peace now closing its soft wings
Around his quiet heart, he wanders on
To his Luella's bower. It is her voice
What does she here at midnight? who is he
Who sits familiarly beside her? Heavens!
She weeps—and with an earnest voice protests
Her fond and changeless love. Oh agony
Can this be possible? And yet he hears
That voice, the very music of his soul
Vowing the love away, which until then
He never once had doubted, which has been

His solace in all ills—a holy shield
From sin, and all temptation; the one pearl
Which he had deem'd the world and his own soul
A price too low for. Now all, all was past—
The mirror broken that reflected heaven,
And his heart rent asunder. With a groan
He knelt down at her feet, drew his keen blade
And pierc'd his breast, so that the warm blood sprang
And sprinkled her white bosom. One wild cry
She utter'd clasp'd her arms around his neck
And they sank down together
All aghast
The wandering spirit stood. He had assum'd
The form of Carlos, and with words of doubt.
Drawn from Luella those assurances
Which Carlos' ear had drank, he could have fled
Even to the chaotic gulf again
To 'scape the terrors of that scene of death.
Benelli! cried a Watcher from on high,
Thou vain and erring spirit! see what wo
One quilty thought of thine has brought to pass!
Now thou art doom'd to linger in this bower
And sooth that wretched maiden visible
To her alone, in that beloved form
In which thou didst deceive her. Come, and look
Upon the face of death, the child of sin,
And shudder lest it be thy fearful doom
To dwell with it forever.
The display
That pains the mourner's eye, the funeral pomp,

That strange absurdity of human pride
Which decks pale death in glittering panoply
And mocks corruption with a show of power
Had been enacted; and Luella sat
Cold, pale, and feeble, with neglected hair
And deep black garments, on the blood stain'd pave
Within her fatal bower. A shadow pass'd—
Wild expectation waken'd, wilder hope
Stir'd her soul's centre. More distinct it grew
Upon the moonlight. Carlos! Love! she cried
In tones of fearful rapture, Heaven be prais'd
My prayer is answer'd; angel witnesses
Have told thee all my truth, and thou art come
To say thou dost not doubt me. 'Twas a fiend
That taught thee to be jealous of a heart
Which was all full of thee. Speak to me love,
But once, and say thou know'st me purely true.
There came a voice of music on the night,
As if the air were living melody,
And every drop of dew a crystal bell
Rung by a vocal billow.

As dew in the heart
Of the virgin rose,
When first at morn
Its leaves unclose,
As the flake of snow
When it first finds rest
On the feathering moss
Of the mountain's breast,

As the gem that lies
In the deep, deep sea,
So purely true
Is thy Love for me.

Oh mourn not my love
For united in heart,
And one in spirit
We cannot part.
My dwelling is now
In this sorrowful bower,
Oh come to me ever
At this still hour,
Till thou from the earth
And sorrowing free,
Shalt bathe in the fountain
Of love with me.

In lingering cadence on the balmy breeze
The music died, and with its melting tone
The spirit shadow faded. On her knees
Luella had been listening, and her face,
Late like a lily on a broken stem,
Grew radiant as the morning, while she pour'd
A rapturous thanksgiving. Round her stood
Her maids in wonder. They had only seen
The shadow of a cloud that cross'd the moon;
And whisper'd music of the dark green leaves
Conversing with the wind was all they heard;
And so they wept in pity and declar'd

Their broken-hearted lady lunatic.
In vain she told them Carlos had been there
With words of consolation. How could they
Believe so strange a story? so they pray'd
With many tears, and watch'd her night and day,
And every night sat with her in her bower,
And heard her sad communings with her love
Till their hearts melted, and their sobs grew loud,
And drown'd her gentle murmurs. Sad it was
To see her feeding thus upon her grief
And life from her young lips, and tainted cheek
Slow fading like the radiance of the west
Before night's pensive face. Her father's heart,
As her life wasted, wither'd. He had laid
A wife, and seven fair children in their graves,
And she alone was left, and he had hoped
Such fond and brilliant things as fathers hope
For fair and gentle daughters. Now he wept
Her swift decay, with agonizing pray'rs
That he might die with her, and thus escape
The desolation which an old man feels
Alone beside his hearth; whence all fair forms,
All gentle voices, and all loving hearts
Have gone forevermore.
Benelli, then,
Who furnish'd for celestial happiness,
Had envied the one bliss of human hearts,
Felt how like gall and wormwood to the taste
The cup that we have long'd to drain may prove.
Luella's soul was now pour'd out to him

In words of fervent love, while stern despair
Held all her pulses in a torturing check,
And thus her eye was dim, and pale her cheek,
Her brain oppress'd as by a weight of ice,
While in her breast the burning current lay
Like Ætna's bosom'd lava, drying up
The silver spring of being; and her words
Were sad, and incoherent, yet most sweet,
Like pensive wailings of a soft-ton'd harp
Broken, and hung upon a willow tree
Where the long weepers streaming on the wind
Sweep o'er the chords, and waken low strange tones
Which melt into the spirit, as the dew
Comes down into the blossom, filling it
With an oppressive sweetness till it droops,
And weeps delicious tears.
The moon had set,
The stars were dim, like sleepy watchers' eyes;
The winds, the waters, every thing was still,
So still that one might almost be forgiven
For deeming that the God of nature slept
Upon her placid breast. The last pale rose
Lay scatter'd, like a shiver'd diadem,
Within Luella's bower, and she was there,
Reclin'd upon her couch, wasted and weak
And white as alabaster. Round her knelt
Her weeping maidens, while with broken sighs
She murmur'd to her love—I feel, she said
At length, a drowsy faintness. All my frame
Grows chill and heavy—Carlos—this is death—

My bridal hour has come—Wait for me love—
I will go with thee soon.
Now shall I learn,
Benelli said, this mystery of life
In unity with clay. The last faint sigh
Was lingering on Luella's trembling lips,
The light was fading from her half clos'd eyes,
The faithful girls who bath'd her hands with tears,
Now shudder'd as they felt how cold they grew.
Then o'er her form Benelli first observ'd
An exhalation like a silvery mist,
Wreathing and gathering, as when the sun
Exhales light vapours from a mountain spring.
Condensing slowly, it at length rose up
In form and feature of the nerveless clay
From which it was releas'd; but that it stood
In pure etherial transparency,
And mournful in its beauty, as it seemed
To seek some kindred shade, or spirit guide
To lead it to its home. My beautiful!
Benelli cried, thou now art like to me
And thou art now mine own. With one wild cry
She fled at his approach, and meteor-like
Left but a shining track along the sky,
And vanish'd from his view.
Alone—alone—
Benelli stood, and felt the dreariness
Of utter desolation, hopeless—cold—
Almost without a wish. But he was free
To wander as he listed. So he pass'd

From zone to zone, through every varied clime
In search of rest, but naught on earth could still
The yearning of his nature. Human love
He had explor'd—its strength, its depth, its bliss,
Its anguish, and its end. Beauty's spell
Could thrall him never more, for he had seen
Its loveliest blossom die. In restless mood,
He mingled with the fitful autumn winds,
And joy'd to shake the sear leaves from the trees,
In some old pathless wood. To strip the bloom
From off the latest flower stalk in the glen,
To fright the timid fawn from his repast
By sudden rustling of the thicket near.
To chase the sweet lone warbler from the spray
With sound of rushing wings. To drive, with storms,
The flights of birds of passage, till their wings
Were wet, and weary in the aerial way.
To wreck the frail and beautiful of earth
And strew them in the dust. When winter came
He rode the tempest, shouted in the blast,
Piled up the drift, and dash'd the cutting sleet
In each wayfarer's face. Moan'd at the door
Of weary hearted watcher, till her blood
Grew curdly in its channels. Shook the sash
And shriek'd at midnight, till the love lorn maid
Believ'd her lost one's spirit sought to find
Admittance to her chamber, to unfold
The fearful mysteries of the unseen world.
But when the azure eye of the young spring
Beam'd on him with its tearful smile of love,

The gentle influence that was all abroad
Fell on him like the blessed summer rain
Upon the desert, melting even him
To pensive tenderness, so that he lov'd
To echo back the carol of the bird
By dell or wilderness. To swell the song
Of running waters.
'Twas an eventide
When spring's first buds were opening, that he met
Beside a mountain stream a pensive man,
Of whom he well might deem that all life's fire
Was centred in his eyes, so radiantly
They dwelt on earth and heaven; while lip, and cheek
Were white as Paros marble. Here is one,
He cried, with whom a spiritual creature may
Hold close communion. He has naught of earth
Except this half transparent veil of flesh
Which clogs the flight of the impetuous soul,
And dims the mental sight. So, day by day,
He wander'd with a man who idly sought
To wreath undying garlands of the flowers
That grow in death's domain. Who vainly sought
To find the living waters gushing free
Amid the sand hills of this desert world.
And it was joy unto him to converse
With such a wayward man; to fill his mind
With strange fantastic visions, and wild shapes
Of bright unreal fancies, such as men
Are prone to worship. Many a summer eve
At that entrancing hour which casts a spell

Of melting sweetness over soul and sense.
Of nature's children; when the green earth lies
So like a garland on the rosiest wave
Of heaven's pure sea of glory; where the soul
Seems blending with the holy atmosphere
Of beauty, fragrance, and rich melody,
That flows in blissful billows from high heaven
Through all infinity, that poet rov'd
With pallid cheek, wrap'd sense, and heavenward eye,
His bosom swelling with the single tide
Of feeling—deep strange feeling, drawing in
At each avenue of the raptur'd soul
Streams of Jehovah's glory, till his brain
Grew wild with ecstacy, and thrilling words
Hung trembling on his lips. Benelli then
Delighted to be near him, to sketch forth
Forms of immortal beauty, as they dwelt
Upon his memory, by the touch of earth,
And breath of error render'd dim and dark;
Or whisper to him half forgotten tales
Of heaven's incommunicable bliss;
Its all pervading and ecstatic love;
Its full fruition: with the consciousness
Of never ending durance. Oft he threw
The beauty of his form upon the mist
That floated down the valley; or look'd forth
With soul bewildering smile from fleecy clouds
That lay amid the ocean of the west,
When such a changing radiance of bright beams
Of every hue of glory centre there,

That we believe that heaven, with all its pomp,
Is hidden only by the emerald wall
Of our horizon—o'er the billowy heights
Of which gleam angels' wings, and crimson robes,
And harps, and coronets, of burnish'd gold—
Till as we gaze we almost seem to hear
The distant echo of seraphic song
Blent with the low sweet music of the wind.
And when the holy night had put aside
The glittering tissue of the veil of day,
Revealing the infinite depths, in which
Our universe performs its measur'd dance,
With myriads of bright creatures, keeping time
To choral singing of the morning stars
Around the throne of God,—'twas his delight
To point out angels, with their flashing wings,
Deep in the dark expanse, guiding the stars,
Or riding the fierce comets joyously
Up their eliptic arches, and away
Unto the verge of the chaotic gulf,
At thought of which he shuddered, while he drew
Dark visions of stupendous horror thence,
And wove them with the strange imaginings
Of that poor visionary poet's brain,
Who pour'd them forth in bursts of raptur'd song
On which the world hung spell bound with delight;
And Fame, and Honour twin'd their richest wreaths,
Decreed them his, and hung them up on high
To be admir'd, and envied, and adored,
Throughout all time; while he, to whom belong'd

The living laurel, dwelt in solitude,
Neglected, poor, and quite unknown by all.
And if a distant echo of his fame
Was borne to his low home, how vain and cold
It fell upon his spirit, like the dew
That autumn sheds upon the dying flowers.
What value had the world's applause to him
Who lack'd the “daily bread” for which each morn
He made his humble prayer?—The world knew well—
Taught by the inspiration of his song
That he was pouring his rich spirit out
From deep and fatal wounds within his heart.
Yet she rejoiced, and will'd him to sing on,
That she might drink his fragrance till she reel'd.
For he was to her like the precious tree
Which drops delicious incense from the wound
Of which 'tis sure to die. So he sung on,
And she ador'd his lay and let him starve.
Then rear'd a proud mausoleum to his name,
And wrote, in golden letters, on its front,
The last and saddest lay that agony
Wrung out from his crush'd heart, as with a smile
His rich and lofty spirit pass'd away.
Benelli hover'd by the low green mound
That humble weepers piled above his form,
And where the tresses of the willow tree
Dishevel'd, like a stricken woman's hair,
Were floating on the breeze, which ever more
Linger'd in that sweet spot, near which a brook
Sung its eternal song, with chorus sweet

Hymn'd by the congregation of glad birds
That cluster'd in the shade. And every day
His beautiful black spaniel, poor Fidelle,
Came to her master's grave, and laid her down
Above his breast, on which lay stiff and still
The hand that fed her, and with fond caress
Lay on her head, or smooth'd her velvet coat,
While big tears dropp'd upon her, as he said
In all this cold wide world, my poor Fidelle,
I have no friend but thee. Then she would moan,
And her large eyes grow wet with sympathy.
Then he would pity her, and smile and say,
I will not make thee sorrowful Fidelle,
Come let us go and play. Then she would leap,
And show her gladness in a thousand ways
As nature gave her utterance; and the man
Would half forget his sorrows in the joy
Of his dumb play-fellow, whose faithful love
Was sweeter and more precious to his heart,
Than all the promises of deathless fame
That came in babbling echoes to his ears.
And now that all her agonizing cries
Fail'd to arouse him, still she linger'd there,
With nature's unambiguous eloquence,
Beseeching every one who came that way
To give her back her master,—till at length
There came a lady of a pensive mien,
In dress as black and shining as Fidelle's,
And eyes almost as dark, although their light,
Half quench'd by sorrow, trembled on the view

Like purest diamond shining meekly up
Through salt sea-ripples. On her brow there lay
A meekness as of sorrow link'd with love,
To her it was a luxury to weep
O'er every thing that bore similitude
To her own broken visions. So she came
And knelt beside that grave, and pray'd, and wept,
With one arm round Fidelle, who nestled close
Unto her bosom, moaning piteously.
And when at length the lady rose to go
And said wilt thou go with me poor Fidelle,
The creature went, for very gratitude
That she wept o'er her master.
So it is,
Benelli said. The love which might have fed
His lamp of life with rapture, many a day,
Now when his ear is deaf, and clos'd his eye,
Pours out its soul in weeping o'er his tomb.
Alas for Genius! This is then the meed
That earth accords unto it,—broken hopes,
A life of penury, a death—of want,
And fearful struggles of a mighty mind,
Which wrestling with the angels for the gems
That glow upon their lyres, forgets that life
Is nurtur'd on the bosom of the earth;
Yet being link'd to nature feels her pangs
And blends her wailing with its highest notes.
While list'ning thousands bless the agony
That wrings his tuneful life out, drop by drop,
And clap their hands in raptures of delight

Because he moans so sweetly. Proving thus
The richest halo of poetic fame
A rainbow of the brightest hues of heaven
In glory living, on a shower of tears.
Thus mus'd Benelli o'er the sepulchre,
Dark'ning the willow shadows with the hue
Of his desponding thoughts. The trumpet's voice
Arous'd him from his grief, and he went forth
Where men were telling, with enthusiasm,
Of laurels to be won on battle-fields,
So glorious that the myriads of the earth
Go forth and jeopard life, for the delight
Of seeing such celestial chaplets bloom
One single moment, o'er a victor's brow.
I know, he said, there is a treasure hid
Amid the fading blossoms of this world,
Which satisfies the longings of the soul,
And fill its vast desires with floods of peace.
I'll go and seek it, where mankind contend
For Victory's starry crown.
From sea to sea
He wander'd, scanning eagerly the earth,
But mountain, plain, and vale were beautiful
With sweet white flowers of peace. No stains of blood
Mix'd its pollution with the laughing rill,
No foot print of the war-horse mark'd the sod
That lay so soft all bright, by field, and grove.
But scatter'd up and down, where'er he went,
Were august statues, and proud monuments,
Commemorative of the hero's fame.

At length he found him on an isle that lay
Upon the ocean, like an autumn leaf
Thrown on a world of waters, all alone.
There by an isolated monument,
He heard men say, that He who slept beneath
Won, wore, and lost, the richest diadem
That minion ever worship'd. Then they told
How like a startling meteor was his course,
With lurid lustre rising from the sea,
And passing on with fierce magnificence,
Washing his way with blood; while the earth shook
And men knelt down and worship'd, pouring forth
Loud prayers and pœans to the conqueror's name.
But woman's voice of agony was there,
Wild wailing o'er her immolated loves,
And desecrated home. At length he sunk
Beneath a “sea of flame.” And men look'd on
And wonder'd, when they saw the fallen star
Shorn of its halo—toss'd about by powers
That late stood trembling, smitten with its fear;
Until at length, on that lone ocean isle
Its light went out—forever. Sick at heart
Benelli sought the immortality
For which the buried of Saint Helena
Liv'd, spake, and acted. 'Twas a mournful scroll
Of mighty deeds, all blotted o'er with blood,
And blister'd in its proudest passages
With woman's heart-wrung tears; while every leaf
Of deathless laurel that enwreath'd his name,
Was dripping with the hot and bitter drops

By misery wrung from hearts whence he had torn
The loving and belov'd.
It is enough.
Oh I am sick of earth, Benelli said,
This beautiful bright earth, with bow'rs, and streams,
And flowers, and fruits, amid which it would seem
That Angels might be happy, yet where dwells
No perfect lasting bliss. Where death! death! death!
Is written every where. Have I not seen
The loveliest of its creatures fade, and die?
Have I not commun'd with a mighty mind,
A high pure spirit that stoop'd not to earth,
But hover'd ever on the verge of heaven,
Catching the echoes of celestial lyres,
And sending them like sweet familiar birds,
To fill with music every verdant spot
By cottage, hall, or palace? Yet he died—
Even in the day of manhood's prime, he died!
And here in this lone ocean isle is built
A tomb, to which ambition need but come
To prove his torch a death-light, and his crown
A wreath of funeral cypress, dew'd with tears.
Earth! earth! If it were mine to guide thy course
I'd hurl thee to thy fellows, in th' abyss
Of horrible confusion. There, vain hope
Comes never, to transform the evening clouds
Into a glorious miniature of heaven,
And bear the spirit on her downy wing
Up, up, toward it, till the bright hues fade,
And livid lightnings leap from the dark pile

And strike him back to earth to agonize
With disappointment, far more terrible
Than all the sullen torpor of despair.
So, recklessly he wander'd, scorning all
The cares, the hopes, the pleasures of mankind,
Till coming to a soft and quiet vale,
That lay so like the cradle of repose,
Amid the wooded mountains of the west,
He linger'd in its bosom. Cool and bright,
Beneath green willows lay the valley brook
Soft murmuring in its sleep; while blossom'd weeds
Dip'd their fair fingers in the limpid tide,
And threw the pure drops on the lingering breeze
That stole away the fragrance of their breath,
And mingled it with incense from the bloom
Of vines, that wreath the columns of a porch
Before a white-wash'd cottage, which repos'd
Beneath the shining foliage of dark oaks,
Which almost hid it from the eye of day.
There, bosom'd from the world, a lady dwelt
With one fair daughter, and the happy man
Who held that daughter's heart in nuptial bond.
Of gentle seeming was that lady's form,
And there was radiance in her eyes that shed
A sunlight o'er her pale and pensive face;
And there was music in her voice, which spoke
A woman's tender heart. Her hands were full
Of consolations, which she scatter'd free
To all the sick, the poor, the sorrowful.
Her days were pass'd in usefulness, and peace;

And evening always found her in her bower,
A sweet fair spot, beneath an aged oak
All wreath'd with mistletoe. Here, on her knees,
With lowly spirit, she pour'd forth her soul
In fervent aspiration. Angel forms
Were ever near her, with their balmy breath
To bless her, with the atmosphere of heaven;
And oft she gave thanksgiving unto God
For all the joy, the grief, the weal, the woe,
With which his loving hand had strewn her path.
Here, said Benelli, is true piety,
A gem which I had deem'd earth could not boast.
Till now I have but seen its counterfeit,
Consisting in a name, or formal dress.
But here within the oft afflicted heart
Of this meek lovely woman, it wells up
So sweet and pure, that angel ministers
May lave their shining pinions in the spring
And bear its dews to heaven. I will remain,
And learn of her, till I can offer up
That prayer, which rises to the eternal throne,
Than incense sweeter, richer than the hymns
Of raptur'd angels; even the humble voice
Wrung from the heart which feels, “Thy will be done.”

'Twas morn. The breeze was out upon the hills
Shaking the sleepy blossoms, and ripe buds
Till they awake, and offer'd unto heaven
Their treasur'd incense. Many bright wing'd birds
Like jewel'd bells amongst the airy boughs

Rung out, their joyous matins, and the light
That melted sweetly down into the vale
Seem'd mix'd of balm and music.
Mournfully
That morning enter'd through the dewy vines,
The windows of the cottage in the vale,
And dwelt upon the most heart rending scene
Of sorrow's drama. On a snow-white couch
Wrap'd in the pure habilaments of death
Was laid an infant. Like a form of wax
It was, so fair, even to transparency,
And beautifully moulded. But the lips
Were livid, and the eyes clos'd heavily,
In the eternal sleep. On that same couch
The mother languish'd like a broken flower
Which breathes the treasures of its perfumes out
At once, in dying sighs. Her soft brown hair
Lay o'er her pillow in dishevel'd curls,
And gave her high smooth forehead to the view
More pearly in its whiteness; while her cheeks
Wore each a flush, so like a wither'd rose.
The white vein'd lids lay heavy on her eyes,
So blue and deep, like fountains garner'd up
In marble basins, 'neath cerulean skies,
And on the soft dark lashes hung the last
Overflowing of their waters, for the ice
Of death was gathering o'er them. Painfully
Her bosom heav'd, and from her fading lips
Came low and fitful murmurings of prayer
And praise to her Redeemer. By her side

Stood her young loving husband, with his crush'd
And agonizing heart. Oh God! he groan'd,
I cannot—O I cannot let her go!
My own sweet wife! My loving, and belov'd,
We cannot part so soon. This bitter day—
How I have long'd for it, with trembling hope,
That I might see my child upon thy breast
And hear the dear name, father! It has come
And I am childless, widow'd, desolate.—
Oh speak not thus, dear love, the wife replied,
The Lord has done this. He does all things well.
I may not stay with thee, but thou may'st come
To be with me forever, in that world
Where death comes not, and none shall say farewell.
The widow'd mother of the dying one
Through all that painful scene, stood meekly by,
To bathe with cordial drops the quivering lips,
And with a perfum'd 'kerchief wipe away
The death dew from her forehead. Big bright tears.
Dropp'd slowly from her eyes, and from her lips
Came broken aspirations unto heaven.
Her last fond earthly hope lay broken there,
The tree which she had nurtur'd from the germ,
Which grew so fair and free, which she had deem'd
Would be a grateful shelter to her age,
Was cut down in its beauty. Yet she said
Thy will, Oh God, be done. Thy blessed will
Which takes my daughter from this world of pain
To everlasting rest.

They made a grave,
Beneath the oak tree, in the bower of pray'r;
And there, with solemn anthem unto Him
Who is the Resurrection and the Life.
They laid the wither'd blossom, and the bud,
And there at eve the childless widow knelt,
And still thanksgiving mingled with her prayer,
Thanksgiving that the treasure buried there
Had been to her a blessing, many years,
And that the gentle creature was not forced
To drink life's chalice to the bitter dregs,
But that the first keen draught of agony
Had proved the last. That she was now in Heaven,
Where through the mercy of the blessed One
She would be with her soon.
Months pass'd away,
And he who wept so agonizingly
Beside his dying wife, was comforted.
Aye—he had whisper'd to a second bride,
I never loved till now. The mother's heart
Was not of such material. No fair girl
Could lay a balm leaf on her memory,
And write her own name there. And yet she said
My blessed child needs not his yearning love—
And so she smil'd upon his happiness
And bless'd her second daughter, winning thus
The love, and gratitude of her young heart.

It was October, by the grass grown grave
The widow sat alone. The low voic'd brook
Seem'd purer underneath the deep blue arch

Of the autumnal heaven. A few sweet birds
Had made this shelter'd vale a resting place,
And from the shelter of the dark green oaks
Fill'd their sweet songs of passage. Fitful winds
Were sporting on the hillsides, shaking nuts
And acorns from the overladen trees;
And chasing to the valley bright ripe leaves,
As playful children chase the butterfly.
The nimble squirrel, and the timid mouse
Were gathering in their harvest; while the sun
Smil'd like a good man on the general joy.
The mourner view'd the scene with placid eye
And blessed the bounteous Ruler of the year,
For all his goodness. A few years at most
She said, and I shall drop from off life's tree
Like one of these ripe leaves. But I have hope
Thanks to the Merciful, a joyous hope,
Worth more to me than a whole universe
Though it were built of diamonds. None but Thou
Oh holy fount of goodness, none but Thou
Can'st satisfy the spirit. Though it rove
From star to star, and make the worlds its own,
It cannot rest, till it resigns itself
With all its treasures wholly unto thee.
No fear can reach it then, no cruel power
Wrest it from thy protection; no wild fear
Destroy its peace. It knows in whom it trusts
And therefore fears no evil. Blessed Lord!
Let me be thine, and all thy will be done.

Thy will be done! Oh God omnipotent,
Benelli said, Thy righteous will be done.
Here is the secret of all happiness.
This lone, weak woman carries in her breast
The germ my spirit-wisdom sought in vain,
Through all the ocean of space infinite,
Amid its radiant bands of sounding orbs,
And mighty angels passing to and fro,
Charg'd with the mandates of Omnipotence,
And doing all his pleasure joyfully.
But I was proud. I trusted mine own strength,
Preferring mine own will, and stubbornly
Wrestling against Jehovah. Oh how vain!
His word controls all powers. Spirits and men,
Will seek in vain for happiness or peace
Until they yield them, and find rest in him.

What waves of glory fill'd the valley then
With swelling, soul entrancing melody,
As if all heaven were passing, and its train
Of majesty and bliss had fallen there.
Then hovering round Benelli, beautiful
With that high joy, which perfect creatures feel
O'er humble penitence, shone radiant forms
Of ministering spirits. Bending low
He stood, in deep humility, and felt
Pure love, and rapture, all his being thrill.
Celestial splendour gathered round his form,
And rising in their light; amid the groups
Of glittering creatures, he returned to God.

TO A FLIGHT OF WILD GEESE.

Dark wing'd couriers of the sky,
Riding on the stormy air,
Shouting forth your clarion cry,
Winter comes, prepare! prepare!

Tell me, ye who ride the waves,
Ye who breast the thunder storm;
Issuing from the northern caves,
Saw ye winter's icy form?

Times' and seasons' mystic lore,
How did ye, wild birds, attain?
Which Astrologers of yore
Perill'd souls to find, in vain.

Read ye on the page of heaven
That which wandering planets write?
Are, by flaming meteors given
Signals of your time of flight?

Or do spirit-voices come
From the night winds' drifting car,
Whispering through your summer home
Of a lovelier land, afar?

Do ye on your mighty sails
Float majestically forth,
When the current of the gales
Rolls its billows from the North?

Tell me, Oh ye free, and strong,
Shouting thus upon the air,
Where ye love, and rear your young,
Where your summer dwellings are?

Lie they where some lucid lake
Looks to heaven with dimpling smiles,
While its whispering wavelets break
Round the feet of fairy isles?

Rich with spirit-haunted bowers
Where the languid south wind comes,
Dreaming through the noon-day hours,
Cradled by the balmy blooms.

Where as soft as angels' dreams
Lie the lingering twilight hours,
And the moon's pellucid beams
Steal like spirits through the bowers.

Where the richest grasses spread
Every where beneath your feet;
And the wild rice bends its head,
Offering a delicious treat.

Round these islands of delight,
Fearless of the threat'ning gale,
Thron'd upon the ripples bright,
Did ye like fair galleys sail?

Trac'd ye many a lovely shore
By the foot of man untrod,
Where the robe that Nature wore,
Was the handiwork of God?

Whither wing ye now your way?
Will ye pass the wintry hours
Where the placid southern sea
Sighs along enchanted shores?

Beautiful, and wing'd with might!
Free as Freedom's mountain wind;
Heedless ye pursue your flight,
Leaving trace, nor voice behind.

THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN.

How beautiful she lies, upon her pure white bed,
While pale flowers o'er her brow, a holy incense shed;
The eyelids tremble not, so peaceful is her rest,
That even her maiden heart lies silent in her breast.

Why o'er the sweet calm face, fond mother, dost thou weep,
Would'st thou awake thy child, from such a quiet sleep?
She is asleep with Him, whose love alone is pure,
Within whose presence bliss shall evermore endure.

No grief, no care, no pain, can ever pierce her heart,
No lov'd voice say again, “sweet sister, we must part!”
The living waters sweet, have quenched her spirit's thirst,
And on her soul the light of Holiness has burst.

Why weep we then for her, whose days of pain are o'er?
Bright hands have wiped her tears, and she shall shed no more.
To agony and tears, the brides of earth are given—
Oh, bless her, as she lies, the pure young bride of Heaven.

TO THE WOOD ROBIN.

Bird of the twilight hour!
My soul goes forth to mingle with thy hymn,
Which floats like slumber round each closing flower,
And weaves sweet visions through the forest dim.

Where days' sweet warblers rest,
Each gently rocking on the waving spray,
Or hovering the dear fledgelings in the nest
Without one care-pang for the coming day.

Oh, holy bird, and sweet
Angel of this dark forest, whose rich notes
Gush like a fountain in the still retreat,
O'er which a world of mirror'd beauty floats.

My spirit drinks the stream,
Till human cares and passions fade away;
And all my soul is wrapp'd in one sweet dream,
Of blended love, and peace, and melody.

Sweet bird! that wak'st alone
The moonlight echoes of the flowery dells,
When every other wing'd lute is flown,
And insects sleeping all in nodding bells.

I bow my aching head,
And wait the unction of thy voice of love;
I feel it o'er my weary spirit shed,
Like dew from balmy flowers that bloom above.

O! when the loves of earth
Are silent birds, at close of life's long day;
May some pure seraphim of heavenly birth,
Bear on its holy hymn, my soul away.

AUTUMN.

Autumn is in the forest, hymning forth
A wild farewell to summer. All sweet birds
Hear her low voice, and lift their shining wings,
With answering chorus of soft melody,
Pure as a seraph song—and float away
Upon the swelling anthem, toward the South,

O'er whose warm beauties, the inconstant sun,
Which turns so carelessly from our cold clime,
Hangs evermore rejoicing. Summer friends
Are those soft vested warblers; when the grove
Is full of joy and beauty, they are there,
Gladdest and brightest of all lovely things.
But when the sun withdraws his fervid smile,
When beauty languishes, and joy no more
Stirs nature's sentient pulse, they too depart;
Leaving the shadowy galleries of the wood
To the lone pinions of the sobbing wind,
Which mourns the bright departed, yet leads on
The cheerful Autumn, with her generous hand
And deep blue loving eye. So kindly now
She bids the little flowers lie down and sleep,
And spreads above them gorgeous covering
Of full ripe foliage, which the forest trees
Cast from them, at her bidding. Now she shakes
The brown nuts from the boughs, and calls aloud
To merry squirrel, and the timid mouse,
“Fill your store-houses now, for winter comes!
I hear the echo of his chariot wheels,
Amongst the icebergs of the frozen sea,
That walls his sanctuary in the North
From man's adventurous footstep.” At her words
The little sportive creatures skip around,
And gather up her bounty. While the deer
Feed on the acrid acorns, or pick up
Sweet chestnuts on the hill.

Autumn is kind
And bountiful to all. While unto man
She brings the treasures of corn, fruits, and wine;
She spreads the forest-dwellers' plenteous feast,
Of nuts, and seeds, and berries, and wild grapes,
By mountain, plain, and river.
Beautiful
Is Autumn, in her bright maturity,
Array'd in regal purple, and rich gold,
And bearing gifts from Him, whose open hand
Fills every living thing with plenteousness.
Queen of the year, is Autumn. Majesty
Sits like a diadem upon her brow;
The smile of heaven is in her clear blue eye,
As with a passionless, and gracious mien
She walks the quiet earth, and every where
By forest, field and garden, hill and dell,
Writes words of wisdom, which the young and old,
The high and low, may read, and understand,
And practise, and grow better.

TO THE WHIPPOORWILL.

Bird of the evening, hast thou come
With thy familiar minstrelsy,
To chant in this, my wild wood home.
The song that pleas'd my infancy?

Oh wildly sweet, thy thrilling note
Stirs all the depths of memory;
And forms of bliss and beauty float,
Commingled with thy melody.

Oh, I am in my native land
Once more, a little joyous child,
Amongst the bright and happy band
On whom a fair young mother smil'd.

I see my blessed native place,
The nodding grove, the verdant vale,
The grain-clad hill, the orchard trees,
The shrubbery tossing to the gale.

The city by the river-side
With heavenward spire, and shining dome;
The laden vessels, on the tide
From ocean journeys sweeping home.

My father's house, that dearest place,
In all that dear and blessed land,
Where love, and piety, and peace,
Presided o'er the cherish'd band.

Each inmate of that dear abode
By memory's steady light I see,—
Though some are long ago with God,
And all are far away from me.

Each dear familiar tree and flower,
By river-side, or rocky glen,
Is bright and beautiful this hour,
In fancy, as I deem'd it then.

And I can dream thy vesper sweet,
So musically wild and shrill,
Rings from the quince tree, then the seat
Of my familiar whippoorwill.

I see that smile, so fond so bright,—
And now, a voice is in mine ear.
“The whippoorwill has sung good night,”
“Now come to bed my children dear.”

The lamp is plac'd, the prayers are said,
A mother's hymn is wooing sleep.
No thorns were on that pillow spread,
I had not learned to watch and weep.

The song is hush'd—the vision fled,
Reality resumes her reign.
Come, my own little ones to bed,
Your mother's heart is yours again.

THE TURKISH LADY TO HER EUROPEAN LOVER.

No! no! I cannot listen,—thou fair son
Of the fair frozen North. There is no glow
Of ardent passion in thy pale blue eyes.
I look into their liquid depths as one
Would search the still lakes of thy native land,
And they are just as cold and passionless.
If I should listen to thee, would thy heart
Which never beat defiance unto pride
Or rigid prudence, be a fair exchange
For mine, with its wild pulses of delight,
And omnipotent passions? Would the love
Of our impassion'd hearts be understood
By thee, to whom such fervour must appear
A wild and empty fable? No! ah, no.
Our hearts could never blend.
Yet, could'st thou love
With all the ardour of my sunny clime,
Should I forsake my home, my blessed home,
Which wealth has made a very paradise
Of incense, fountains, flowers, and melodies,
Health, and voluptuous ease, for those drear halls
In which the northern ladies shiver round
The heated stove, though wrapp'd in wool and furs,
While winter, shaking snow-drifts from his wings,
Shrieks round the trembling mansion? Oh, my heart
Grows chilly, as I think of that cold clime—

Thou say'st I am a captive, bought with gold
And cag'd like some young song bird. That my lord
Reigns, a stern tyrant o'er the beauteous girls
That languish in his harem.
To mine ear
Such words are strange—aye, very foolishness.
If my lord priz'd my beauty more than gold,
Is that not proof he lov'd me?—I am told
That your cold countrymen will take a wife
Of loathsome person, and imbecile mind,
If she but bring them money, which they prize
Above all female loveliness and worth,
Or fond and pure affection. I have heard
That your most beauteous maids may bloom, and fade
Neglected in your valleys; left to weep,
And die, beneath the burden of hard toil,
Despis'd, and trampled on, if they possess
No glittering stores, to buy a husband with!—
In noble generosity, my lord
Gives golden thousands for one modest bud
That grows in beauty by some mountain spring,
Or streamlet of the valley. Cast away
Thy prejudice, and look with candid eye
Upon this fair and gentle sisterhood,
Which Achmet calls his treasures. Each is fair,
And each has her own style of loveliness,
And our lord loves us all. His heart has room
For every trait of beauty, form and hue,
Just as your eye may take in a boquet
Of many brilliant flowers, and love them all.

Are we not happy? Have our hearts one wish
That is not gratified? Do we not seem
Like gentle spirits, in the paradise
Which pious moslems visit in their dreams?
We all adore our lord, and 'tis our joy
To do his pleasure, and our sweet reward
Is his dear smile of love. We know no care;
But in his absence sport away the hours
In every girlish pastime. We are slaves
Alone to love and pleasure. Our glad hearts
And soft small hands, are free from every stain
Of sordid care or toil. We only live
To dress, and laugh, and dance, and gather flowers
And wear them till they fade, and then the wreath
Is thrown aside, without a passing sigh
And replac'd by a richer.
Were it wise,
Think'st thou, to barter slavery such as this
For freedom that bows down beneath the chains
Of toil, and care, and sorrow, and gaunt want?
Oh! what has woman, frail and beautiful,
To do with freedom?—God, who made man free,
Gave woman as his solace. When he bade
Man earn his bread in sweat, and bitter toil,
He made him lord of woman, and decreed
That she should yield obedience to his sway
And meekly do his bidding. Wherefore then
Should woman talk of freedom, and affect
The tone of liberty? Is it not plain
That she is man's dependent, he her lord?

Or can your sophistries and glozings cheat
Her into a belief that she is free,
While your stern sceptre lies upon her head
Bending it downward, even when you smile.
Thou call'st my lord a despot, and unjust,
That while he gathers to himself a host
Of fair young girls, and revels in their love,
If one, on whom he seldom deigns to smile
Shall dare to love another—strait the sack
Is ready for the victim of the sea.
Yet this, I deem, is mercy. Could'st thou know
The worthlessness of life to woman's heart,
When it has lost its purity, and lies
Tossed on the billows that can never know
The blessed calm of peace,—when she endures
The serpent writhings of the cherish'd sin
Which she is sure will sting her unto death,
And yet has not the power to tear away,
From the polluted shrine, which never more
Can be the seat of conscious innocence,
Or truth, or holy calm,—when heaven is lost
And sin's dark record written on her brow,
'Tis time that she should die.
I would not live
(Slave as I am to Achmet) if my heart
Could feel the rush of passion at thy name,
Or tremble at thy presence. The fierce war
'Twixt love and duty, the degrading sense
Of perfidy, that would pierce through my soul
When my lord smiled on me, crushing me down

Beneath his feet, a poor polluted thing,
While sharp fang'd fears, like never-dying worms
Should prey upon my spirit.—Surely these
Would make the white shroud, and the deep dark sea
A refuge, to be long'd for.—But thou say'st
“A fit of groundless jealousy, or rage
May give the waves a victim.”—Be it so.
When love is chang'd to hate, or dark distrust,
'Tis better that the innocent should die,
Than live and feel its scourgings.
What is life
That we should fear to leave it, when it seems
Like some fair garden, where a blight has been,
And made each beauteous blossom, and fair bud,
A blacken'd piteous thing? While from beneath
The blighted foliage, gleam the hideous eyes
Of basilisk, and adder,—when the air
Is pestilence, and every sound a moan.

Thou art the insidious fiend, whose touch would change
My paradise of innocence and peace
To such a fearful ruin! Get thee hence!
I cannot, will not love thee—Woman's bliss
Is Purity.—Her dearest jewel, Truth.

MICHAL, SAUL'S DAUGHTER.

A Romance.

1. CHAPTER I.

It was a bridal chamber, garnish'd forth
With gems, and gold, and purple, and rich wreaths,
Where silver lilies breath'd upon the breast
Of Sharon's velvet roses, and their sweets
Were mingling with the incense, that stole forth
From humbler blossoms, sweet as childhood's prayer.
Oh, what enchanting scenes
Of rich and varied beauty, lay outspread
Beneath the windows, where the crimson folds
Of the rich tapestry were drawn aside
By chains of wreathen gold. The lovely vales
With peaceful herds, and highly cultur'd fields,
The rich corn waving on the gentle slope,
The dark-leav'd graceful olive bending slow
In adoration, as the breezes pass'd,
Bearing its voice to heaven. The hill-side crown'd
With rich green vineyards, where a blessing dwelt;
The streamlets, lying on the mountain's breast,
Like chains of sparkling diamonds, falling low
Into earth's lap, the valley's, resting there
In glittering clusters, mid her robes of green.
The far off Libanus, with cedar plumes
Nodding in heaven's blue mirror, with the pride
Of a stanch warrior, while the smiling heaven

Look'd down, as if with pride, on such a scene
Of glowing beauty. The dim misty hills
Where every crevic'd rock was wreath'd with bloom
Inhabited, and stored with honey combs;
While from the sycamore that bow'd and smil'd
To its own image, in the mirror'd fount
Gush'd swells of trancing bird songs, floating soft
Upon the living breeze, which came by fits,
Coquetting with the heavy tapestry
Of that fair bridal chamber.
Can it be
That there are aching hearts, and tearful eyes,
In such a place, amid such glorious scenes?
Alas! for earthly grandeur, pomp, and power,
Magnificence and beauty. Seated there
Enfolded fondly in each other's arms,
Are Saul's two queenly daughters. Ne'er did eye
Rest on a brighter pair. So fair, so young,
So form'd of beauty, grace, and majesty.
The one a bride—deck'd out most gloriously
In regal splendour, while her dark clear eyes
Though overflowing, like a troubled spring,
Dwelt on her fair young sister with a look
Full of deep happiness, and joyful love,
As 'neath the ripples of the ruffled fount,
Lies the reflection of the brilliant heaven.
Sister, she whisper'd—since the hour has come
Which severs our communion, which has been
So perfect, and so sweet, wilt thou not now
Confide to me the sorrow, which of late

Has liv'd amongst thy roses, eating still
The crimson beauties, from thy down-cast face?
Sister! My only one! My heart has griev'd
To see how thine was aching, and mine eyes
Have wept to see the salt springs well from thine.
Nay, hide not thus thine eyes within my vest,
What should a pure young heart like thine, conceal?

Michal.
Love, sister! I should hide it from myself—
From thee and Israel's God. I have not been
The artless innocent which thy fond love
Has deem'd me, in its doting. Could'st thou know
How I have envied thee, how I have long'd
To snatch the cup of blessing from thy lip,
Though its last smile went with it! Sister, dear!
Loose not thy fond embrace, 'tis over now,
And even then when I had felt to smile
Beside thine early death-bed, sure I am
That death has nothing keener than the pangs
That wrung and scorched my spirit.

Merab.
Lov'st thou Adriel?

Michal.
Sister! No.
If I lov'd him I would not now tell thee.
My heart is his to whom thou wast betroth'd,
E'er any knew to whom thy heart was given.

Merab.
Poor child! Thy lack of confidence in me
Has cost thee dear indeed. One little word
Had sav'd thee all thy pain and bitterness.

David is formed to win a heart like thine,
Which only loves the great and beautiful;
But I prefer the violet to the rose,
And love Adriel better far than him.

Michal.
Better! As if there were degrees in love!
My passion is exclusive. I can see
No excellence—no love exciting worth
In any man but David. I am not
Temper'd as thou, who couldst have meekly stood
With one beside the altar, while thy heart
Was throbbing for another. No command,
Even from our royal father, ever shall
Force me to give my hand, without love in it.

Merab.
God wrought for me, my sister. While I bowed
With womanly submission to the will
Of him, whom God has made my sire and king,
I prayed with fervour for support from heaven.
And He in whom I trusted, brought about,
Without my aid, this happy change for me.
Look unto him, sweet sister.

Michal.
Merab! cease.
I cannot feel as thou dost. I will strive
With mortals like myself; and leave to God
The issue of the combat. I would wed
The man I love, if his heart was with mine,
Though earth and heaven forbade it. Thou said'st well,

That I can only love the beautiful
And eminently great. And what I love
I love to adoration. From that day
In which we went, with all the maiden train,
To hail our conquering father, when I saw
The youthful Bethlehemite, in shepherd garb,
Bearing in his fair hand the ghastly head
Of dread Goliath, dripping blood the while,—
Aye—from that day I loved him! Beautiful
He is, as aught that ever fancy dream'd,
And great he look'd even then, despite his dress,
And cheeks of maiden roses. When our band
Struck the full chorus, and ascrib'd to him
A tenfold honour, though our father's brow
Grew dark with fear and anger, my heart glow'd
With exultation, and I do believe
That he will reign, in our fall'n father's stead.
Nay, sister, wherefore tremble, and turn pale?
Has not the Seer pronounc'd our father's doom—
That God will rend the kingdom from his hand
And give it to another? In that day
When Saul's proud head bows down, and the crown falls
From his pale brow; amongst whose wavy curls
Shall its bright circlet glitter? I can see
Its light even now amid the shining locks
O'er David's forehead clustering.

Merab.
Oh, forbear!
What horrid visions of death, shame, and wo,
Do thy words conjure up. My spirit faints

With very horror, as my fancy paints
My noble father low amongst the dead,
Weltering in gore, from out his own high heart;
And my young brothers—beautiful and brave,
Ghastly, and cold beside him; while the foe
Shout forth their savage triumph.

Michal.
Yet that day
Will surely come, my sister. I have seen
A soul-benumbing vision. Even now
My eyes and brain are reeling, and my heart
Grows faint and cold, with its remember'd dread.

Merab.
Sister, what hast thou done?

Michal.
A deed from which
The sternest soul might shrink. But it was love,
Omnipotent and all-subduing love,
With its tormenting doubts, and demon fears,
That urged me to explore the dreadful depths
Of the forbidden future. So I went
To Endor, to the witch, who still eludes
Our father's vigilance, and with her spells
Enchants the living, and commands the dead.
The awe, with which I sought her, was increas'd
By her majestic presence; and her eye—
Oh, what a power was in it. I have seen
Hundreds of lovely women, and fair girls,
But she is strangely beautiful, beyond
Aught that my eyes have seen, or fancy seign'd.

I trembled in her presence, ere her spells
Disturb'd the world of spirits, and brought forth
Her own familiar genii, who unbarr'd
Futurity's dark gate, and bade me look
Upon her sacred treasures. I beheld
Sights that engrav'd themselves upon my soul
As drawn by living lightning. I grow sick,
I will not sketch the picture unto thee;
It is enough that I must agonize
With dire anticipation. But I saw
David enthron'd, and crown'd in august state,
Obey'd and honour'd; and I was his wife.
But, sister, the bright eyes that mine adore
Turn'd on me, full of scorn, and bitterness—
And I beheld no more.

Merab.
Oh Michal! Michal!
Thou hast sinn'd fearfully. Yet I will pray
That God will have compassion on thy youth;
And so avert the punishment, which else
Will darken all thy future, upon which
Thou hast profanely gazed. Nay, wave not thus
Thy beautiful proud head, and curl thy lip;
Be not offended at poor Merab now,
Nor let us longer mar with bitter words,
This day of bridal gladness. Hark, how sweet
The tones of David's harp blend with the breeze
That plays so freshly with thy rose-wreath'd curls.
My sister, be compos'd. I will require
A royal boon, on this my bridal morn;
The king, our father, will not say me nay,

And I will ask that thou shalt be bestow'd
Upon the minstrel warrior. Oh! what sounds
Of spirit-soothing melody gush forth
As he unlocks the mystic spells, that sleep
Within the magic harp strings, while his voice
Richer and sweeter still, in rapturous hymns,
Like holy incense, mingling with the air
Floats gratefully to heaven. And David's eyes,
And voice, and heart, are heavenward. I am sure
He cannot worship woman, for his soul
Adores the God. He will but love his wife
As a rich gift from Him, and prize her love
Only as it is holy, and subdued,
To the pure law of heaven. Will such a love
Suffice a heart like thine? a glowing heart
On fire with passion? Much I fear that thou
Would'st claim the worship which his pious soul
Will ever pay to God.—The bridegroom comes,
Go thou to meet him, sister, while I strive
To chase these crimson joys, back, to the deep
And silent sanctuary of the heart,
Where none may read them.

2. CHAPTER II.

Who sits within the bridal chamber now,
Adorn'd with broider'd robes, and flashing gems,
And wreaths of snowy blossoms? She is fair—
Beauty's perfection looks, and moves, and speaks,
Throughout her sumptuous person. All too fair

She seems for this dark earth—too glorious
To be a creature of the race which bows
To death, to pain, and sorrow. Dark-ey'd maids
Are busy round her—each with ready hand
Adding some ornament, some gem, some grace,
Till art is quite exhausted. Bending now
With looks of adoration, at her feet,
They kiss her robe's bright border, and withdraw,
And she is left alone. And there she stands
Amongst the garner'd treasures of the earth,
Peerless in radiant beauty.
But, wherefore does the brooch of opal stone,
That clasps the aerial drapery o'er her breast;
Glitter so, like a dew-drop in the sun?
'Tis trembling with the quick convulsive throbs
That heave the breast beneath it. The white hands
Are clasp'd in the strong language of despair,
Despite the dazzling bracelets, and rich rings
That give and borrow beauty. Big bright tears
Fall down and mingle with the diamond chains
That sparkle on her bosom; while the pearl
Contests the rose's place upon her cheek
And beautiful curv'd lips. The sweet breath comes
In deep quick sobs, and goes in plaintive moans
Of melancholy music.
Michal! love!
Her bridegroom's arm is round her graceful form.
She shudders, shrinks, and droops across his arm,
So like a blossom, wounded at the heart
And wilted in its glory. Her dark curls

Sweep the rich pavement, and the bridal wreath
Falls from amongst their clusters. Omen dire!—
To bridegroom's hopeful heart. And now his cheeks
Grow pale as water lilies, as he lifts
And lays that marble face against his breast,
Which throbs with love and terror. He has lov'd
Long, well, and wearily; and with a love
Which has so bent the spirit of the man,
That he is fain to rest his dearest hopes
Upon a bosom where the heart within
Is aching for another, while he knows
That it has been a throbbing pillow, for
That other's glowing cheek.—And he believes,
Such is the simple waywardness of man,
That by devotion, and untiring zeal,
And smiles, like summer sunshine seen, and felt,
He can allure that heart from its first love,
And teach its pulse to vibrate to the touch
Of his well-tried affection. He should pray
For wisdom from on high, and school his heart
To patience, and forbearance, who attempts
A task so tedious, so nigh lorn of hope.—
Now to his heart Phaltiel clasps the form
Of his unconscious bride, and on her lips
Never till now resign'd to his caress,
Presses fond kisses. David—my lov'd lord!
She murmurs forth, as she revives, and clasps
Her alabaster arms around his neck.
His spirit writhes, but he retains her form
Until her opening eyes meet his, and then
Her clasp unlooses, and her eyes fill fast,

While her form trembles. Yet with strong resolve
She conquers her emotion, and sits down
Calmly, beside her lord.—Oh, woman's heart!
How mightily it struggles with its pangs,
And locks up agonies that would burst through
The iron breast of man. Her cheek is pale,
But in the arm he holds, the tell-tale pulse
Is throbbing wildly, and he feels how great,
How bitter is her trial. Soft he speaks,
And strives to win her mind back from the maze
Of agonizing memories.—How can she—
David's adoring wife—She for whose sake
He gave himself to danger, and perform'd
High feats of valour, which provok'd the fear
And envious hatred of the royal Saul,
'Till she was forced by stratagem to save
Her husband, from the vengeance of her sire.
And he is living. How can she bestow
Her hand upon another, and receive
The nuptial benediction? Yet the will
Of man decreed, and woman must submit.

The years that pass along with equal pace
Spite of the myriad voices that cry out
Speed on! speed on! Spite of the frenzied shrieks,
And prayers, and wailings, of the throngs that plead
A little longer! and lie down, and die,
Or sit in utter darkness of despair,
Bewailing all the flowers, and tender buds,
And worshipp'd baubles, that lie crush'd, and strown

Upon the darken'd pathway.—Years have passed:
The slender blossom'd twig, has now become
A full leaf'd bough, adorn'd with tender fruit.
How beautiful, within her husband's house
She seems, amongst her children; while the love
Which like a river, from its numerous springs,
Flows on for ever with a ceaseless song,
Replying to the music of heaven's hosts,
Which smile to see their shadows trembling deep
Within its liquid mirror,—that pure love
Which laves no other bosom under heaven,
Than that on which its own dear babe has lain,
Was flowing sweetly now, through Michal's heart,
As on her knee her youngest cherub smil'd,
And little laughing fellows gamboll'd round—
Now skipping up to kiss the idol babe,
Or climbing, to embrace with round white arm
The mother's pearly neck.
Phaltiel gazes on the group with pride,
Feeling that all its beauty, innocence,
And promise is his own. With lingering gaze
Of blissful love, he pauses at the door,
As he obeys a summons, to attend
A messenger, on business from his king.
Michal, who met that fond triumphant look,
Felt her cheek crimson. Years of placid life
With every blessing crown'd, and those fair babes,
Had bound her to her Phaltiel with a tie
Of calm and grateful friendship. Yet when fame
Proclaim'd the deeds, the glories, and the power,
Of her young heart's ador'd and loving lord,

Keen pangs pierc'd through her bosom. Yet the pride
That made her long to share his regal throne
Came ever to her aid; for she believ'd
That he had ceased to love her,—that he thought
Of Michal, as the daughter of a house
Denounc'd of God, and fallen. And she felt
The cold and withering glance which she beheld
At Endor, in her vision, in her soul;
While her fond husband's deep and generous love
Seem'd to reproach her that her heart was still
The captive of a man who loved her not.
Oh, God of mercy! was the bitter cry,
That fell in startling accents on her ear,
As he who left her late, so full of joy,
Re-enter'd pale and trembling. Quick she springs
And clasps her arm around him, while the babe,
With one hand round her neck, grasps his dark curls
And puts his little laughing face to his.
Dear father, what has happened? was the cry,
With which his little sons came clustering round,
With looks of wild alarm.

Michal.
My honor'd lord,
What can distress you thus? May I not share
The grief that tortures you?

Phaltiel.
No, Michal! No.
You will not share my sorrows, yet, I hope
That you will pity them. Oh, selfish love!
That I should wish to mar thy happiness
With memories of me! Yet so to part!

Oh, Michal—Michal—canst thou bear to go
From thine adoring husband? Canst thou part
For ever, from thy children? Canst thou lay
That little nestling cherub from thy breast,
And turn from it for ever? That caress,
That close and fond embrace must be the last
Which that poor infant will receive from thee.
David hath claim'd thee—and my king hath sent
His veteran general, Abner—to demand
And bear thee straight to Hebron. Thou wilt go
To thy first love, to all the glittering state
And pride of royalty. But I shall be
Bereft, and sorrowful, a widow'd man.
And thy poor babes will cling about my knees,
And ask for thee with tears; and sorrow's blight
Shall mildew their young spirits, while they see
Their father ever mourning for the light
Of their lost mother's face. But Abner waits:
Alas! that I should say it—dearest, haste;
He waits thee in our hall.
Her trembling heart
Is well nigh bursting with the counter-tides
Of joy and sorrow, and her changing cheek
Betrays the alternate sway. Phaltiel's heart
Grows cold, and heavy, as she seems to shrink
Away from his embrace. With one long sigh
He drops his trembling hands, and turns away,
A crush'd and stricken man. One tender kiss
She presses on her infant's smiling lips,
Then lays it gently on its little couch;
And glancing on her hush'd and wondering boys,

Till tears come gushing from their deep heart fount,
And overflow her eye-lids—turns away.
And hastens from the chamber, and is soon
With Abner, at the gate. Phaltiel's soul
Is bow'd to infant weakness; and he sobs
Like a forsaken girl. His wife—his love—
The mother of his children—she to whom
His youthful heart was wedded, and around
Whose angel presence, every tender string,
And fibre of his being has entwin'd,
Till life and she are blended—she must go
To love and bless another; and his heart,
And house, and children, must be desolate.
His grief is so intense that manhood's pride
Falls down before it, as the lofty pine
Yields to the hurricane. Lost in the night
And wilderment of wo, he follows on,
Weeping along behind her, till at length
Abner, with stern command, bids him return.
Then, with one lingering look, one silent prayer,
He turns toward his desolated home,
A broken-hearted man. And Michal feels
Relief that he is gone, and in her ear
The voice of his lamenting, died away.

3. CHAPTER III.

Why are the valleys sere? Why are the hills
So bare and joyless? Wherefore stand the herds
Lowing beside the wells? Why are the flocks

Roaming along the beds of the dry brooks
And bleating piteously? Why are the vines
So light of clusters? Wherefore are the trees
So bare of leaves, or fruit? Why are the birds
So still amongst the boughs, with wings droop'd down?
Why is the husbandman so wo-begone,
And wherefore does he sow with bitter tears
His bare, and burning fields? [OMITTED]
There's blood upon the land; the guiltless blood
That Saul pour'd out at Gibeah, when he sought
(Regardless of the solemn covenant,
Sworn in Jehovah's name, by Israel's lords,)
To root the remnant of the Amorites
From their possessions, in their father land.
That blood now cries for vengeance; and the soil
In its pollution, asks of Heaven, in vain,
The shower and vernal dew. Heaven will not hear
Until these fatal stains are wash'd away,
With streams of the offender's lineal blood.
Who shall atone for Gibeah? Whose warm heart
Shall pour the dread oblation? Who shall go
From heaven's glad sunlight, from the hymning earth,
From all the fond entwining ties of love,
To death's cold silent shade, to give his blood
In expiation of ancestral crime?

Hark! there is mourning in the palace halls—
The voice of bitter weeping gushes forth
From arch'd and rich wreath'd casement. Michal, Queen?

King David's wife, and daughter of king Saul,
What wrings thy bosom now? See where she kneels,
All pale and negligent, with head bow'd down
Upon her broider'd cushions. Gold and gems
Lie strown around her, disregarded now.
Her haughty soul is humbled, for she prays,
And weeps, before Jehovah.—
Who is this
That steals into the chamber, spirit-like?
Her perfect face is wasted, and so pale
That one might deem it marble; and the hand,
That grasps her mourning drapery is so thin,—
So like a wither'd lily,—and her eyes,
Her large dark lustrous eyes, are full of wo,—
Of such expression, as if they had seen
The last of all they lov'd to look upon,
Wither'd away before them. Yet there dwells
A meek expression on her faded lips,
And in the bend of her majestic form,
That seems to say—Amen.
'Tis done—she said,
Advancing close to Michal, as she knelt,
And placing that thin hand, so piteously,
Upon her shining tresses—It is done,
The expiatory sacrifice is now
Accepted of Jehovah. Hush your moans,
And bid your tears cease flowing. God has heard
Our prayers, and seen the sorrows of our hearts;
And our submission, and deep penitence
Have risen like sweet incense to his throne,

And he has pitied us. Look up to heaven,
See how his swift-wing'd messengers of peace
Are gathering above us. Even now
They shake from dark'ning plumes, the cooling drops
Brighter than diamonds, and more precious far.
Let us adore his name, and humbly own
That he is just, that he is merciful,
Although our hearts are bleeding. Have we not
Been proud, profanely proud, and arrogant,
Although we are but frail and worthless weeds
Upon his pathway?
Michal—I have felt
The very bitterness of sin and wo,
As all alone I sat upon the rock,
Watching by day and night, to keep away
The hateful beasts and birds, that prowl'd around
With gloating glaring eyes—and screaming forth
Their horrid longings for the blackening flesh
Of our unconscious children. Oh! what hours
Of agony, passed o'er me—as the shades
Of night lay heavy round me, where I sat,
With dry and quivering eye-balls, glancing round,
In extreme terror—as the fox, the dog,
And fierce hyena, crouch'd with flaming eyes,
And low and sullen growlings; while the gleam
Of those dead faces, with their livid light
Added to terror all the pangs of grief.
Oh! it was dreadful! past the power of speech,
To picture to the mind. Yet still I kept

My watch unshrinking, for the fervent love
Which my heart cherish'd, for the beautiful,
The brave, but erring Saul. A love, which, since
Its chosen sanctuary in his breast,
Was cold and broken, has dwelt tremblingly
Amongst his children, and which hover'd still
Around the ruin'd temples of its hopes,
And kept its mournful watch. But yesternight
About the midnight hour, my weary frame
Sunk under its exhaustion. Yet the prayer
Still linger'd on my lips, and still my soul
Was wakeful on the watch. And, lo, there came
A rushing breeze, oh! sweeter than the breath
Of holy incense, in the golden vase,
Before the Mercy Seat; and with it blent
A wreathen melody, which fill'd my soul
With peace, and consolation. Mortal lips
Ne'er breath'd so soft a strain, and naught of earth
Could ever penetrate and sooth the mind
With such a flood of sweetness. I arose,
And lo! amid a halo of soft light,
Stood seven effulgent creatures. Oh! what bliss
Thrill'd through my spirit, as their glorious eyes
Beam'd lovingly upon me, and I knew
Our disembodied children. Oh! how vain
Poor Nature's joys, and sorrows, hopes and fears,
And loves, appear'd that moment, as I look'd
Upon the spiritual eternal world,
Where God is all in all, and where his will

Is understood; where these dark walls of clay,
No more can cast their shadows on the page
Of his wise purposes. I am content,
My children are at peace. Beyond the reach
Of envy and ambition, strife or death.
Could'st thou have seen the light of blessedness
Which play'd about their faces: could'st thou see
The smiles with which they beckon'd me; the bliss
Which was apparent, as they look'd to heaven,
And vanish'd from my sight, thou would'st bow down,
And pour thine ardent gratitude to God.
Day broke upon the earth, and I arose.
But oh! how different were my feelings now,
As once again I look'd upon the clay
That had enshrin'd my angels. That, was mine;
Alas! how weak, and vile, how worthless now!
To God belong the spirits, bright and strong,
And perfect, as I saw them.
I have thought
That you and I were cruelly bereft,
Of our own treasures, for I could not feel
That God is lord of all. And yet we know
That he who rears a bullock for himself
Will put it to his use, despite the moans
Of the poor dam that nurs'd it, and we feel
That he has done no wrong. Then should not God
The merciful, the perfect, use his own
At his good pleasure? Though to you or me
His creatures also, was assign'd the task

O swatching fondly for a little while
The beings of his will.

Michal.
Amen. Amen.
His righteous will be done. He is all wise.
Michal is childless, and the house of Saul
Is now, well nigh, extinct. No son of mine
As once I fondly hoped, shall blend the blood
Of Saul, and David, and reign peacefully,
Combining every rival interest
In one broad flood of glory. But the Lord
Had otherwise determin'd, and His will
Is holiness. Oh, Rispah! I have proved
The vanity of all earth's gorgeous things,
Her beauty, and her loves. All have been mine
In their perfection. Yet behold me now—
Michal, Saul's daughter, reft and desolate,
Joyless and hopeless; bending to the place
Of darkness, and oblivion. Pride has wrought
The downfall of my house. Pride has destroy'd
My earthly happiness, and almost been
My everlasting ruin. But the Lord
Has followed me in mercy; and my heart
Is humbled now, and contrite, and I feel
Despite these tears, a peace so deep, and sweet,
That I would not exchange it for the bloom
Of all my perish'd hopes. Hark! to the dirge,
The sweetly solemn anthem of the train,
Sent by my royal husband to convey
The gather'd relics of Saul's family
To holy sepulture, beside their sires.

The mournful melody breathes to my soul,
King David's sorrow for the royal house
Which sinned itself away. I know he mourns
Deeply, for me and mine; though on him rest
The blessings we rejected. May the Lord
Bless him for ever; when the name of Saul
Is utterly forgotten.

MY DIAMOND CHAIN.

My ornaments! My ornaments!
My precious diamond chain!
How gaily it has clasp'd my neck,
And on my bosom lain;
It was my joy, it was my pride,
My never wearying care,
To guard and keep my diamond chain
For ever pure, and fair.

For this I toil'd, for this I pray'd,
For this I fear'd and wept,
For this I kept my weary watch,
While all around me slept.
In every storm I clasp'd the chain
Still closer to my heart,
And felt that from the smallest gem
I could not bear to part.

Where is it now? My diamond chain!
Alas, the mournful day,
In which death wrench'd the clasps in twain,
And bore one gem away.
Years glided, and the priceless things
Departed, one by one,
As love, or death, alternate claim'd
The brightest, as their own.

No earthly power, no worldly wealth,
My treasures can restore,
I miss their warmth, I miss their light;—
Oh, I am lone, and poor!
Alas that aught should ever break
So bright and dear a chain,
Which once dissever'd, never can
On earth be join'd again.

Oh! never more in links of love
Around me shall it twine;
Oh, keep th' imperishable things
Eternal Father, thine.
Oh, hear; for the Redeemer's sake
A lonely mourner's prayer,
And when thou mak'st thy jewels up,
May all my gems be there.

THE WILD WOOD LYRE.

Yes, I will go down to the hemlock dell,
Where the pure young breezes play,
Where the waters gush with a witching swell,
Of dreamy melody.
Where the wild bird warbles her lullaby,
As the free winds rock her nest,
And the mountain doe comes stealing by,
To her quiet place of rest.
Where the wild bee swings in the dewy flower,
With a low delicious hum,
And the diamond drops of the blessed shower
Like welcome strangers come,
Through branches, which more than a hundred years,
Have shadow'd the holy spot,
Lest the sun-beam should kiss away the tears,
Of sweet forget-me-not.
At the foot of a laurel where violets grow,
In this sweet romantic dell,
The wild wood lyre is murmuring low,
Its spirit-wild'ring spell.
Oh, dreamily tender its hymning rings,
The fairy-trod dell along,—
I will go and waken its living strings,
For harmony and song.
Awaken! wild harp of the wood-land bower!
(My hand was amongst its chords)
Oh, burden the winds with thy magic power,
And soul-entrancing words.

Oh, tell of young innocence, truth, and love,
Or the precious meed of Fame;
Or chant that title all price above
The patriot's spotless name.
Or mingle those themes so pure and high,
Into one soul-thrilling tale—
Hark! from the wild lyre a shivering sigh,
A low, and plaintive wail.—
It will not respond to a touch of mine,
Or obey my prompting mind,
'Tis nature's own lyre, and is half divine,—
Its minstrel is the wind.
And now the melodious spirit comes,
I hear his viewless wings,
Like the music of myriad angels' plumes,
In earthward wanderings.
The tall trees are waving their crested heads,
Majestically slow;
The wild flowers worship, and through the shades
Their fragrant offerings flow.
Ah! now he is wooing the living strings,
Which reply so soft, and low;
As the young bruis'd heart's last murmurings
In melting music flow.

LAY OF THE LYRE.

How like a glorious dream
That flies before the tide of busy day,

From the eternal mountain, vale, and stream,
The crown has pass d away!

Like some deep mystery
Seems that wild race, that through the forest rov'd,
Inseparable in its history,
From the green bowers they lov'd.

None knoweth whence they came;
Coeval with the forest they have been;
In glory, and in destiny the same,
They held their glorious reign.

But, as the forest fell,
Yielding the sceptre of its ancient sway,
Leaving each tender flower, and fairy dell,
To the broad blaze of day.

And when the green-rob'd crowd,
Departed from the plains, and valley lands;
When patriarch beech, and giant hemlock bow'd
Beneath the axe-man's hand.

When the majestic pine,
The living banner Freedom's hand had flung,
Above her mighty altars, where the shrine
Of heaven's pure gladness hung.

When these were rudely riven
From the high places where their giant forms,
Had brav'd the thunders, and the winds of heaven,
And wrestled with the storms.

With them fell down the pride,
The vital glory of those free-born breasts;
The forest fell; the dark-brow'd hunter died,
Mingling their fallen crests.

And still the sweeping tide
Of cultivation, holds its swift career,
And soon from this broad land rich Nature's pride,
And sons, will disappear.

I wail in pensive strain
With her own tuneful voice, and plaintive tone,
The desecration of her ancient reign;
Her noble children gone.

Art with his steel and fire,
Has swept her glorious majesty away;
But Art can never teach the wild wood lyre,
To love her heartless sway.

While wild flowers blossom here,
Within the balmy bosom of the shade,
And the free song-birds congregate, to hear
From every sunny glade.

While these old trees bend down,
And sighing listen to my fitful song,
And limpid streams pour forth a plaintive tone,
Each cadence to prolong.

The wild wood lyre shall wail,
The forest-wreath of glory pass'd away;
And mourn the noble race whose tragic tale,
Shall fill in years to come the thrilling lay.

A MOONLIGHT DREAM.

I sat at the foot of an old beech tree,
While winds in its branches sigh'd mournfully,
And soft leaves met trembling, and languid fell,
Like hands of young lovers, that say Farewell.
And the bird that at even-tide sings alone,
Was pouring her mellow and dreamy tone.—
My spirit went back to the seasons gone—
And my bosom it seem'd like a cold grave-stone—
Which lieth alone in some dreary place,
Engraven with legends of former days.
Of long perish'd loves, and of hopes half blown,
Which Memory gather'd, and made her own.
Oh Memory! when in the ways of life
The spirit grows weary of care and strife,
The brow is begirt with a wither'd wreath,
The heart has become as the house of death,
When fountains are dry, where we lov'd to drink,
And we languish in agony on the brink.
When sorrow has spread over all bright things,
The mildewing damp of her heavy wings;

We worship thee, gentle and dreamy power,
Who steal'st along in that lonely hour,
With pitcher fresh fill'd at the fount of youth,
With beauty, and innocence, love, and truth.

And is there, I murmur'd, no holy home,
Where sorrow, and suffering, never come,
Where tenderness burns with a steady glow,
Untouch'd by the finger of change or wo.
Where poetry weaves, with a living sound,
Her tissue of beauty and bliss, all round?

The full moon arose like a living scroll,
On which I had written my youthful soul,
When weaving bright webs of her silver beams,
I broider'd them over with golden dreams;
Enwreathing love's rose in its richest hue,
With the modest young violet's truthful blue.
While hope linger'd by with her gentle mien,
And touch'd with her pencil each shadow'd scene.
Oh, brightly they glitter'd around me then,
By Memory spread in that magic glen,
Till every wild flower, with its dewy eye,
Became a lov'd face of the years gone by.

So gracefully now, like a wandering dove,
A silver-wing'd vapour appear'd above,—
Well might it claim from the Moon its birth,
And bear a fond message from her to earth.

Lo! it approach'd me, a shadowy boat,
Design'd on the moon's silver sea to float,
Oh, brightly its gossamer streamers flow'd,
And purely its pearly white bottom show'd,
With radiant spirits to guide its way,
And now at my feet the bright phantom lay.
Come!—cried the spirits in accents sweet,
And gaily I sprang to the shining seat.
So gracefully then, like a pleasant dream,
Or white thistle down, on a gentle stream,
Arose on a zephyr, that shallop fair,
And speeded away on the waveless air.
We speedily came where the meteors bright
Were crossing our track in their dizzy flight,
Careering along with their choral hymn
Through regions that else would be still and dim,
The flamy-wing'd creatures went flashing by,
Each guiding its chariot gloriously.

The moon, toward which we had held our flight,
Was suddenly lost in a flood of light—
A light so entrancingly pure and clear,
It seem'd like the spirit's own atmosphere.
And now we look'd down on a world as bright
As earth in the robe of a winter night;
But there was no chill in the balmy air
That lay like an ocean of fragrance there,
As limpid and pure, as the floods that swell
From the deep down spring of a mountain well.

Yet ocean, nor river, nor dancing rill,
Appear'd in that country by vale and hill,
But no one could thirst, where an air like this,
Bath'd bosom and brow in its balmy bliss.
Then softly we floated above a scene
That dazzled the eye with its holy sheen;
Where lofty trees rose over lovely bowers,
And valleys were carpeted o'er with flowers;
But blossom and bud were as bright as snow,
And leaves wore a beautiful silver glow,
And the stems and the grasses were feather'd o'er
Like frost-spangled reeds on a river shore.
The ground was as bright as the wave-wash'd sand
That glitters along by an ocean strand,
And zephyrs went by with a gentle sound,
Like rivulets murmuring all around;
And heavy leav'd trees by their pinions fann'd,
Were shadowless all in that magic land.
And beautiful creatures were moving there,
With silvery garments, and long fair hair,
And lips with a tinge like the small pink shells
That lie where the musical south sea dwells.
And tenderness trembled in each soft eye
Like beautiful stars in the clear blue sky.
Oh welcome! they cried as they gather'd round,
With voices of melody's own rich sound.
Oh welcome, dear sister, to this bright home
Where spirits of melody only come.
We never know pain in this happy land,
Where death cannot come with his drooping band—

Where change never touches our souls, or forms,
And flowers ne'er perish by time, or storms,
Where never a shadow, by day or night,
Has darken'd the tender and holy light.
And here are no hues of the changeful crest
That blooms but to wither, on earth's foul breast,
Unfolding a moment to fade away,
And poison life's fountain with sure decay.
Nor here bloom the buds of the fading earth
In beauty that dies in its hour of birth,
But beauty unchangeable, pure, and bright,
Abiding for ever, in balm and light.
And this is the country thou long hast sought,
Repining for ever in dreamy thought,
A region where perfect affection reigns,
And melody mingles immortal strains;
Aye, here we may bathe in the peace of heaven.
[OMITTED]
Ah! Ha! 'Tis the gloomy owl's voice of fear,
That startles so harshly my drowsy ear;
The dews of the night on my eye-lids lie,
And the Moon seems to smile at my vagary.

IMAGINATION.

AN ANSWER.

“What is Imagination?”
I have deem'd
That 'tis heaven's ante-chamber. A bright place

To which our spirits enter, undisrob'd
Of this world's loves and hopes, and sympathies.
A beautiful elysium, where the flowers
Are never-fading, where the genial sun
Knows neither cloud nor setting; where the spring
Of everlasting youth is gushing up,
Beneath the bowers of life, and dancing on,
Amid rich odours, to eternity.
The atmosphere is magic, as it bathes
The brow and bosom with Lethean balm;
And beauteous angels wait there, radiant
With such pure blissful life, as gushes forth
From heaven's half-open portal; and their wings
Glance ever at our bidding, swift as light,
How sweetly do they bear us in their arms
From this dull workshop of the heart and brain,
To their own blest dominion, where each breeze
Is laden with delight. How tenderly
They lay us in the arms of those we love,
While the full heart is throbbing, and the eye
Pouring from its rich depths an ardent flood
Of ecstasy, unmingled, unalloy'd.
Then hands are clasp'd, and lips are fondly press'd,
That never meet, save in that magic land;
And words are breath'd, and ecstacies are felt,
That earth knows nothing of.
There comes no doubt,
No withering suspicion, no mistrust,
Into that joyous world. All there is pure,
Faultless, and beautiful, and full of bliss.

The weight of years, the lines of withering care,
The world's impression on the weary mind,
The mildew blights, that stain the spirit's bloom,
The canker, that corrodes the hackney'd heart,
Are never felt, or even remembered there.

Youth, love and beauty, in perennial bloom,
Dwell there for ever; and the hymns of heaven
Float in rich echoes through the breathing bowers
Of this soft paradise, this dreamy land,
Where spirits meet and mingle, with the wreath
Of fond humanity, in all its bloom,
Twin'd o'er the heart and brow; while every leaf
And bud and blossom, glitters with the light,
And breathes the balm of immortality.

SONG.

WHERE ART THOU?

Oh! where art thou, my life, my love,
This grand, this solemn night?
My thoughts are with thee, as I rove
Beneath the moon's pure light.
Bright clouds upon the fitful wind,
On wandering pinions stray;
I watch them with an absent mind,
For thou art far away.

Where art thou, love? The night is fair,
And soft the breezes blow;
And many a holy watchful star
Looks down, with fervent glow:
I raise my eyes to Heaven above,
I lift my hands to pray;
Devotion dies in bleeding love,
For thou art—far away.

Within thy bosom lies my heart,
I am but one with thee;
My soul is with thee, where thou art,
And what is left of me?
I sigh—the wind that sigh returns,
As ripe leaves rustling play,
But beauty dies—my spirit mourns,
For thou art—far away.

Oh! where art Thou? And what am I?
What means this bosom's swell?
The trembling heart, the blush, the sigh,
Ah me! I know too well.
Too well I know that I am thine,
And doom'd from thee to stray;
Ten thousand torturing thoughts combine,
For thou art—far away.

Oh! where art thou, my life, my love,
Where smile thy radiant eyes?
Are they not rais'd like mine, above,
Where love immortal lies?
Oh! meet me there, with ardent heart;
At every close of day;
Until we meet, no more to part,
Where peace and rapture stay.

JOSEPHA.

A BALLAD.

Josepha was a Spanish maid,
The daughter of a noble Don,
And never signor's eye was staid
A more enchanting form upon.
To call her graceful would be wrong,
She was the very soul of grace,
And minstrelsy's most ardent song,
Might vainly seek to paint her face.
Her lips where dwelt love's rosy smile,
Whence breath'd his soul-entrancing tone;
The cheek that glow'd and blanch'd the while
With living beauties all its own;
The clustering locks that sought to hide
The whiteness of her queen-like brow,
And with a wealth of jetty pride
Contrasted with her neck of snow;

And then the blue-vein'd drooping lid,
So richly fring'd, and loath to rise,
As if in jealousy it hid
The speaking radiance of her eyes.—
Within Don Manuel's sumptuous towers,
Protected by his rough dark wall,
She bloom'd amid her sister flowers,
The sweetest, loveliest, best of all.
Her ardent mind was deeply fraught
With all the romance of the age,
By burning lay of minstrel taught,
And chivalry's impassion'd page.
Yet, nineteen summers had matured
Her beauty, and enrich'd her mind,
And no gay gallant had secured
The heart that many sought to bind.
Her tender feelings seem'd to sleep
Like a young lion in her breast,
Awaiting love's warm touch, to leap
In fearful beauty, from their rest.
While many a haughty heart was lorn,
And many a proud dark eye ador'd,
None yet had dared to tempt her scorn,
Or brave her father's haughty word.
And thus she liv'd as free from art
As fairest roses in her bowers;
Her innocent and girlish heart
O'erflowing for her birds, and flowers.
No grief or passion e'er could touch
Her spirit bloom with frost, or flame,

100

And even her very faults were such,
As might be call'd by gentle name.
At length a Don of noble race,
Who boasted of ancestral fame,
But never thought worth while to trace
One noble deed, to grace his name;
Who wrote his history in wine,
With many a blot of darker hue;
While flattery dared not trace one line,
To speak him noble, good, or true,
Who yet was handsome as the day,
In robe of summer glory dress'd,
While deep dissimulation lay
In guise of virtue in his breast.
I said—at length—this haughty Don,
Array'd in all his princely state,
With all his mimic virtues on,
Appear'd before Don Manuel's gate.
Right boldly he preferr'd his suit,
And claim'd Josepha as his bride,
Her father answer'd, I am mute,
These claims my daughter must decide.
Josepha's inexperienc'd eye
Dwelt on his perfect form and mien,
His gay and sumptuous panoply,
Of princely garb, and jewel sheen;
And pride and admiration join'd
To aid him, in his ardent plea,
And in her unsuspecting mind
She deem'd him all that man should be.

101

And when one year had pass'd away,
And none could fault his deeds the while,
Don Carlos nam'd the nuptial day,
And she assented with a smile.
Then Leon sought his native towers,
Amid Castilia's scenery fair,
His sumptuous halls, and queenly bowers
For her reception to prepare.
Josepha lov'd her pleasant home,
And dearly priz'd her father's love,
Her mother—yonder stands a tomb,
And there are blissful realms above.
One day she walk'd to muse alone
Along the ocean's rocky shore,
Which echo'd with a spirit tone
The living flood's eternal roar;
The fervid smile of summer lay
On all earth's fair but fading things,
And bursts of silvery melody
Came floating from the lyres with wings.
Josepha sigh'd, she knew not why,
And turn'd to leave the lonely place,
When lo! a vision met her eye
Of most surpassing loveliness.
'Twas beauty's self, in beauty's dress,
A simple robe of purest white,
While every richly flowing tress
Gave back the sunbeams doubly bright.
Attracted as by magic spell
Josepha moved to where she stood,

102

Upon a rock with beetling swell
Projecting o'er the ocean flood.
The stranger rais'd her deep blue eyes
With fringes droop'd with many a tear,
Oh God, accept my thanks, she cries,
That Donna Josepha is here.
Fair lady—if thy gentle ear
Can listen to a stranger's grief,
Sit down awhile beside me here—
My tale of sorrow shall be brief.
They sat them down together there
Beneath the linden branches green,
And such another perfect pair
On sea-girt shore were never seen;
Josepha in her native pride,
Dark ey'd, and tall, and richly dress'd;
And that meek creature at her side,
With drooping mien, and simple vest.
And yet there lived a noble grace,
In that fair maiden's form and eye,
While thus, with artless earnestness,
She told her tale of agony.
I am a stranger, from the land
Of hills and vales. Where crown'd with snow
The eternal Alps look darkly grand
Upon the fruitful vales below.
I was a happy-hearted child
In my own home, in that sweet vale,
Where nature's loveliest things grew wild,
And calm, and music fill'd the gale.

103

But when my mother went to heaven,
My father's heart was stricken through,
His peace was lost, his spirit riven,
His home a grief spot in his view.
And so we sought this sunny shore,
But he is bent with grief and years;
Oh thou! whom pious hearts adore,
Support his age, and dry his tears!
She trembled like a tender leaf
Expos'd to stormy wind and rain;
Till weeping gave her heart relief
And she resum'd her tale again.
We dwell in yonder cottage white,
And there to soothe my father's wo
Has been my business, my delight,
The only joy I cared to know.
For now he fills an humble sphere
Far, far below his noble birth,
And strangers to his history here,
Nor feel his grief, nor know his worth.
At length a handsome stranger came
Of noble mien, in humble dress,
And when he urged a suitor's claim
My heart return'd his tenderness.
Love in my lonely heart had lain
A hidden, and untested well,
He ope'd the fount, and gladly then
It gush'd with overwhelming swell.
My life, my world, my very soul,
Lay whelm'd in that delicious flood,

104

And his dear image fill'd the whole
With visions of beatitude.
My father bless'd our mutual love,
His child was happy, and his heart
Had sent that only prayer above,
And now was ready to depart.
Last month, dear lady, we were wed.
Oh God! How brief my dream of bliss,
How like the blasting lightning sped,
The death-doom of my happiness.
Don Leon is the heartless man
Who won me in a low disguise—
This morn he pass'd me with his train,
And scorn'd me with his cruel eyes.
Thou know'st him. I have told my tale,
And this of thee I would require,
To seek our cottage in the vale
And comfort my forsaken sire.
She turn'd toward the cliff, and sigh'd,
My rest is where the billows swell!—
Josepha held her back, and cried,
Who bade thee seek for rest in hell?
Mad girl! Is this thy filial love?
Go first and take thy father's life,
And leave him not alone, to prove
A death with keener anguish rise.
I lov'd Don Leon, but my life,
My father's peace, my hopes of heaven,
Shall never in wild passion's strife
A sacrifice for him, be given.

105

No let us seek with humbled heart,
The wise and pitying Power above;
He will remove the venom'd dart,
And bless us with a holier love.
I will not be Don Leon's bride—
And thou—forbear thy purpose dire,
A happy issue may betide—
But keep thy sorrows from thy sire.
The stranger bless'd the timely check,
And reason now resumed her sway,
With arms around Josepha's neck,
She breathed her thanks, and turn'd away.
Josepha felt her bosom swell
With many a bitter pang of grief,
But woman's pride, with potent spell
Arose and came to her relief.
And then, her bosom had not known
The love that overwhelms the soul,
That clings to one—and one alone,
And baffles reason's strong control.
She laid a wild but generous plan,
Then told her father, Leon's guile:
And while he curs'd the treacherous man,
She sooth'd him with her girlish wile.
She told him all she meant to do—
He listen'd with approving heart,
And lent his aid, to carry through,
The strange device of woman's art.—
Don Leon came again in pride—
Josepha met him with a smile—

106

But all her love for him had died,
Her heart abhorr'd his serpent guile.
Yet gay and gallant was his mien,
And full of love his voice and eye;
While sadness on his brow was seen,
And oft he heav'd a restless sigh.
For Anna of the meek blue eyes
Had bound him with a magic spell;
And all his tender sympathies
Were in the cottage of the vale.
And there he stood at eventide,
'Twas desolate. His heart grew cold—
Anna! dear injur'd love! he cried,—
We are alone—the echoes told.
Through all the vale he sought in vain
That old man, with his daughter fair—
No information could he gain,
But that, one morn, they were not there.
Returning from his fruitless search,
His fever'd form he sadly flung
Along the now deserted porch,
Where Anna's favourite Jasmine clung.
And records of the days gone by
From gloomy archives of the past,
Came glaring on his mental eye,
Until his spirit stood aghast.
Oh, in those moments, what were all
His glittering hoards, and princely state?
Life's sweetest cup was chang'd to gall,
His heart was wholly desolate.

107

Alas! my cruel treachery
Has come to Anna's ears, he cried,
And she has fled incens'd away,
Or, hap'ly, broken-hearted died.
Oh, were she but of noble birth,
She should have been my honour'd bride,—
Ha! what a plague-spot on the earth,
Is this accurs'd ancestral pride!
But for Josepha's maiden fame,
And proud Don Manuel's fearful wrath,
I could forego my princely name,
And follow gentle Anna's path.—
The bridal morn rose clear, and bright,
With feudal pomp, and lordly state;
And glittering dame, and harness'd knight,
Came flocking to the castle gate.
And old Granada's royal bowers
Were vocal with the joyous peal,
That rock'd the old cathedral towers,
And made Alhambra's turrets reel.
And gladness reign'd by hall, and grove,
And every minstrel hailed the day,—
And song of joy, and tale of love,
On every zephyr's bosom lay.
The feast was spread in Manuel's halls,
And red wine flow'd profusely there;
And tourney list, and marshall'd balls,
Rejoiced the brave, the gay, the fair.
Don Leon's heart was sad the while,
And frequent came the tell-tale sigh;

108

Josepha mark'd with covert smile,
For well she guess'd the reason why.
His thoughts were with his mourning dove,
Where is she in her sorrow now?
His soul was yearning for her love,
Her silvery voice, and timid brow.
The chapel was a splendid sight—
The altar with its cloth of gold,
Border'd with gems of brilliant light,
And fringes dazzling to behold.
And there were rang'd, like radiant gems,
That sparkle round a royal crown,
Fair blushing maids, and stately dames,
And knights and dons of high renown.
Beside the altar Leon stood,
In dazzling garb, with haughty brow,
While on his cheek the burning blood
Betray'd the throbbing heart below.
At once the folding door flew wide,
And bridesmaids in their pure array,
Led in the veil'd and trembling bride
As simply habited as they.
With shrinking grace she trode the aisle,
The very queen of modesty,
And loudly herald's voice the while,
Proclaimed her name, and pedigree.
Anna! of Don Ordogno's race,
Old Leon's good and conquering king,
And proud Galicia's richest grace,
Arganta, famed for suffering.

109

From these in pure untarnish'd flow
On the maternal side she came,
Rudolphus' name Burgundians know,
And Bertha of immortal fame.
These were her father's ancestors;
Don Leon claims a royal bride!
A princely pedigree is her's
Without a stain, on either side.
Transfix'd, and mute Don Leon gaz'd—
With joy and wonder unexpress'd;
The bride advanc'd, her veil was rais'd,
He clasp'd his Anna to his breast.
And never to a happier pair
Was minister'd the holy rite,
And never blush'd a bride more fair,
And never smiled a prouder Knight.
Then to the feast, while round the halls,
The harpers harp'd, and poets sang,
Till gilded domes, and garnish'd walls,
With their redoubling echoes rang.
They swell'd the praise of Leon's line,
Of princely fathers, wise, and good;
And sung fair Anna half divine,
In virtue, charms, and noble blood.
Then wearied with the choral lays,
At once they chang'd the hymning strain,
And chanted forth Josepha's praise,
Till all the echoes woke again.
Then from the table Garcia rose,
A far-famed Don of Moorish blood,

110

Whose name was terror to his foes,
For oft he'd drawn life's crimson flood.
The Donna Josepha!—he cried,
The fairest, and the first in fame!—
I'll break a lance for her with pride;
Will any knight dispute my claim?
I take thy challenge, Pedro cried,
And name myself the Donna's knight,—
The lists of honour should decide
Our claim to such a beauty bright.
Then to the field, with trumpet's clang
And harness'd steed in prancing pride,
And gems that flash'd, and mail that rang,
Flock'd knight and lady, groom and bride.
Don Manuel, and his daughter bright
Were present in august array,
With bride and bridegroom on their right,
Beneath a splendid canopy.
The champions met, the stubborn steel
Awhile the clashing blows withstood;
A shock at length made Pedro reel,
Another—and he fell in blood.
Then swell'd the shout of triumph wide,
And heav'd to heaven Don Garcia's name,
And he demanded in his pride,
If no one else preferr'd a claim.
Josepha's cheek grew pale and cold,
As no one to the combat came,
For Garcia was a warrior bold,
With heart as rugged as his fame.

111

His swarthy brow bent rough and scarr'd,
O'er blood-shot eye, and sunken cheek,
And grizzled were his hair and beard,
With many an age-betraying streak.
His life had all been spent in war,
Where scenes of bloodshed, strife, and noise,
Are illy fitted to prepare
The heart for calm domestic joys.
Yet on the field alone he stood,
With flashing steel, and neighing steed,
And lip that seem'd athirst for blood—
Yet no one seem'd dispos'd to bleed.
But hark! the trump swelled loud and clear,
And now the heralds high proclaim,
A stranger asks to break a spear,
In honour of Josepha's name.
Let him advance! Don Garcia said—
And lo, a knight of graceful mien,
In light and shining armour clad
Advanc'd, th' admiring ranks between.
Graceful he bow'd, while snowy plumes
Danc'd lightly o'er his golden helm,—
Josepha's cheek its bloom resumes,
While hope and fear, her heart o'erwhelm.
Don Garcia sternly pois'd his lance,
And rein'd his strong and jetty steed;
The stranger carelessly advanc'd,
His barb seem'd only built for speed.

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Now by the Mass, the gazers cried
He goes to death right gallantly!
And many a lovely donna sigh'd,
For his apparent destiny.
The signal given, his charger sprang
Like lightning on the scornful foe;
The spear points on the harness rang
And Garcia felt a well-aim'd blow.
Another charge—and Garcia's spear.
Snapp'd, 'gainst the foe's well-temper'd mail;
Then rose a loud exulting cheer,
But Garcia's spirit did not quail.
Another lance! His voice demands.
'Twas brought him, and another shock,
Shiver'd the weapon in his hands,
As if its point had met a rock;
And backward by the stranger's spear
The Knight was from his saddle flung,—
By heavens! This feat shall cost thee dear!
He cried, as from the earth he sprung.
He mounted. By the saints, he said,
It was thy weapon, not thy might—
Now meet me with the heavy blade,
I'll show thee play—my lady knight!
The stranger dropp'd his well-tried spear,
And drew a fine Damascus blade;
My heart was never touch'd by fear,
Nor my good sword disgrac'd—he said.
Saint Mary shield thee, gentle Knight,
Was breath'd from many a bosom fair,

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As Garcia drew his weapon bright
And whirl'd it flashing through the air.
Thou'rt lost! full many a warrior said,
For worthless is that golden casque;
Garcia will find to cleave thy head
With his strong blade, a lightsome task.
The stranger stood with steady eye,
And caught, and parried every blow;
Until a thrust made dexterously
Pierc'd Garcia's scaly breast plate through.
Now yield thee, lest my wily blade
Should find a blood-spring in thy breast—
I yield to thee, Don Garcia said—
Vain boy! For thee to yield were best.
I would not hurt so good a knight
In tourney fray—the stranger said,
Then be our fray a serious fight—
We part not until blood be shed.
Well—as thou wilt, the stranger cried—
And in an instant the red gore
Leap'd to his hand, from Garcia's side,
Just where he gash'd the mail before.
There was a pause—while Garcia reel'd,
But when he fell, a deafening cry
Sprang up from the exulting field
And hailed the Prince of Chivalry—
With pensive air the victor stood
Where vanquish'd Garcia writhing lay,
While skill'd attendants stanch'd his blood,
And bore him from the field away.

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Would knight or don dispute my claim?
Or wrest a boon, so dearly won?
He cried, and paus'd—No answer came,
And then a herald shouted.—None—
Then with a gay and gallant air
He pass'd to where Josepha stood,
Donna—he said—I sigh to wear
Some favour, by thy hand bestow'd,
Most worthy knight, Don Manuel cried
Thou'st prov'd thee first of mortal men,
Demand my daughter as thy bride,
Her dower will be thy favour then—
And could she honour such demand
With her whole precious heart, he said,
I would not clasp a maiden's hand
Whose heart was to another wed.
Then be thy glittering helm unbound,
And let thy visor be remov'd—
He threw them lightly to the ground,
Josepha look'd, Josepha lov'd.
My father, blushingly she said,
This peerless knight of faultless mien,
Your daughter would be proud to wed
If she were earth's most honour'd queen.
Now, noble knight, Don Manuel said,
Thy deeds have proved thee good of heart,
And since my child would be thy bride,
Pray tell us who—and whence thou art.
With noble grace he bent his head,
And majesty was in his glance—

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I wear no blazon'd name, he said,
My castles are my sword and lance.—
And thou dost honour to the same,
And well they grace thy generous hand,
Outshining all heraldic fame,
Outweighing castles, gold, or land.
But, lovely maid, the stranger said,
Canst thou with these be satisfied?
Will love and honour stand instead
Of all thy present pomp and pride?
And wilt thou wed a wayward knight,
And follow where his fate may lead?
Dost thou not fear the chilling blight
That oft has been affection's meed?—
Sure none need fear for earthly ill,
To whom thy heart and hand are given,
And for protection higher still,
I look with humble trust, to Heaven.
Thy soul exceeds thy form, he cried—
Oh nobly would'st thou fill a throne,
The proudest nation might with pride
Behold its diadem thine own.—
Then gaily to the festal hall
Again Don Manuel led the way,
Where in the wassail, and the ball
The joyous evening pass'd away.
Don Leon and his lovely bride
Fill'd every eye and heart that night,
While Anna's father gaz'd with pride,
And wept with an old man's delight.

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And Leon from that blessed day
Became a good and loyal knight,
Forsaking every evil way,
And making virtue his delight.
Meantime along a terrace walk,
With fragrant plants, and vines array'd,
Engross'd in soul-absorbing talk
Josepha and her champion stray'd.
Her jewel'd robes had given place
To unadorn'd and simple dress,
And beautiful in form and face,
She stood in her own loveliness.
His cumbrous mail was thrown aside,
His limbs were free, his head was bare;
Josepha mark'd with glance of pride
His bright blue eyes, and sunny hair.
He spoke of love—and all her soul
Assented with a sweet accord;
While new-born passion's sweet control
Subdued her heart to own its lord.
And while her timid bosom prov'd
A first true love triumphing there,
She felt how Anna's heart had lov'd,
And learn'd to pity her despair.
The morning, with its eye of light,
Beheld her at the altar stand,
To give a poor and nameless knight,
With woman's trust, her heart and hand.
But when the holy rite was o'er,
A stranger train, in rich array,

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Appearing at the chapel door,
Toward the altar made its way.
Hail! Prince of Portugal, they cried,
Joy to your highness most serene!
And blessings on your peerless bride;
Long may she live, our worshipp'd Queen!
And while they bent the obsequious knee,
Josepha stood like one amaz'd;
Is this reality? said she,
Or am I in a dream? or craz'd?—
'Tis sober truth—the bridegroom said,
For Prince of Portugal I am;
Now greet thy guests, my royal bride,
To grace our nuptial day they came.
In my far home I heard thy fame,
For every lovely female grace,
And here in humble guise I came,
To hear thy voice, and see thy face.
And lo! not half thine excellence
Had been reported to mine ear,—
And I despatch'd a message hence,
To bid these nobles meet me here.
Then rang the shout through Manuel's hall
'Till his dark turrets reel'd with glee,
While voice, and harp, and organ, all
Peal'd forth the bridal melody.—
And she was worthy of a king,
Who, with a pious pitying breast,
Had once resign'd her bridal ring,
To make a rival maiden blest.

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MEETING OF THE YEARS.

I saw them meet the Old Year, and the New,
In ærial pomp, beside my wild wood home.
Night lay upon the forest, cold and still,
Like hope upon my pathway; and the moon
Pour'd from her silver bows, a flood of light
Upon earth's ermine robe of drifted snow,
O'er which innumerable diamonds flash'd
Dazzling my weary eyes with piercing gleams,
Quivering and shifting, even amid the gloom
Of the dark foliage of the noble pines,
That border the clear hill-side. Lo! a sound
Of airy pinions passing to and fro,
Amongst the swaying branches, while the trees
Majestically bow'd their plumy heads
Unto the airy ministers of heaven,
Which blend their voices in mysterious hymn
Of liquid melody, which fills the night
With wordless worship to the living God.
A worship more appropriate and pure,
Than all the studied harmony of words
That man has mind to frame, or voice to chant.—
Like ice drops flashing in the morning beams,
A group of glorious creatures swept along.
First one of lofty and majestic mien,
And strange and dreamy beauty, which the eye
Could dwell upon for ever, and not tire.
Her foot upon the snow-drift left no print,

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And waked no echo. Silently, and swift
She mov'd like some bright dream, all unadorn'd
Save her own heavenly beauty. In one hand
She held the seal of Fate, and key to heaven;
The other grasp'd a sceptre of strange power,
Which changes with a touch all things on earth,
And writes on all life's treasures—Vanity!
I knew the silent angel, she is Time,
The eldest daughter of Eternity.
Immortal youth, and chastity are hers;
Though all mankind with ardent sighs and tears
Pour out their prayers before her, every one
Beseeching her to stay, and be his own,
She passes on unheeding. At her side
With measur'd solemn pace, and weary air
A fair etherial creature held her way.
Her feet were stain'd with blood, her locks were dark,
And thickly gemm'd with tears, and deep sad sighs
Were breathing round, her like the atmosphere
Which noxious nightshade gathers round her bower.—
Her ample robe, which had been purely white
Was written o'er with myriad tales, of sin,
Of dark deceit, of sufferings, and of wo;
While shining here and there, like radiant gems
Amid the dross, and darkness of the mine,
Good deeds, and generous acts were chronicled.
And penitential tears were sprinkled o'er,
In beautiful relief to those dark lines
Which told of shame, and wrong. She bore a vase

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Fill'd with sweet faded flowers, which she had torn
From many a bleeding stem.
Hark! a deep peal
Burst on the dreaming midnight, and a sigh
Heav'd the dark bosom of the solemn wood,
And died away. Then came a rushing sound,—
And a young regal spirit was display'd
In robes of glistening white. A radiant smile
Play'd o'er her features, like a morning beam
Upon the face of May. Her right hand bore
A dewy cluster of the richest balm
That ever grew in Eden.—But a sword
Keen as the quivering lightning grac'd her left:
Sister! she cried, as the Old Year advanc'd,
God calls thee to thy rest. I come to bring
Healing unto the wounds that thou hast made,
And to inflict others, as dread and deep.
They join'd their hands a moment, while the winds
Paus'd on their moonlight pinions, and it seem'd
That nature held her breath. The twelfth deep chime
Of midnight sounded, and the clasping hands
Were sever'd, and for ever. Then young Hope
Came with her magic smile, and golden curls,
Gem'd with sweet dewy buds, from wild rose-trees;
Her silver lute was perfectly in tune,
And warbled symphony to all her songs
Of soul-enthralling promise. Gracefully
She led the welcome New Year. But I saw
Time walking on beside them, unperceiv'd
By those who revel in their joyousness.

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The Old Year dropp'd the pale flowers from her vase,
And drew her robe of record round her form,
And the pavilion of Eternity
Enclos'd her in its drapery of mist,
And she was gone, for ever.—
Then remained
Of all the pageant of that midnight chime
One pensive angel, with bright fragrant tears
Upon her smiling beauty.
Carefully
She gather'd from the snow those faded flowers,
Wreath'd them in garlands, for her breast and brow,
And sung such sweet sad legends of their bloom;
While with her words their incense breath'd its wealth,
That from my heart the pent up waters gush'd,
And flow'd in soothing over all the wound
That ached within my bosom.
Memory!
How kind thou art; thus to preserve the flowers
Which years break from the branches of our joy,
And scatter on the frozen drift, to die;—
And then to sooth the spirit with thy hymn
When hope forsakes us, for the glad young hearts
That hail the happy New Year, and we sit
Alone with thee.

CHANGES.

'Twas June, the loveliest priestess of the twelve,
That wait in Earth's great temple, each in turn

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Offering the gifts of Nature to her God,
Each beautiful,—and most appropriate
The offerings she presents. But June, sweet June,
Comes with the warmest holiest glow of love,
The most exquisite incense, and a hymn
Of all sweet voices blended, gushing up
From human heart, from harps with flashing wings,
From grove, and woodland, where the breezes wake
A low sweet chorus from the swaying wreaths
Of tremulous green bells; from every shore
That running water kisses, blending all
With deep wild song of winds, and deep dread voice
Of Ocean's adoration; while the heavens
Seem bending o'er the altar with a smile
So calm, so sweet, so graciously benign,
That the instinctive spirit of all life
Thrills with ecstatic worship.
On the shore
That border'd with bright emerald a broad stream,
The pride and blessing of a lovely land,
My own dear native land—Oh, how mine eyes
Grow dim and painful as I muse on thee,
My blessed native land! Aye, on the shore
Of that rich river, stood a fair young girl
Alone; for she had left the playful band
Of laughing sisters, and stood silent there.
Her living picture now is on my heart.
Daguerreotyp'd by that strong spirit-light
Which writes on memory. She was a mere child

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Of scarce five summers, and her little feet
Were bare and pearl-like, 'mid the dripping flowers.
(She was a poor man's child,) her golden curls
Lay in profusion on her broad high brow,
And shoulders white as lilies. But her eyes,
Her large blue tender eyes, were deeply fring'd
With long dark lashes, as if nature sought
To hide the loving spirits bathing there,
From sacrilegious gaze. They were such eyes
As ne'er should look on misery, or sin;
They were so pure, so gentle, and so true,
So faithful to the soul, and pleaded so
To all they met for tender sympathy.
Such eyes should never read the cold false world.
The dear domestic bower of holy love
Built in a shelter'd vale, where all sweet things
Are of spontaneous growth, should be the home
In which they should diffuse their tenderness
And gather in the deep abiding love,
Which is their light and life. A summer cloud
Had thrown its wealth of rain-drops liberally
Upon the fainting earth, and passing o'er
It now was hovering with its dusky wing
Outspread beyond the river, while the bow
Hung glorious on its pathway,—and the child
Was gazing on that seal which God has set
To his eternal promise. All her soul
Was trembling in the light of those blue eyes,
Like pure reflection of the starry heavens

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On deep, still water. It was easy then
To read her destiny—that she was form'd
Of high and pure susceptibilities,
Shrined in a heart whose strings were all attuned
Unto the music of adoring love,
To God, and nature. Easy 'twere to tell
How such a heart would give to human love
Its perfect and adoring worshipping;
That it would cast itself upon that love
In fervent trust, and self-forgetfulness;
Like some fair launch committed to the waves
To be their own for ever, though their calm
Shall change to tempest, still to be their own,
In wreck, in ruin, evermore their own.
A creature made and fashion'd but to lie
Upon their bosom, and obey their will.
But she knew naught of this, for in that hour
She felt the first strange yearnings of a Soul
Toward the Great, the Beautiful, and Good;
And learn'd her kindred to all fair, and sweet,
And holy things.
There came a change. She was no more a child,
Although not yet upon her radiant brow
Was laid the shadow of the full-blown wreath
Of early womanhood. She had grown tall
And full of queenly graces. Those bright curls
Had chang'd to auburn ringlets, and her cheeks
Flush'd with each throb of the young timid heart,
Just trembling with a new-born consciousness

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Of its delicious life. She stood that night
Amid the dancers, and her tiny feet
Bore her along as if she were the soul
Of all the melody that sported there.
Admiring glances follow'd all her steps,
And many a voice proclaim'd that she was fair,
Aye, fairest of the fair; and envy heard,
But dared not touch the childish purity
Of one so young and guileless. But the maid—
She smiled and blush'd, and turn'd her from a scene
In which she felt no sympathy, and sought
The holy moonlight's cool and silent flood,
The element of all fantastic forms
Of active fancy, where they sport themselves,
And hold mysterious rites, and weave strange wreaths
To lay upon the sleeper's brow and breast
Strange wreaths of joy and sorrow, light and shade,
Which men call dreams, composed of shadowy buds
And blossoms, cull'd from some light cloud that floats
An island in that ocean, wandering still
Between the earth and heaven, allied to both,
And intimate with neither. Sometimes, too,
The mystic creatures snatch a mournful wreath
From ridges of the black-brow'd thunder-storm,
Where sits the thunder with his living darts
Of fiery serpents. These are fearful dreams
By cruel fancies braided, and we start
Affrighted at their touch. But they all fade,
And melt to moonshine, at the touch of truth.
Thus mus'd the maiden, with her pleading eyes

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Uprais'd toward their kindred starry blue;
And moonlight fancies trac'd a glowing scene
Of such delights as they, and they alone,
Can shadow forth, and in that world of bliss
One perfect being reign'd, who courted her
With loving words, to come and share with him
That blessed paradise. The maiden sigh'd,
That voice was all familiar to her ear,
And whisper'd now, that she was gazing on
The vision'd land of Love. Oh! she forgot
That this fair picture was of moonlight too!

The scene was chang'd. It was a wilderness,
A wild dark forest of old patriarch trees,
Gigantic trees, of which no living man
Could say, I saw them when their trunks were less,
Their heads less high than now. Moss-grown, and gray
They stood, the monuments of ages past;
Engrav'd in characters which every eye
May read and understand, with one great name,
The name of Him who rear'd them; of all else
As desert ruins silent, save at times
When spirits from the far mysterious past
Come back like children to a household hearth,
And mourn for all the beautiful and dear
That come no more to meet them. Then a voice
Of strange dark sighing heaves the heavy robes
Above their stern old hearts. The land was rough
With abrupt rocky hills and broken dells,
Where warrior laurel grew, for ever green,

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And fair witch-hazles wove their golden blooms
In wreaths for stern December, forming bowers,
Fit palaces for all such things as joy
In solitude and darkness, for the sun
Scarce sent one glittering arrow, all day long,
To fright them from their revels. Rapid streams
Fill'd those wild dells with music, as they dash'd
Along their rocky channels. In these glens
The hypocritic panther made his lair
With mosses for his pillow, and fair shrubs,
In dewy garlands, drooping o'er his form,
While, with his half-closed eyes, and quiet foot,
That sheath'd its terrors, all day long he lay
And waited, listening for the cautious tread,
Of doe, or spotted fawn. And gangs of wolves
Crouch'd in those twilight thickets, kept in bands
By horrible community of taste
For blood and rapine. 'Twas a rough wild land;
Even beauty wore a savage aspect there,
And peace was like a silence, caus'd by fear.
And she was there, who in her childhood play'd
Beside the river, where the city's spires
Threw shadows on the water. She, whose foot
Was lightest in the dance, whose voice in song
Enchain'd all list'ners with its melody;
She, who had been admir'd where all were fair,
And lov'd where all were lovely. She was there—
Lone—lone—and broken-hearted.
Dost thou know
How fares the forest dweller, in her hut

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Of unhewn logs, erected hastily,
With windows all unglaz'd, and roof of bark,
Through which the rain-drops trickle, and the stars
Look down upon the sleeper? Hast thou known
The stern privation, and the cruel want
That make themselves at home in such abodes,
And cast their shadows between heart and heart,
Excluding love's warm sunlight, till the blooms
That look to it for life, grow pale and die?
If thou dost know these things, I need not tell
The painful story. If thou knowest not,
'Twere vain to tell, for thou canst not believe.—
She was still young, and on her face and form,
The magic light of beauty linger'd still;
The rose was on her cheek; but o'er her brow
There lay a shadow, even when she smiled,
The fearful shadow which a darkened heart
Throws on the sunshine of the spirit's joy.
And those blue eyes—the dewy tenderness
Of heaven dwelt still within them, and bright forms
Of human sympathies lay tremblingly
Amid their troubled waters,—and her voice
Had in its cadence that complaining tone,
With which the heart, that will not be belied,
Tells its own story. She had learn'd perforce,
Oh! many a bitter lesson, and had grown
Familiar with cold looks and cruel words,
And want, and toil, and weeping. All alone
She bore her burden, for there came to her

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No glance or word, of that sweet sympathy
That lies with gentle soothing like rich balm
Upon the wounded spirit. Desolate
Were all life's ways to her. Yet oftentimes
At summer evening when the thunder's voice
Grew low from distance, and the storm-cloud seem'd
A gorgeous portrait, with its lofty towers
Of marble and bright metals—when the bow
Shone, like the jewell'd gate-way of high heaven,
Till fancy almost deem'd that glorious world
Half-visible amid the soft gray mist
That veil'd the open entrance. Or at night
When moonlight with its gentle influence
Hush'd bird and flower to sleep—sweet memories came
Like song-birds of familiar melody
From lands where all was bright, and full of bliss,
And innocence, and beauty—but from which
She was an exile, never to return!
Oh! never to return. Yet still they came
To that dark shore, on which her lot was cast,
With flashing wings, to sing one well-known song
And then return, across the wide dim sea,
Which murmurs Farewell! Farewell! evermore.
Oh, sweet and blessed memories of young life,
With plumage of the brightest hues of hope,
And songs of love's ecstatic melody,
Why come ye to the dark and weary heart?
Or coming, wherefore flit so soon away?—
'Twas May, and yet the frost lay cold and white
On bud, and leaf, and blossoms, like the shroud

130

O'er rigid forms of death. Oh, sorrowful
It was to see all sweet and beauteous things
Thus blighted in the blooming, by the wing
Of the destroying angel. She that morn
Stood in her garden. She had planted there
A favourite shrub, brought from her native land,
And nurs'd and watch'd it long, and tenderly.
And it had grown, and budded rich and fair,
With promise of abundant blossoming,
To compensate the hopes, and cares of years.
Now as she look'd upon it through her tears,
She thought, how like is this poor ruin'd tree
Nipp'd in its budding, to the blighted heart;
And then she mus'd in numbers, of the buds
That perish e'er the blooming—

My beautiful buds, fondly cherish'd,
Bright gems on the bosom of May,
By untimely frost ye are perish'd,
And soon will be wither'd away—
My beautiful buds!

Oh, beautiful buds! ye were fairer
Than infancy's innocent face,
And to my lone heart ye were dearer
Than aught in this desolate place
My beautiful buds!

The hopes of my childhood are broken;
The star of my girlhood is set,

131

But ye were a heart-cherish'd token,
From one who can never forget—
My beautiful buds!

I weep, for ye sadly remind me
Of buds from the garden of love,
Which Hope in her joyousness twin'd me,
With amaranth richly inwove,
My beautiful buds!

My spirit did homage before them
As on my heart's altar they lay,
But sorrow's cold blighting came o'er them,
Ah me! They have wither'd away,
My beautiful buds!

Full many a promise of pleasure
Has found in my bosom a tomb,
Like ye my ephemeral treasure,
The wreaths were forbidden to bloom,
My beautiful buds!

Oh, desolate-hearted and weary,
I weep in life's garden alone;
My spirit is stricken, and dreary,
Alas! for my hopes, all undone.—
My beautiful buds!

Yet there is a garland, that never
Shall feel the cold mildew of death—

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Oh might I entwine ye forever
In poesy's evergreen wreath,
My beautiful buds!

The while she sang
This simple lay, she felt within her breast
The first deep yearnings of a spirit touch'd
With that strange fire which burns within the soul
And wakes a thirst for fame.

Another change.—It was a winter eve,
The fire was blazing brightly on the hearth
Within a rural dwelling. She was there,
But oh, no longer young or beautiful;
For toil, and sorrow, and the restlessness
With which strong spirits struggle with their bonds,
Like those wild mighty birds that will not brook
The chains they cannot sever; these had touch'd
The grace and beauty of her form, and face;
But in her eyes the spirit liv'd and spake,
And dazzled as of old. Around her sat
A band of children, and with gentle voice
She gave familiar lessons, teaching them
The gentle virtues, knitting their young hearts
In one sweet bond of love; and leading thus
Their willing minds by easy flowery paths
Toward the hill of science. Still she plied
Her needle all the while, with busy hand,
And oftentimes, amid her cheerful words,
Sigh'd all unconsciously—then smiled again,

133

And spoke to them of hope, and coming years,
Bright with the beams that always shine from heaven
Upon the path of piety, and truth.

Her task was done. The evening prayers were said,
The good night spoken, and the kiss exchang'd,
And she was left alone. She brought her pen
And spread before her the unsullied sheet,
On which she thought to trace the imagings
Of bright and sportive fancies. But her hand
Was cold and weary, and her heart was sad.
Beside her lay a page on which her name
Was printed with high honours as a bard
Well worthy of a place amid the band,
Of which her country boasts. So she had won
The meed she coveted, the wreath of Fame,
And now she felt the utter worthlessness,
Of such a glittering toy. It had no power
To still the painful throbbings of her heart,
To cool the fever of her troubled brain,
Or satisfy the yearnings of her soul.—
She droop'd her face upon her folded hands
And wept, oh, long and bitterly. At length
With trembling hand, oft rais'd to brush away
The tears, that in her eyelids gather'd still,
And hung upon their fringes like the drops,
That gem the foliage when the shower is past,
She wrote,—

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A WOMAN'S MONODY TO FAME.

What has my heart to do with thee—Oh, Fame,
Imperial goddess of a world of dreams?
Why should a woman wish to see her name
Emblazon'd by thy dazzling glory-beams?

Why should a timid woman wish to stand,
Upon thy rainbow arch, which spans the world!
While ardent worshippers, of every land,
Peruse her banner to the winds unfurl'd.

Ah, wherefore should a woman seek to bind
Thy gorgeous laurel o'er her timid brow?
Or claim that proud supremacy of mind,
To which thou bidd'st the crown'd and sceptred bow?

Thy realm is of the mind, magnificent,
And full of light and beauty; flashing forth
Wild wreath of fitful glory, richly blent,
But cold, as the aurora of the North.

And like that mystic pageantry, a wreath
Of phantom flames, that float upon the air,
High o'er this world's dim atmosphere of death,
Yet not of heaven. They claim no kindred there.

What has a woman then to do with thee,
And thine unreal joys? How can she live
On things untangible, or find delight,
In aught thine aerial pageantry can give?

135

A woman's nature is all tenderness,
To human love her heart is wholly given;
Her spirit twines all holy sympathies,
And bears them with a holier love to heaven.

The gushing melodies of woman's lyre
Should be all gentleness, and like the dove's,
Sung in her own dear home, with no desire
To charm, beyond her own domestic loves.—

Fame's clarion has no music for the ear,
That lists to love's entrancing melodies;
And she who hears fond language all sincere,
Will never prize the world's false flatteries.

She cannot thirst, for whom affection's spring
Is ever flowing, in her fragrant bowers;
A laurel chaplet is a worthless thing,
To her who wears religion's balmy flowers.

It is the high proud heart, the restless heart,
Which has no sanctuary, nor place of rest;
Which lives from hope and happiness apart,
Within a cold and memory-haunted breast.

Which will not feed on base and earth-born joys;
Which cannot fill itself with shining gold;
Which looks with scorn on fashion's gilded toys,
And yearns some real treasure to enfold.

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Which madly asks the living wreath of fame
To bind a brow, which throbs with grief, and pain,
Which deems the echo of an honour'd name,
Would wake a wither'd heart to bliss again.

But these things cannot be. Fame is to her
A mirage of the desert, falsely fair,
Which lures with hope the fainting traveller,
To perish with a more intense despair.

She strings her harp, and throws upon the breeze,
The fitful numbers that betray her wo,
Wild words, and sweetly mournful melodies
That thrill and pain the spirit, as they flow.

The cag'd bird sings an artificial lay
To please its feeder,—but the wild notes free,
That wooed its mate, in bright groves far away,
Were sweeter—so with woman's minstrelsy.

TO THE NORTHERN LIGHT.

Bright mystery of Heaven! with raptur'd awe
I gaze upon thy dreadful loveliness,
And wonder what thou art, and whence thou art,
And wherefore thou art here. Thy glorious folds
Of changeable and undulating light
Seem fasten'd at the zenith, streaming thence

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In variegated hues of white, and rose,
And flamy orange, mingling with deep shades
Of crimson, and the dash of pitchy smoke,
In rich festoons diverging to the earth
And curtaining heaven's vault, east, north, and west,
Leaving the southern stars alone unveil'd,
Except where here and there, a single one
Is beaming forth, as if between the folds
Of those mysterious curtains, keeping guard;
Or smiling in the many eyes uprais'd
In wonder, awe, and terror. I would fain
Invade your mysteries, for I do not heed
The words of those who deem ye forerunners
Of fearful things to come;—of battle—flood—
Or fire—or winding sheet. Nor heed I yet
The grave conceits of speculative minds,
Which deem ye meteoric phantasies;
Or wandering flames of electricity;
Or that ye are as Symms' theory
Endeavour'd to persuade us, only rays
Of the far southern sun, reflecting through
The strange internal regions of the earth,
Upon the frozen northern atmosphere.
I do not like such prosing theories,
For I believe that ye're the lambent flames
That poets' souls are made of. There's a hue
For every grade of genius, and a shade
For every tuneful fancy. And ye seem
So undefinable—so beautiful—
So strange—so grand—so fearful—as ye move

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Between the earth and heaven; mysterious lights—
Which earth-born creatures cannot comprehend.

Perchance the æriel powers
Are holding some grand festival to-night,
With mystic rites, which mortals may not see;
And they have curtain'd their high galleries
With this yet unembodied intellect,
Fearfully wrought, and gloriously festoon'd
Before the lighted concave. Lo, I see
Though dimly, through the half transparent veil
Bright moving forms parading to and fro,
In august ceremonies. It may be
The bridal of some bright and loving star,
Or possibly the spirits of the air
Are holding a masonic lodge to-night.
And though these flames possess not yet the forms
Of active intellect—still I believe
That the impressions of these mystic scenes
Remain for ever with them; flitting oft
With undefin'd and thrilling imagery
Along the darken'd mirror of the mind
Within its clay-built temple; filling it
With bright unearthly hopes, and visions bless'd
Of love, and joy, and beauty. Gushing oft
In high and wondrous harpings, fitful lays,
And wild and strange conceits, which other minds
Approach not in their dreaming.
Whence the thrill,
The indescribable, electric thrill,

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That rushes through the spirit, as some tone
Of nature's melody awakes the ear;
Or when some balmy zephyr bathes the brow;
Or as the wandering eye marks some rich tint
In summer's rosy garland; when the wind
Bends the elastic grain, and blossom'd stem;
Or when the rich old forest gently waves
His dark green plumes, answering in majesty
To its impassion'd whisper? When the clouds
Heave up in glorious forms, and dazzling hues:
Or lie like sleeping beauty, softly bright;
Or sometimes when the trembling star of eve
Looks lovingly upon us? Is it not
That these things touch some half unconscious chord
That vibrates with the memories of the past,
E'er earth enshrin'd the spirit?
It must be
That in the secret treasury of the mind,
There lies a blazon'd volume of the scenes,
The trancing beauty and rich hymns of heaven;
With which the spirit was familiar once,
And which it longs for ever, wandering on
Amid the mazes of earth, sense and sin;
Catching at every shadow, which appears,
In fancy's magic mirror, like the form
Of some bright bliss, which memory's piercing eye
Sees in that hidden volume; wailing still
In bitter disappointment, as it grasps
The vain and empty shade, or sees it flit
In smiling scorn away. Just as your wreaths,

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Of bright aurorean tints, ye Northern Lights,
Are fading from the Borealean gates
Of Heaven's immense cathedral.

THE SWEET SOUTH WIND.

Hark, 'tis the sweet South Wind!
How soft its dewy fingers touch the keys,
Which thrill such melting music through the mind,
Even the green leaves of the forest trees.

There is a witchery
In the soft music, like the voice of love:
Now gushing o'er the soul deliciously,
Then sighing tenderly along the grove.

It seemeth to mine ear
The rustling of some holy creature's wing,
Sent from some passionless and sinless sphere,
Unction of peace unto the soul to bring.

My temples feel its power.
Cooling and soothing every throbbing vein,
My spirit lifts its weary wings once more,
And bursts the strong clasp of care's sordid chain:

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And floats all calm and free,
Blent with the music of the bending wood;
Fill'd with the light of immortality,
Even the presence of the living God.

Nature is full of Him,
And every willing spirit feels his power;
Even as the south wind fills the forest dim,
And bends with its rich weight each lowly flower.

Oh! may death come to me,
On the soft breath of such a night as this;
To lift the thin veil of mortality,
And let me bathe, at once, in perfect bliss.

THE LAST PALE FLOWERS.

The last pale flowers are drooping on the stems,
The last searleaves are fluttering on the trees,
The latest groups of summer's flying gems,
Are warbling forth their parting melodies.

The winds seem heavy-wing'd, and linger by,
Whispering to every pale and sighing leaf;
And sun-light falls all dim and tremblingly,
Like love's fond farewell through the mist of grief.

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There is a dreamy presence every where,
As if of spirits passing to and fro;
We almost hear their voices in the air,
And feel their balmy pinions touch the brow.

We feel as if a breath might put aside
The shadowy curtain of the spirit-land;
Revealing all the lov'd and glorified,
That death has taken from affection's band.

We call their names, and listen, for the sound
Of their familiar low-voic'd melodies;
We look almost expectantly around
For their dear faces, with the loving eyes.

We feel them near us, and spread out the scroll
Of hearts, whose feelings they were wont to share,
That they may read the constancy of soul,
And all the high, pure motives written there.

And then we weep, as if our cheek were prest
To holy Friendship's unsuspecting heart,
Which understands our own. Oh, vision blest!
Alas! that such illusion should depart.

I oft have pray'd that death may come to me
In such a spiritual autumnal day;
Heaven seems so near—I tremble to be free,
And pass, with all the beautiful, away.

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SUNRISE IN THE FOREST.

Look out upon the draperies of the East,
Those glorious folds of crimson, and bright blue,
And splendid purple, edg'd and fring'd with gold,
Or border'd with bright silver. Seem they not
Like curtains at the window of high heaven,
Whose texture barely screens the glorious place,
From sacrilegious gaze; permitting floods
Of radiant light and beauty to stream forth
Upon the Great One's garden—this fair earth.
Lo! now, a minister of the Most High,
The dazzling sun, looks forth with joyous smile,
His eye is heavenward, with an ardent glow
Of adoration, while his loving smile
Gladdens this earth, which watches for its light
With all her myriad eyes.
Now gushes forth
From all the pure, and bright, and innocent,
A hymn of adoration unto Him
Who dwells within the veil.
At first, the birds
Awake in bush, and bower, and shady tree.
Shake their bright wings, erect their shining heads,
And pour in concert such enchanting songs.
Of mingled tones, and melting melodies,
All blending in one full rich swell of praise:
Ten thousand voices, from the hills and plains
Join in a low deep chorus. The clear springs

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Reflect the sun-smiles back to heaven again,
And pour a song of waters, which flows on
With never-ceasing music through all lands,
And joins the chorus of the shouting sea.
Each little dew-ey'd flower looks smiling up,
And bows in child-like worship. The green trees,
With voices in each leaf, bend and adore,
As the free winds pass by, wafting along
Incense from all the sweet, music from all
The innocent and joyful, and with wings
Of life and beauty, bearing them to Heaven
A holy and accepted offering.

SUNSET IN THE FOREST.

Come now unto the Forest, and enjoy
The loveliness of nature. Look abroad
And note the tender beauty, and repose
Of the magnificent, in earth and sky.
See what a radiant smile of golden light
O'erspreads the face of heaven; while the west
Burns like a living ruby, in the ring
Of the deep green horizon. Now the shades
Are deepening round the feet of the tall trees,
Bending the head of the pale blossoms down
Upon their mother's bosom, where the breeze
Comes with a low sweet hymn and balmy kiss,
To lull them to repose. Look now, and see

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How every mountain, with its leafy plume,
Or rocky helm, with crest of giant pine,
Is veil'd with floating amber, and gives back
The loving smile of the departing sun,
And nods a calm adieu.
Hark! from the dell
Where sombre hemlocks sigh unto the streams,
Which with its everlasting harmony
Returns each tender whisper; what a gush
Of liquid melody, like soft, rich tones
Of flute and viol, mingling in sweet strains
Of love and rapture, float away tow'rd heaven.
'Tis the Ædolco from her sweet place,
Singing to nature's God the perfect hymn
Of nature's innocence.
Does it not seem
That earth is list'ning to that evening song?
There's such a hush on mountain, plain, and streams.
Seems not the sun to linger in his bower
On yonder leafy summit, pouring forth
His glowing adoration unto God,
Blent with that evening hymn? while every flower
Bows gracefully, and mingles with the strain
Its balmy breathing.
Have you look'd on aught
In all the panoply, and bustling pride
Of the dense city with its worldly throng,
So soothing, so delicious to the soul,
So like the ante-chamber of high heaven,
As this old forest, with the emerald crown

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Which it has worn for ages, glittering
With the bright halo of departing day?
While from its bosom living seraphim,
Are hymning gratitude and love to God.

MY HEART IS LIKE—

My heart is like an ocean shell
Thrown high upon a desert shore;
Far from the mermaid's magic cell
In which it dwelt of yore.

Far from the rich and holy bowers
Where corals arch the marble floor,
And sea-weeds with their cold fresh flowers
Are richly wreathen o'er.

Far from the reef where amber lies
And brilliant ocean feathers grow;
While pearly shells of various dyes
Adorn the depths below.

From where the fountains of the deep
Are gushing in their sounding halls;
Where God's eternal mysteries sleep,
And sun-light never falls.

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From purest alabaster caves
Where the dense flood lies still and bright,
While far above, the shouting waves
Sport with the tempest's might.

From the strong cabinets which hold
The priceless treasures of the sea,
Rich gems, and veins of virgin gold,
Of unknown brilliancy.

Far from the sunny isles of shells,
Where bright waves kiss a silver strand,
Where soft wings wave, and music swells
The pomp of fairy land.

From these remov'd the lonely shell
Lies glittering on the arid ground;
Above its bed no billows swell,
No kindred sleep around;

Yet ever from its deep recess
There breathes a low, a hymning tone,
Like mellow music of the sea
On evening breezes thrown.

My heart is like an ocean shell,
From young life's fairy regions thrown,
Upon a barren land to dwell,
Scath'd, thirsty, and alone.

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While memory from its deep recess
Breathes forth an everlasting strain,
Of days, and scenes of blessedness
That cannot come again.

My heart is like an ocean shell
Thrown high upon a desert shore,
And murmuring from its lonely cell
Fond memories—ever more!—

YES, I HAVE WANDERED.

Yes, I have wander'd long,
Dear native-land from thee;
But still within my heart is shrin'd
Thy blessed memory.
Thy blessed memory!
Oh, bright its angels come,
Each with its dear familiar face
And loving words of Home.
Oh, who that on New England's breast
Her tiny infant foot-print prest,
However far her feet may stray,
Has ever borne her heart away.

Oh, I have wander'd long,
In weariness of soul,
Where cities glitter in their pride,
And noble rivers roll;

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Where noble rivers roll
Through valleys bright and warm,
And crested mountains proudly frown
Each o'er its mirror'd form.
But who, that braided childhood's dreams,
Beside New England's tuneful streams,
Where broader, deeper waters glide,
Can love the scenery, or the tide.

Oh, I have wander'd wide,
By many a far-famed spot,
Yet dear New England's hills and vales,
Have never been forgot;
Oh, never once forgot
My native city fair,
The blessed home of infancy,
The hallow'd house of prayer.
Who that in girlhood's summer hours
Was wreath'd amongst New England's flowers,
However far her steps may rove,
Can e'er forget her home of love.

Oh, many a year I've dwelt,
Within this shadowy dell,
And oft have hush'd my heart, to list
The wild harp's fitful swell;
The wild harp's fitful swell,
Has sooth'd my saddest hour,
But still the richest melodies
Breath'd from my native bower.

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Oh, who that learn'd the Muses' lore
In childhood, on New England's shore,
Can ever cease to love the strain,
That bears her spirit home again.

TO THE DEAD.

Oh, come, one moment, from the spirit-land
My injur'd love. This poor heart cries to thee
For ever, day and night.—Oh come, dear love,
And listen to my agonizing plea.

I neither knew thy heart, or mine, fond love,
When I addres'd to thee those proud cold words,
Those bitter cruel words,—Oh that sweet breath,
Should wound more keenly, than the sharpest swords.

I did not know—indeed I knew not then,
That they were false, and cruel, and would be
Death to thy generous bosom, and keen pangs
Of living, writhing agony to me.

Oh! I would give a thousand years of life
With all earth's wealth, and honor, thrones, and powers,
If all were mine, to purchase from the Past,
The irrevocable Past—one little hour.

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That hour in which I threw thee from my heart,
With cold, proud taunting—Oh! great God! forgive!
Vain prayer.—There is no word of peace for me,
Since there's no word to bid my victim live.

Dear love, Oh, come to me one little hour,
And let me kneel before thee, at thy feet,
And there unsay those bitter heartless words,
And pray thee to forgive them, and forget.

Oh, come to me, one hour! and let me gaze
Into the loving soul of thy blue eye,—
I know thy generous spirit would forgive,
If thou could'st gaze upon mine agony.

I know thou would'st forgive me, though I turn'd
Cold-hearted, and indignant from thy plea;
Thou would'st forgive, if I could tell thee all,—
And how I lov'd thee, while I murder'd thee.

Yes, I did murder thee! I gave thy years
Of hope and usefulness to the cold tomb;
But did I kill thy soul?—That thought—Oh, God!
It gnaws my spirit, from the place of gloom.

Oh, did'st thou worship me? and did I stand
Between thee, and the Merciful? If so
There is for me no hope—I yield my soul
To endless tortures of despairing wo.

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Yet come—though I may never be forgiven,
Come but one moment. It would ease my breast
To know that though I reft thee of thy life,
Thou dwellest in the Paradise of rest.

I plead in vain.—Thou wilt not, can'st not come
From that dim far-off land of mystery—
Oh, then I pray thee—let me hear thy voice,
Ah me!—There comes no voice, but memory.

And she repeats thy tender pleading words,
And shows the wealth of friendship, truth, and love,
That thou did'st lavish on me. She repeats
The words that broke thy hopes, the hopes I wove.

The words that were thy death-doom—Oh, I weep,
But tears are no relief to this swoll'n heart;
Each drop but seems to burn into my soul,
And bid a thousand drops more bitter start.

Thy latest thought of me was bath'd in tears,
In unavailing tears,—yet O! believe,
If I had been beside thee, in that hour
My love, my grief, had won thee to forgive.

I would have laid my naked heart on thine,
And thus have sooth'd and saved thee.—Oh, vain thought!
That would propitiate thus the spectral past—
Thy heart lies crush'd within the shroud I wrought.

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Yet penitence goes up with anguish'd prayer,
And pleads for mercy, at the throne of heaven—
Oh, let her bring some token, some sweet pledge
That thou art blest, dear love, and I forgiven.

OCEAN MELODIES.

Ocean's eternal song!
With what a deep and soothing melody
That ever changeful voice of solemn tone
Comes on the listening ear. In Fancy's dreams
When my young spirit own'd her regal sway,
Before Experience with her diamond pen
Had written Falsehood! on her magic glass,
Thus marring the rich landscapes, and bright heavens,
Which it doth shadow forth;—when life was fair,
And earth a paradise, and innocence
Inscrib'd on all around me; when all sounds
Became articulate of legends strange
Of wealth, or love, or beauty,—Then I deem'd
That there were voices blended in the swell
Of Ocean's glorious lay, to which the waves
Beat time upon the strand, and when the breeze
Slept on his bosom, breathing now and then
A balmy sigh, as if it dream'd of love.
Or when the mighty winds—the stormy winds
Dipp'd their strong pinions in the flashing flood
And shouted, and rush'd onward, fitfully
Careering in their madness; lifting up

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The waters on their plumes, and marching through
Between the rolling heaps; then with a shriek
Striking the shuddering summits with their wings,
Till they were white with foam, then bound away
Chanting with wildly measur'd chorus still
Their hymn of majesty.
Oh, I have felt
My inmost spirit tremble as the voice
Of many waters wrestling with the winds,
Came up from the dark sea with many a lay
Of those who slumber in the far deep caves,
Where mysteries dwell, which eye of living man
Has never search'd, and never can explore.
'Tis agony to think how many hearts,
Torn from the golden chain that clasps around
The dear domestic altar, are cast forth
Upon the desert, where the Ocean flood
Tramps over them for ever.—
Earth to earth
Is Nature's burial law; but the deep sea,
The living shudder, as they contemplate
Its dread immensity, and fear to sleep
In its mysterious bosom. But the dead!
They go down calmly to the mermaid bowers
Of beautiful cold sea-weed; to the caves
Where lie the pearl shells; to the coral banks
Where bright finn'd tribes are sporting; to the fields
Of rank, brown grasses, where Leviathan
Gambols, and feeds at pleasure. There's no fear
In those still bosoms, when the monstrous forms

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Of that dim world float past them. Not a thrill
Vibrates along the nerves, as o'er the cheek
The cold sea serpent trails his slimy form.
No eager avarice tempts the hand to clutch
The masses of pure silver, or bright gold
That pave the unspotted marble palaces;
Nor ever brightens up the leaden eye
Beneath the glorious diamond-studded arch;
Nor in the halls where sparkle every ray
Of every flashing gem, or colour'd stone;
Or where the precious shells and amber lie,
Like sand-stones on a desert valueless;
They feel no joy amid the treasuries
Of their eternal mansions; not a swell
Of pride inflates the breast, or lifts the face
In scorn of earth, and yet not unto heaven:
No awe binds down the brow in reverence
Of him who builded these stupendous domes,
And garnish'd them in glory. Those that find
Their resting places in the dungeon cells,
At the foundations of the eternal walls
That base the mighty mountains, shudder not,
Nor weep, nor clasp their hands in wild despair,
That Ocean with its everlasting bars
Encloses them for ever; shutting out
Warmth, light, and human voice. They never call
On those who walk the sunny green-rob'd earth,
Those ocean dwellers—They have no regrets
For the society of friend, or love,
Or child, or parent. Every heart is still,
And every feature calm and passionless.

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Their voices never mingle in the wail
That lives along the waters.
I have deem'd
That the wild agony of the bereav'd,
Pour'd forth in broken words, and shrieks, and moans
With bitter sobbings mingled, and strange prayers,
Is living ever, o'er the liquid tomb,
A ceaseless dirge for those that sleep below.

Thus as I mus'd beneath the willow boughs
Marking how slow and gracefully they waved
Their assent, to the wooing of the winds,—
The Ocean Melody came on mine ear
Burden'd with this sad ditty.

Canst thou not hear my voice, dear Amadon,
Down in the cold deep sea?
Will no kind spirit tell how I mourn,
How bitterly I weep—
For thee?

O that thy Lora slumbered with thee, love,
Even on thine icy breast;
'Twere better far, than thus like some lone dove
To roam, and seek in vain
For rest.

Oh! wherefore were we parted? We who lov'd
With so intense a flame,
That every pulse in either bosom mov'd
With joy and tenderness,
The same.

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Even in our childhood, when with fairy feet
We danc'd amongst the flowers,
It was companionship that made so sweet,
The rosy garland of
Young hours.

And when our bosoms learn'd to know the swell
Of love's delicious tide,
'Twas bliss in fancy's magic world to dwell
Long pleasant years with thee,
Thy bride.

And when we were divided, all my heart
Went sorrowing forth with thee;
And absence—Oh! what language can impart
How its long hours were full
Of thee.

The fond expression of thy sad dark eyes
Remains within my soul;
And thy rich voice in its fond witcheries
Still holds my heart, in sweet
Control.

Oh, how my soul has panted to go forth
And wrap itself in thine,
That all thy thoughts and feelings, at their birth
Within thy spirit should
Be mine.

Life has no pain, no sorrow, no disgrace,
No wo, no bitter ill,

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That should have barr'd me from thy dear embrace,
Or stolen from my bliss,
One thrill.

How can this bleeding heart keep beating on,
While thine responds no more?
How can this bitter agony be borne—
This desolation at
Life's core!

What has this rich and radiant earth for me?
While sun-light, song, and shade,
And breeze, and blossom, only tell of thee,
And thou, the joy of all,
Art dead!

Dead! and I know not where thy beauties lie,
In what strange ocean grot
Thou sleep'st, with quiet heart, and soulless eye
While love, and Lora are
Forgot.

Oh, wert thou laid beneath the grassy sod
Where I might sleep by thee,
How sweetly could I die,—but now—Oh God!—
Between us ever rolls
The sea!

The music with its burden died away
In long and plaintive cadence, and it seem'd
As if a whisper dwelt upon the wave,
Of some young timid spirit, whose fond hopes
The weltering waste had shrouded. Sad it seem'd

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And passionate, and broken by deep sobs,
As of intensest suffering, which the breast
Lock'd as a sacred treasure, and believ'd
It would be sacrilege to speak.
But now
Another measure comes upon the wind,
Sad, sweet, and full of pathos; and the strain
Brings on its swell, this history of wo.

Wilt thou return no more? my own, my faithful-hearted,
To the dear home, where thy precious ones dwell?
We are so desolate, since thou, love, hast departed,
And left with our spirits the cold word, farewell!
A long farewell—
Thou wert too excellent, my early friend, and lover,
How my heart priz'd thee no language can tell;
Oh, sweet was our communion, love, but now its joys are over,
Blighted, and crush'd by that cold word, farewell!
A long farewell!
Thy first holy kiss, love, I priz'd, a sacred treasure,
That on my young lip should in sanctity dwell;
Thy last kiss, our parting kiss, seal'd up the fount of pleasure,
And wrote on its margin, the cold word, farewell!
A long farewell.
Thy place is vacant now; thy home is void of gladness,
Tears in our eyes, at thy name ever swell;
Our hearts are encircled by the heavy chain of sadness,
Clasp'd with the adamant cold word, farewell!
A long farewell.

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I garnish'd forth thy home, with all thy favourite flowers,
And treasur'd, whatever I knew pleas'd thee well;
'Twas bliss to anticipate the rapture of the hours,
When joy-beams should banish the cold word, farewell;
A long farewell.
I saw the welcome ship, with glad white sails returning,
And every pulse throbb'd, with a wild trembling swell;
But to my bursting heart, with fond emotion burning,
She brought not my love, but his death-cold farewell;
A long farewell.
Thou wilt return no more! Thy home is 'neath the billow
That rings on the dark reef, thine unceasing knell!
While I lament in widowhood, upon my lonely pillow,
With spirit pierc'd through, by that cold word farewell.
Thy last farewell.

Farewell! farewell! dwelt long upon the wave,
And died like broken-weeping on the shore.
Then came another melody, and thus
It told its tale of sadness.—

In what fair grotto of the deep-green sea
Where rich festoons of sea-flowers darkly wave,
From trees of brilliant coral, that enwreathe
Their priceless branches through the marble cave;
Where rings for evermore the solemn knell,
Of tinkling waters in the tuneful shell;
Where pensive sea-maids come in groups to weep,—
Dost thou, my precious Isabella, sleep?

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Thou beautiful enchantment! Thou wert like
A delicately wrought transparency,
Through which all angel forms of tenderness,
Shone, in the light of maiden purity;
Thy cheek was love's pure altar, where he laid
With playful hand, his roses pale and red;
While bathing in thine eyes of liquid blue,
By full-fring'd curtains half concealed from view.

Spring has no blossom fairer than thy form;
Winter, no snow-wreath, purer than thy mind;
The dew-drop trembling to the morning beam,
Is like thy smile, pure, transient, heaven-refined;—
But ever o'er thy soul, a shadow lay,
Still more apparent, in the sunniest day;
And ever when to bliss thy heart beat high,
The swell subsided in a plaintive sigh.

When I would speak of bliss, thou would'st reply
Hush! for I feel that all our hopes are vain;
Some spirit whispers, that I soon must die;
And every thrill of hope, is mix'd with pain.
At length thy drooping person prov'd too well
That there was poison in life's failing well;—
And then we sought youth's freshness to renew
Beneath a sky of softer sun, and dew.

We journey'd with thee, many a mournful day,
Till thou wert weary of the fruitless toil;
And pray'd that we would take our homeward way
That thou might'st slumber in thy native soil.

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I knelt and clasp'd thee in a wild embrace,
Concealing in thy robes, my anguish'd face;
Yet still thy snowy shoulder fill my tears,
And still thine Æolean voice was in mine ears.

I felt thy presence—and the veil of life
Was still between the coffin scene, and me.—
And hope, and skill maintain'd their anxious strife,
Contending strongly with stern Destiny.
But when I saw thee dead—and felt the chill
Of thy white hand—so nerveless—and so still—
When as my tears fell on thy lovely face,
There was no voice, no smile, no consciousness.

And when I saw thy form—so fair, so pure,
So dear, so precious, cast into the sea!
Oh, God of mercy! How did I endure
The torture of that fearful agony?
Oh, peerless sleeper! Down in the deep sea
My heart is in that billowy world, with thee;
And still my spirit lingers on the wave
That rolls between my bosom, and thy grave.

Hark! a full chorus from the mighty deep
Drowns every mournful plaint, and loud, and high,
Peals forth its solemn anthem.

Leaves of life's ephemeral tree,
Trembling to the blast,
Wherefore sigh so mournfully,
That in the blighting, some of ye
Are on my bosom cast,

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Could they find a holier rest
Than within my secret breast?

Soon your grief will pass away,
Soon your lives depart;
Will it aught avail your clay
Whether grass, or ocean spray,
Sigh o'er the broken heart?
Which is lightest, earth, or wave,
O'er the broken flowret's grave?

Wherefore weep for those that rest,
Since their griefs are o'er;
Whether earth or ocean wave,
Be the quiet sleeper's grave,
They return no more;
Wherefore wish them back again,
Bow'd with grief, or rack'd with pain?

Surely, blessed are the dead,
Dying in the Lord;
Whether earth or ocean spread
Dark above their silent bed,—
Blessed, blessed word!
Sweet the dead in Jesus sleep,
While the living watch and weep.

Leave the peaceful dead with me,
Till the morning break,
When the sleepers in the sea,

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With the earth-shrin'd family
Shall with joy awake.
Then my moaning song shall cease,
And all melody be peace.

THE SPIRIT'S LYRE.

Where pure and fresh life's fountain springs
Within the bosom's secret place,
The forming hand of nature strings
The lyre of human bliss.

It has a chord for every thrill
Of nature's melting sympathies,
And every tone has power to fill
The soul with ecstasies.

Oh, could its chorus once be full,
And not one chord untun'd or riven,
Then in its hymn, the human soul
Would prove the bliss of heaven.

But Fate's stern hand is on the lyre
E'er nature wakes the earliest lay,
And in her grasp, wire after wire,
Snaps with a pang away.

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The spirit thus can never know
The full high melody of bliss;
A few faint breathings, wild and low,
Are all its happiness.

SKETCH.

Is this the rich, the proud, the beautiful—
The eloquent in council?—He who stood
To-day with the assembled Senators,
And statesmen of his country? He whose voice
Charm'd every ear, whose presence fill'd all eyes,
Whose eloquence subdued and won all hearts,
Except rank enemies, and even from them
Took half the rancour, or bow'd down the brow
With ire and shame, while loud and long applause
Greeted the man whose name they had malign'd,
And rang in deaf'ning peals, proclaiming him
The wisest and most patriotic son
Of his lov'd country. Can this be the man
Whose nod confers an honour, and whose smile
Makes many a bosom beat tumultuously,
Whose ear is greeted oft by the quick sigh
Of smitten beauty, as unconsciously
She watches the fine figure, which enshrines
The richest gems of manly excellence?
If so—why sits he here—so desolate
In this lone brilliant chamber? Wherefore lies

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His head upon his hand, so pensively,
While from his bosom steal the long sad sighs
In slow succession. What does his soul lack
Of all that makes life joyous? He has health,
And friends, and honour, riches and applause?
His soul is joyless,—for its early buds
Of hope and love were blighted, while his heart
Was young and ardent, and alive to all
The fervour of young love's idolatry.
Fate tore his treasure from his bleeding breast—
Yet still in its deep sanctuary lives
The bright remembrance of a fair young girl,
Who lov'd him with a maiden's earnest love,
And smil'd so strangely, when he said farewell—
Aye, smiled—while tears lay trembling in the lids
Of those meek azure eyes, which unto him
Were founts of consolation and delight;
She did not say farewell, for she was proud,
And would not have him see her weep for him.
He knew not then how faithfully he lov'd,
Or he had not so tamely let her go.
He knew not that the sinking of his soul,
As that light figure, with the golden curls,
Pass'd from his sight in drooping loveliness,
Was but a prelude to eternal gloom
And loneliness of spirit. Yet, 'tis so!
The world is bright and smiling, but no beam
Of all its joyous things, can reach the cold
Benighted vacuum, in his yearning heart;
And all life's glorious things are mockeries,

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For there's no gentle heart to echo back
The plaudits of his fame, and in its joy
Throb with a higher love against his breast—
And he is lonely, mid'st applauding crowds,
And poor, surrounded by life's luxuries.
And where is she—the object of the love,
The wither'd flowers of which so shade his heart,
Rustling at every touch, and chafing still
At every motion, the sore things of life?

I saw in a lone forest—far away,
From all the scenes and friends, her young heart lov'd,
Within an humble cottage, rudely built
And meanly furnish'd, where it seem'd to me
That happiness could find no resting place;
A meekly drooping woman toiling still
As if with mind intent upon her work;
Her cheek was faded, and her high brow mark'd
With long deep lines of care; and sun and wind
Had tarnish'd the pure lilies that once bloom'd
Upon her clear complexion. Even her eye,
Her light-blue speaking eye, droop'd pensively,
As if its long dark lashes sought to hide
A tear, that should—but could not be repress'd.
It seem'd her soul was busy with sweet thoughts
Of far-off scenes, and friends, and joys, and days,
That came not to her exile; and she sigh'd
With that expression of deep hopelessness,
Which no untutor'd heart can comprehend.
But when her little one, with its glad smile

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And voice of music, call'd the thrilling name
Of mother, in her ear—she rais'd at once
Her drooping brow, and then the radiant smile
That lighted up her features, and beam'd forth
From the soul's fountain, in those azure eyes,
Reveal'd what treasures of delight and love,
Were frozen up in its deep treasury.

That smile, could he now meet it, might reveal
To the lone statesman in the splendid room
Th' identity of this sad-faded wife,
And the bright joyous girl of seventeen years,
With whom he parted, and on whom his eye
Has never rested since. Oh! it would give
A pang to his strong heart, to meet her now—
Faded and sad, and blighted as she is,—
The slave of an imperious iron-man,
Struggling with pains, and cares, and penury;
Which press so heavily on her bruis'd heart.
That but for Heaven's help, the holy balm
Of meek religion, she had long since sunk
And died, beneath her burden.
Heaven forbid,
That he should ever look upon her more!
Her memory is bright within his heart—
So let it rest.—
And she has learn'd to bear
Her burden of affliction patiently,
And will not suffer her poor heart to dwell
Regretfully with him, who, for slight cause,
Cast her so coldly from him.

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THE SHADOWS OF THE PAST.

The Shadows of the Past! Oh, dim and pale,
They linger in the paths where joy has been;
And Memory lifts at times oblivion's veil,
And lights the vista with her magic sheen,
Till stricken hearts go mad, and call in vain
On joys, that ne'er can thrill their chords again.

The Shadows of the Past! Oh, beautiful
In the deserted bowers of bliss they stand;
So gentle-ey'd, so meekly sorrowful,
Extending toward us the familiar hand;
Oh! we would bribe Heaven's mercy, to restore
Those blessed angels to our arms once more.

The Shadows of the Past! Oh, sad they seem,
With wither'd rose-buds braided in their hair,
And broken tablets of the heart's young dream,
Oh! precious were the hopes dissever'd there;
Wo to the weary heart, which, all undone,
Looks back and weeps—and wanders darkly on!

TO SLEEP.

Yes, come, for I am weary, and would feel
Thy breath of balm, upon my fever'd brow;
Soft to my couch thy breezy foot-steps steal,
Oh, gentle soother! thou art welcome now.

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How quietly thou glidest from thy bower
Of silken poppies, in the shadowy vale,
Where Lethe's waters press the silent shore,
And drooping plants their dreamy breath exhale.

Now lay thy velvet hand upon mine eyes,
Shut out the world, and calm my throbbing brain;
Then from the twilight land of mysteries,
I pray thee, beckon thine enchanted train.

Shadows of gentle memories, dress'd by thee
In radiant tissue of immortal light;
And yet with semblance of reality,
And all familiar to my mental sight.

All forms of Love, and Truth, and holy Hope,
That laid their short-liv'd offerings on my heart,
When I believ'd that flowers would never droop,
And braided roses never fall apart.

Oh, simple faith of girlhood! Purer, far,
Than the cold worship of the world-wise heart,
Which desolate, and seam'd with many a scar,
Conceals its anguish with a veil of art.

Thy dewy fingers only can restore
The faded treasures of life's blessed morn:
And weave around the heart, which hopes no more,
Sweet garlands of the rose that wears no thorn.

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CHARITY.

How meekly beautiful she walks
Along the embattled line of life,
Regardless of the pomp and power,
That mingles in the strife.
The glittering toys, that strew the way,
Have no attraction in her eyes;
How dim they seem, beside the pearl
That in her bosom lies.

She bears no sword amid the fray,
She seeks no laurel, no renown;
What should she do with earthly bay,
Who heirs a heavenly crown.
She seeks not—heeds not—man's applause,
She knows 'tis but a passing wind;
And his revilings, scoffs, and taunts,
Fall harmless on her mind.

Careless of these, she passes on,
With searching eye and heeding ear,
With heart that thrills at every moan,
And pities every tear.
'Tis hers to raise the prostrate form,
To stanch the wound with tender art;
To lay soft leaves of Gilead's balm
Upon the bleeding heart.

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To turn the lifted blade away,
And shield the trembler from the blow;
To lead the weary on their way,
And sooth the wanderer's wo.
To aid the bending form of age,
And cheer its path of pain and gloom;
Pointing the dim eye to the day,
That sets not in the tomb.

And see, close-folded to her breast,
The outcast little orphan's form;
She gives it clothing, food, and rest,
And shelter from the storm.
Her eyes, and heart, are heavenward still,
Her hands are to the needy given,
To bind each wound, to sooth each ill,
And lead the weak toward heaven.

What though her eyes are sometimes wet,
When venom'd arrows pierce her breast;
And blood drips from her weary feet,
That know no earthly rest.
Still, He, whose footsteps she pursues,
Heals all her wounds with holy love,
And dries her tears, with dazzling views
Of her own Home—above.

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THE LEGEND OF THE OLD WHITE THORN.

It was a fine old Hawthorn tree
Which cast its grateful shade,
Across the brook, which bright and free
Along the valley stray'd.
There was a bench beneath the tree,
Adorn'd with sculpture rare;
But none could tell its history,
Or who had plac'd it there.
And yet it seem'd that to that seat
A magic influence drew,
The heavy heart, and weary feet,
With the descending dew.
Oh, many a tender tale of love,
Was whisper'd in that shade,
And buds of passion interwove,
Ah! that such wreaths should fade.
Young friendship's bright and holy bands
Were braided, 'neath that tree,
It was a place for clasping hands,
And mingling sympathy.
Oft with belov'd companions there,
I sat in childhood's hours,
Broidering hope's robe of gossamer,
With most delightful flowers.
In womanhood I came again,
With chill'd and weary breast,
And spirit school'd to care, and pain,
And long estrang'd from rest,

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And so I sought the old White Thorn,
The evening star beneath,
To weep the buds untimely torn,
From hope's bright rainbow wreath.
To muse of all the sweet and fair,
Bright eye'd, and full of youth,
Whose hearts and hands had mingled there,
With simple vows of truth.
Then as I wander'd sad and lone,
Adown the narrow dell,
I almost heard each gentle tone,
In childhood lov'd so well.
The lost, the chang'd, were there again,
And many a treasur'd word,
Oh, sweeter than the spring bird's strain,
The chords of memory stirr'd.
I paus'd—improvement's iron march,
Its footprint there had made;
A lofty bridge with massive arch,
Across the dell was laid;
A small stump, to its centre cleft,
Told where the thorn tree stood;
And of that honour'd bench was left
One mouldering piece of wood,
Oh, long and bitterly I wept,
Low-seated on the ground,
Till down the dell the shadows crept,
And dew drops gather'd round.
For like a wreath of living flowers
Twin'd round that honour'd tree,

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The memory of all pleasant hours,
Had ever been to me.
At length there woke a long deep sigh,
Like winds green leaves among;
It touch'd my soul like melody
Remember'd well and long.
And then a voice low-toned and clear,
Blent with that airy tone,
Such spirit voice, as spirits hear,
By wood paths dim and lone.
Oh, soft, and sweet, and thrillingly,
It told its simple tale,
And thus in wild sweet harmony,
Hymn'd forth its pensive wail.
The shadows of the buried past—
They come at memory's call,
And kindly solace to the last,
The weariest heart of all.
Bright shades of hope, of joy, and love,
Of scenes, and seasons gone,
Since first the melting voice of love
Awoke the old White Thorn.
The old White Thorn, two hundred years,
The pride of this lone spot,
And now, (Oh, bless thy flowing tears)
By all but thee forgot.
Here feelings beautiful and deep
Have pour'd their treasures dear,
And bitterer tears than thou canst weep,
Have fall'n like rain drops here.

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Young hearts have writh'd beneath this tree,
With anguish strong and wild,
And here was wrought the destiny,
Of nature's loveliest child.
'Twas when this richly cultur'd scene
Where pleasant dwellings stand,
And cities crowd with dazzling sheen
By stream, or ocean strand,
Where Science's august halls are trod
By throngs of eager feet;
Where in the hallow'd courts of God,
The humble-hearted meet;
Where art has built his myriad domes,
And plies his magic toil;
And cheerful Agriculture comes
Each morn to bless the soil,
When all this scene from sea to sea,
Where e'er the sun looks down,
Was clad in nature's fair array,
And wore her leafy crown,
Her emerald crown of forest leaves
Inwreath'd with blossom'd stems,
And which at morn she interweaves,
With myriad flashing gems.
And here her own wild children dwelt,
The beautiful and free;
The fearless and the fleet, who felt
Their being ecstasy.
And here were songs, and radiant wings,
For nature's God has given

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Bright plumes to all melodious things,
That they may fly toward heaven.
And underneath the living shade
High-arch'd from tree to tree,
The dusky featur'd hunter stray'd,
With foot and spirit free.
His soul was like his native land,
Majestic, wild, and vast;
Its very shadow darkly grand
O'er wastes of verdure cast.
His passions, like the mountain wind,
Resistless, fierce, and sure;
And kindly feelings in his mind,
Like fountains deep and pure.
Oh, hush the lay. I must not sing,
For echo haunts the vale.
The Æolean's fitful murmuring
Suits best such passion tale.

LENNORAH.

She was a white bud on a red rose tree,
A perfect woman in her gentleness
Amid a savage horde. Her face was fair
And very beautiful. The copper hue
Lay not on her fair brow, or pearly cheek.
She was a wonder in the wilderness
Amid her wild compeers. Her dimpled mouth
Was rich with pleasant witcheries, and her eyes

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Those large dark lustrous eyes, were full of soul—
The soul of woman, which is composite
Of love, and trust, and truth, a perfect braid
Entwin'd with her existence. Wo to him
Who breaks one shining strand, destroying thus
The harmony which is her all of bliss,
Her all of beauty, and her all of worth;
(For what is woman lacking fervent love,
Or trust in man, or most of all pure truth?
These are her wealth, and these are always hers
Till he to whom she gives the precious braid
In carelessness or passion severs it;
And thenceforth she is wretched and undone,
And rest of her high value. Oh man! man!
That thou should'st ever be the reckless child
To tarnish—or to break—and then despise
The dearest, richest, and most coveted
Of thy good Father's gifts.)
Lennorah's eyes
I said were full of soul, but oh, her smile,
Irradiating eyes, and cheeks, and mouth
With beauty's perfect lustre! And her voice,
The very music of soft sympathies,
And then the movements of her perfect form—
All grace and ease, combin'd to make her one
Who seem'd a creature from a brighter sphere
Astray in this coarse world. She never felt
Communion with the children of her tribe,
But found companionship in breezy woods,
With tender buds, and young and sweet-breath'd flowers,

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And singing birds. The sun, and moon, and stars
Held converse with her, in their own strange speech
Of glory, beauty, and magnificence.
And she would sit upon a mossy rock
And hold communion with the voyagers
Of those white clouds, that flit so gracefully
Along the ether. These were all her friends,
Her intimate companions, and she found
High happiness in intercourse with them.
The braves, and fleet young hunters of her tribe
Regarded her with worship, as good men
Regard a saint, as we regard high things
Which are beyond our reach, the beautiful
Which are not made for us, which our desires
Dare not aspire to. Thus she dwelt alone
Shrin'd in the pure affections of her race,
A marvel and a mystery to them all.
She lov'd the holy night, and used to stand
In lonely wood-paths at the midnight hour
Communing with the creatures whose soft wings
Shed balm upon the intellectual world,
Soothing and hushing weariness and care
And e'en disease with dewy spell of sleep
Which binds the senses that enthral the soul,
And lifts the heavy curtain from its eyes,
So that the presence of the spiritual
Is gloriously reveal'd. (They then assume
The forms of those we love, the beautiful
Who bless the earth, or walk the spirit land,
Each in the dear familiar drapery

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In which we lov'd to clasp them. Then we hold
Such sweet communion with the blessed ones
Who weep no more, not e'en in sympathy,
And hearts which during long and weary years
Have been all dark and silent, see once more
The blessed light of love, and dance to bliss;
And pleasant melody of household words
Falls on them like the blessed rain of heaven
Upon the open flowers. Oh holy dreams!
Alas! that we should ever wake to weep.)
Thus would she stand beneath the smiling heaven
Amid the gentle spirits visible
To her pure eyes, which, in their mysteries
Commingled with her soul—The aerial groups
That minister to mortals, to the flowers,
Green leaves, and living waters, moving still
Upon the night wind, lov'd to touch her brow,
And hold communion with her.
Down this dell
Just where the streamlet twines its silver thread
Into the noble river's broad bright chain,
Deep in the bosom of the quiet vale
Lay like a peaceful flock, the cluster'd tents
Of her dark people!
Many a summer eve
While I was cherishing the infancy
Of my peculiar charge, the old White Thorn,
(You lov'd the tree, therefore I tell it you,)
Lennorah came, and with her little hands
Assisted in its culture, while her head

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Was yet no higher than the lily bell,
Which she so worshipp'd. Then I lov'd the child
And her meek innocence, which made her meet
Companion for the creatures of the air,
Which guard the fragrant buds; and we, who dwelt
Within this now almost deserted dell,
Were pleased to talk with her, who understood
The softest whispers of our zephyr-wings.
Thus she grew up in our companionship,
Unblemish'd, sweet, and purely beautiful,
As fairest morning lily, which she lov'd
To twine amongst the midnight of her hair.
There lay a fallen cedar, where you sit,
And its sad spirit watching its decay,
Oft mov'd a pensive chord, in her heart's lyre,
And this was all she knew of grief or pain.
'Twas, in her eighteenth summer, a bright day,
Toward the last of June, she had been out
On yonder mountain, and, in maiden glee,
Had caught a fawn, a little spotted fawn,
Not more than three days old, and the young thing,
As fawns will do when captur'd, follow'd her
With timid footsteps, and a trusting look
In its large quick bright eyes, which sought her face
With innocent confiding. She had tied
Her broider'd girdle round its slender neck,
And thus was leading it, with loving words,
Breath'd forth in music, while her radiant face
Beam'd love, and pity, and a victor's joy,

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Upon her gentle captive. She was clad
In snowy costume, in her nation's style,
Border'd with gorgeous broidery, and her brow
Was crowned with fragrant wreaths of living flowers,
As yet unwilted. On this spot she stood.
Oh! could'st thou see a picture like to her,
As then she look'd, in this delightful spot—
Oh, how the beautiful have pass'd away!—
Who gaz'd upon her then, with all his soul,
In rapture beaming from his speaking eyes?
On yonder lime-stone cliff, just opposite
That bare bleach'd rock, but then it was not so,
For green moss mantled it, and violets
White, blue and yellow, crimson honey-cups,
And wild columbines, garnish'd every cleft
And little hollow, while the richest shrubs
Wove it a coronet, and over all
Sweet birches interlaced their flexile twigs,
And cast a cool and fragrant shade, all day,
Upon the now bare rock. So like the heart
Bereft of nature's sheltering sympathies,—
Just there he stood. A man, mature of years,
A princely son of Spain, of noble form,
And perfect in the august majesty
Of manly beauty. On his ample brow
Was traced a depth of thought, a strength of mind,
A height of genius, a nobility
Of soul and nature; while his eyes and lips
Were rich with all the tender sympathies
That live within the heart. He was a man,

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Form'd to be worshipp'd by all gentle hearts,
Which cling confidingly with earnest trust,
And love to adoration. He had come
From his own storied land, to read the page
Of nature, in her own wild majesty,
Of forest wide and pathless as the sea,
Of mountains crown'd with rock, and plum'd with pines,
Of clear lakes lying in their emerald frames,
As made by heaven to mirror her whole face;
Of mighty rivers, sleeping in rich vales,
Lull'd by their own deep, dreamy melody,
And rapid waters chanting wildest songs
Along the rugged dells, where all strange shapes
Of majesty and beauty congregate.
But most of all, he sought to read the souls
Of her own dark-brow'd and free-footed race,
The hunters, who have never yet been tamed,
Till their high hearts were broken. He had rang'd
Plain, hill, and valley, in the checquer'd shade
Of deep continuous forests. He had seen
A thousand wonders, and enrich'd the stores
Of his mind's treasury, with fair images
Of all the great, august and beautiful.
But when he saw Lennorah, he forgot
That aught on earth was lovely, but herself.
He had known many maidens, and had been
The envied of all gallant cavaliers,
And oft, perchance, had fondly said, I love
And been belov'd, too truly,—but his heart
Had never felt its inmost chambers fill'd

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With female tenderness and excellence,
And so it had rov'd on, a weary race,
Still seeking perfect loveliness, and love
Which only could suffice it. Now he saw
A form of loveliness, surpassing all
That ever he had dream'd of, and he said,
If innocence and truth exist on earth,
Here certainly they should delight to dwell.—
Long, long he gaz'd, till this then lovely spot,
And that fair child, with her four-footed mate,
Were painted on his heart indelibly,
By love's warm pencilling. At length the thought
That she might leave the spot, and so be lost
To him for ever, came upon his mind.
So beckoning his dark-fac'd interpreter,
He ventur'd to approach her, with pretence
Of purchasing the fawn. At first, the maid
Observ'd the native hunter, and her eye
Grew bright with pleasure, and her voice rang out
So like the tones of a melodious bell,
As she display'd her captive. Then she mark'd
The white-brow'd stranger, and shrunk meekly back
With soft timidity, while o'er her face
Was spread the spell of wonder, which gave way
To admiration, then she bow'd her head
With reverence nigh to worship. Yet, through all
These momentary changes, there beam'd out
A native dignity, a maiden pride,
The seal of purity.—

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'Twere long to tell
How day by day, they met beneath the shade—
The white-thorn's shade, for it had now become
A tree of wide-spread limbs, and cluster'd leaves,
And here they met, because, they first met here.
And she soon learn'd his language, for her heart
Drank in his accents, and instinctively
Found out their meanings, and her clear ton'd voice
Was unto his an echo.—
What remains?
She lov'd him as an artless woman's soul
Alone can love, with an idolatry,
To which all other feelings must bow down.
Ah, even the world, that idol of great men,
To which kings, conquerors, statesmen bow themselves
So sacrificed unto it, and becomes
An empty nothingness. (What is it else?)
For which she leaves for ever willingly
Home with its blessed chain of faithful hearts,
Enwreath'd with flowers, which ever in their breasts
Retain the fragrance and the holy dew
Of Paradise.—(Oh, many a stricken one
Walks wearily along life's lonely way,
Within its mantle folding to the soul
As life's sole treasure, a few wither'd leaves
Of these home-blossoms. Steep'd perchance with tears
The sweet things are—or haply the death mould
Lies chill upon them—yet unto that heart
They are a blessed balm.) She was his own
With that full confidence of perfect love

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Which leans upon its object, with such faith,
As draws the infant to its mother's breast.
She lov'd, and she was happy. Ye who know
Can answer—Is there aught of happiness,
Beneath the azure firmament of heaven,
To be compared with that full flood of bliss
Which fills existence, when heart springs to heart
In love's entire communion? Days went by
Uncounted in that bright delicious dream,
Which gather'd all the sweet, the beautiful,
The pure, and never-dying things of life
Into one godlike vision, which it nam'd
Its own belov'd. And his heart clung to her
With such a sense of rest as weary birds
Returning on a balmy summer eve
From airy wanderings amidst earth's glorious things,
Feel, as they fold their wings above their nest,
Within the covert of a fairy bower.
Their love was beautiful. Her's the wild joy
Of some glad child, possessing the first rose
Which ever caught its eye, and all entranc'd
With fragrance, and pure beauty. His the bliss
Of one who finds a treasure, which has been
The object of long years of weary search,
And which attained, leaves naught to be desir'd.
And closer grew the bond between their hearts,
As days of intercourse reveal'd to each
The other's excellence, and deep pure love.
We of the spiritual knew that such bliss
Was not a flower to live in this cold world,

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And warn'd Lennorah with our unheard words,
Which thrill the spirit, with that pensive tone,
Felt as a shadow of approaching ill;
And she would weep, and tremble, with a fear
Of unseen danger, and a restlessness,
That long'd as if to find a resting-place
For the o'er-burden'd heart; and then she clung
With deeper trust unto her heart's lov'd lord—
What other refuge had she?
It was fall.
A beautiful bright day of early fall,
When light and shadow, fruits and gorgeous flowres,
Leaves, green and scarlet, crimson and bright gold,
Seem trembling to the holy melody
Pour'd forth by congregations of glad birds,
As if all sweet and bright, and tuneful things
Had gather'd in the rich and mellow sheen
To hold a carnival of all delights
Before they pass away. Lennorah sat
Beneath the thorn that day, a part of all
The glad, and beautiful, oh, beautiful
She was, with that pure face, and perfect form,
All animate with soul. And she was glad,
For he who lov'd her, he whom she so lov'd,
Was there beside her. Fondly, trustingly
She gaz'd into his eyes, while both her hands
Were softly, warmly clasping one of his,
And broken sentences of tenderness
Came sweetly murmuring from her rose-bud lips;
And through her heart throbb'd almost painfully

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The flood-tides of delight. She did not heed
The beauty of the season, or the hour,
And yet they blended their sweet influence
With every pulse she felt. But he was sad.
With all these treasures clustering round his heart,
And such a wealth of love in his embrace—
His soul was sorrowful; and in his eyes
A troubled shadow rested, like a cloud
Upon the sun-bright sky. But in her bliss
She heeded not that shadow. Could she dream
Of sorrow, at his side, at such a time
Of trancing loveliness, through earth, and heaven;
And all her being was one flood of bliss.
Poor girl—her happiness was all complete,
And like the ripen'd treasures of the year,
Just ready to depart. Close to his breast
The innocent creature nestled her bright face,
And gently murmur'd, oh, I am so blest—
My heart is burden'd with its happiness,
Just like a rose, droop'd down with fragrant dew.
He drew her to his bosom, and a tear,
A big warm tear wrung from that strong man's heart,
Fell on her glowing cheek. Bless thee, she cried,
For that one tear, the sweetest purest pledge
Of human tenderness. But do not weep,
One other drop of bliss would break my heart—
Dear love, he cried, dear unsuspecting child!
And his stern frame which never shook till then,
Now trembled like a willow by the brook
When fierce tornados grapple with its stem.

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She rais'd her face—her rapture radiant face
And glanc'd into his eyes. Oh, what a change
Came o'er her being then. The spirit light
Of love's deep bliss went out, in icy gush
Of apprehensive agony which chill'd
Her life in all its channels. With one gasp,
One quick convulsive shudder, she sunk down,
Pale, still, and almost senseless. With fond words
And sweet assurances, he sought to calm
Her agony of fear; and then she wept
With sobs so deep and painful, that he fear'd,
Her life would burst forth with them. Still he sooth'd,
Till she at length lay passive in his arms,
And pour'd out tears like water, while his own
Flow'd freely in big silent drops, and lay
Like liquid diamonds, in her raven hair.
At length, he said, Lennorah—gentle love,
I pray thee calm thy sorrow. I am sad,
Because I am oblig'd to part from thee
Only a little while, love.—One short year,
It soon will pass Lennorah—oh, weep on,
Thy tears thus check'd, I fear will break thy heart,
My king commands me home—I must obey;
But doubt me not, I will return to thee,
For all my joys, my hopes, my every wish,
My peace abide with thee,—and when again
This season comes to these old glorious woods,
I will come with it. Live for me, my love
And keep thy young heart whole, thy dear eyes bright,
And all thy beauties fresh and pure as now,

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That so, at my return I may embrace
My own unchang'd Lennorah. Fear not, love—
In one short year I surely will return,
And dwell with thee for ever. Do not mourn,
For grief will kill thee, and when I return
With heart alive with hope, and love for thee,
Think what would be my agony to find,
That thou wert cold, and hidden from my eyes,
And burning heart, by clods of heavy earth.
The very thought is torture to my soul,
I dare not think of it. Say thou wilt live.—
Yes, my own worshipp'd lord, for thy dear sake,
I will endure thine absence, till the time
Which thou hast named expires. But mark me, then,
If thou return not, I shall surely die.—
Not so, Lennorah. I might be detain'd
A little longer than the year. If so,
Doubt not my constancy, but wait in hope,
For death alone shall hinder my return.
Now let me lead thee to thy fairy bower,
And pass the night in bliss beside thee there;
To-morrow I depart.—
Days pass'd away—
Glad days of sunlight, rob'd and voic'd like spring,—
Days of cold rain, when leaves come down in showers,
Like flocks of wounded birds, that flutter by
And drop with out-spread wings, that never more
Shall bear them from the earth,—days of dark clouds
And fitful winds, and spots of deep blue sky,
And wandering sunbeams,—but in all alike

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Lennorah sat long hours beneath the thorn,
Communing with her spirit's absent lord,
Recalling all that he had done or said,
And laying all his words of tenderness,
Like fragrant balsams on her aching heart,
While she repeated over and again,
His promises of truth, and sure return.
December came, and when we heard her voice,
We watchers of the dell, lock'd up the buds
That held our treasures—Left our blessing here,
And pass'd with warmth and beauty to the south.
But with the early south wind we return'd
To wake our sleeping treasures, and unfold
A world of balm and beauty. 'Neath my tree
I found Lennorah, with her loving fawn,
Her innocent companion, which no lure
Of its own species,—of the green hill-side,
The clear sweet water, or the dewy shade,
Could sever from her side one little hour.
(Oh how the poor dumb creatures in their love
Put to the blush, man's boasted constancy)
Her hands were clasp'd upon his glossy neck,
And on her polish'd arm her brow reclin'd.
She still was beautiful, but there had come
A change upon her beauty. 'Twas no more
The loveliness of childish innocence,
But in her eye, and on her lip and cheek,
Were written care and thought. She had become
A woman, with her dower of hopes and fears,
Her earnest, agonizing sleepless love.

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The name so dear to her was on her lips,
His words were treasur'd in her memory,
He fill'd her spirit, as the azure heaven
Fills with its radiant glory some clear lake.
Here every day she came, to dream again,
The blessed day-dreams of her pure young love
Over and over. When the sun went down
She felt a joy, the only joy she knew,
That one more day of pain and loneliness
Was lifted from her heart. So summer pass'd,
And autumn came again, the blessed time
Which bounded the horizon of her hope,
With radiant fields of bliss. Days came, and went,
And hope grew agony.—If man could know
The burning sickness of the woman's heart,
Who loves, and fears, and waits for his return;
Who sits alone in the familiar spot
Where first she sat beside him, and resign'd
Her destiny, with all its precious hopes,
Just in their summer blooming, unto him,
Requiring no return, except the right
To love, and trust him. Could he see the zeal
With which she cherishes her faith in him,
Collecting all sweet memories of his love,
And gathering them around her aching heart,
To hide it from despair, while day by day
Her hopes grow fainter, more intense her love,
Her fears more like the throttling agony,
Of one who struggles in the dim cold sea
Far out from land or ship,—could man but feel

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The weariness, that cuts into her life.
While o'er her tear-wet pillow broods the night
Slow lingering in the pathway of the morn,
And holding back the hope, which whispers still
To-morrow he will come—Oh, could he feel
Her bitter agony, when that hope dies
With day's departing radiance, and despair
Pours out alternate pangs of frost and fire
Upon her heart-strings—till all paralyz'd,
The heart forgets to beat—or loves no more—
Thus poor Lennorah watch'd, and hop'd, and wept,
Until her heart grew cold, her dark eye dim,
And yet he came not.
'Twas a chilly day
In bleak November, yet the sad girl came
And sat her down to watch. Her eyes were wet,
Her cheeks were pallid and her steps were slow,
And she mov'd wearily, as if her life
Had grown a grievous burden. Night came down,
And still she linger'd—oh, I know—I know,
She cried, that he is near. And there she sat
With eyes dilated, gazing through the gloom,
Along the wood-path, with her head inclin'd,
Her dark locks thrown aside, to give her ear
The greatest freedom, while her nerves were strain'd
Even to agony—and all her soul,
With strong intensity of torture bent
On one sole hope, the dearest, and the last.
Whene'er the autumn winds spread suddenly
Their fitful pinions near her, and awoke

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A sound as of approaching steps, or when
The spirits of the night, on white-cloud cars
Came riding on the radiance of the moon,
And threw light shadows, which along the path
Took form of him she watch'd for, how she gasp'd
With agony of hope. But when at length
Conviction that her watchings were in vain
Came o'er her spirit, she shriek'd wildly out,
So that the mountain echoes answer'd back;
And then the bitter fountain of her heart
Was broken up. She wept, as none can weep
Until the venom'd shaft of misery
Is driven through the soul. Her poor dumb friend
Press'd closely to her side, and lick'd her hands,
Essaying all he could to comfort her,
But she wept wildly on.
And where was he,
The so belov'd, so long'd and waited for?—
In his own country, circled by old friends,
Possess'd of all the luxuries of wealth,
And crown'd with princely honours,—is it strange
If she the dark-eyed simple-hearted child
Was half forgotten? Is it strange that he
Amid the courtly dames, and polish'd maids
Of his own Spain, should wonder how his heart
Had own'd affection for a savage girl?—
And yet at times his soul went out to her,
As one would turn from artificial flowers,
And cold and heavy gems, to catch the breath
And feel the beauty of the summer-rose.

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And when her image came to him in dreams,
Her bright glad image, with its radiant smile,
And love, the artless offering of a heart
Too pure to need concealment—Oh, he felt
That that poor maiden with her wealth of love
Was worth all his possessions, and his heart
Reproach'd him with his falsehood, and the grief
Which prey'd upon her, in her loneliness,—
But day, with gilded pomp, and heartless pride,
Dispell'd the tender feeling.—
Time sped on
And it again was fall. But what a change
The white man's magic had effected here.
The hunter's foot-print was no longer seen
Along the dell, or on the mountain tops,
Or by the river-side, where from old times
The weekwam village lay. A few short years
Had swept away the forest; and the plough
Had turn'd up every hearth-stone in the vale.
And there were cultur'd fields and orchard trees,
And painted dwellings, and the busy hum
Of much machinery. Every thing was chang'd
Except along this deep and narrow dell
Which cultivation deem'd quite valueless,
And where the busy white man seldom then
Impress'd his foot-steps.
'Twas a pleasant hour,
The sun was low, and threw his slanting beams
In showers of trembling glory over all
The beauty of the landscape. Up the dell

196

With lingering steps, and head droop'd sadly down
A noble form advanc'd. It was the same—
The noble Spaniard!—Why had he return'd
To this new world! and wherefore came he here?
And what impell'd him to sit down and weep
Beneath the white thorn tree? Oh, bitterly
That strong man wept—as if his dearest hope
Lay buried at his feet—as if his soul
Felt utter desolation.—
Lightsomely
A female form came down the mountain-side—
And stood upon that rock, with timid eye
Peering from out the closely woven screen
Which still adorn'd it—up and down the dell,
As fearful of the presence of a foe.—
The red man had remov'd far to the west,
They could not mingle with the heartless race
Who desecrated all their ancient haunts
And chang'd the face of nature—So the tribe
In mournful silence took a long farewell
Of their belov'd and consecrated home.
And none had e'er come back, to look once more
E'en on their father's graves—except this girl
Of whom her people said, she had convers'd
So much and long with spirits, that her soul
Had grown estrang'd from nature's sympathies.
They deem'd her holy, and an oracle,
But she was craz'd, poor girl! and every year
Just at the falling of the first bright leaves
She came a weary journey, all alone

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(Except a noble deer, which day and night
Was ever at her side, a trusty guard,)
To sit beneath the thorn, and chant wild lays
Of love, and hope, and sorrow. Time had dealt
Most leniently with her, for save a shade
As of the land of death, which dimm'd her brow
And lay upon her features, there had pass'd
No change on that young face. But in her eye
Oh, there was darkness, like the midnight heaven
O'er which the wild aurora of the north
Displays its lurid phantoms, and strange forms
Of dim and fearful shapes, and august sights
Of beauty terrible—inspiring awe.—
At length the glances of those dreamy eyes
Took in the weeper underneath the thorn,—
A moment motionless, and breathlessly
With lips apart and wild dilated eye
She stood,—and then sprang from the crested rock
As some wild bird, affrighted from her nest
Darts from the thicket. Scarce an instant pass'd
Till she was kneeling at that weeper's side
Nestling her glowing face upon his breast
To which he prest her fondly, fervently
With love, and joy, and wonder. Not a word
Was utter'd in that trembling ecstasy,
That blissful intermingling of two souls
That in each other found all happiness.—
There was no chiding question of the past,
The present with its overwhelming tide
Of full assurance, fill'd and bless'd their souls.

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And when at length Lennorah rais'd her face
The mellow light of the September sun
Ne'er look'd on features more serenely calm,
Or met an eye more radiant with the beams
Of rational thanksgiving.
Many years
Of mingled life were theirs. And many an hour
They sat together on the sculptur'd bench
Carv'd with historic heraldry of Spain,
Brought hither as a relic of the past
And plac'd beneath that bower of love and truth,
The sacred Old White Thorn.

But see upon the dewy East
The full moon pours her light,
My tree is dead—My mission past—
My legend told—Good night.

THE HEMLOCK TREE.

ADDRESSED TO MY BOY.

This Hemlock tree—this Hemlock tree
With foliage thick and dark;
It hath a lesson, boy, for thee,
Which I would have thee mark.
See here within its sheltering breast
Secure from sun or storm,
The wild birds' callow fledgelings rest,
Within their cradle warm.

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The helpless things have naught to fear,
So quiet is their home;
No prowling foe can reach them here,
No hawk or vulture come.
But when their wings are plum'd, and strong,
They'll fly the native bower;
And pour their souls in tender song,
To every blushing flower.

The Hemlock will be lonely then,
And many a plaintive sigh,
Will ask the warblers back again,
Of winds that wander by.
At morn no dear familiar hymn
Shall hail the holy light,
Which wakes amongst her leaflets dim,
The diamonds of the night.
No vesper song at close of day
Shall thrill her darken'd breast,
And with the daylight melt away,
In sacred peace, and rest.
But when the wind-wing'd thunder shower
Rides out upon the gale,
Appalling beast, and bird, and flower
With whirlwind, fire, and hail,
With drooping head, and ruffled plume,
And low and broken strain,
The wounded bird, perchance, will come
To this retreat again.

200

See'st thou no emblem here, my boy?
Is not this Hemlock tree
A type of her whose hope, and joy,
Is centred all in thee?
Her bosom is thy shelter now,
A dear and quiet place,
Where thou may'st rest thy sunny brow
Secure in her embrace.
But when young manhood's fires shall burn,
In heart, in eye, in brain;
And the strong limb, and spirit, spurn
E'en pure affection's chain;
I know that thou wilt wander forth
Where hope shall point the way;
To seek a paradise on earth
Where heavenly creatures stay.
Where streams of thrilling rapture flow
'Neath love's immortal bowers;
Where laurel crowns profusely grow,
With wreaths of golden flowers.

Thy home will be deserted then,
And loneliness and fears,
Will gather clouds of care and pain
Around my waning years.
And many a vainly yearning care
Will follow on thy track;
And many a fond and fervent prayer
Will ask the wanderer back.

201

While thou art ranging free, and wide,
Pursuing wealth, or fame,
And scarce remembering in thy pride
Thy mourning mother's name.
The boy she nurs'd, the boy she loves,
To whom her heart is grown,
Forgets, while joyously he roves,
That she will weep alone.

But when affliction wrings thy heart,
When sickness bends thy frame;
When falsehood strikes thee with her dart,
Or vilifies thy name;
When disappointment's bitter draught
O'erflows the cup of joy;
And cold despair's transfixing shaft
Has pierc'd thy heart, my boy;
Then, having prov'd the promise vain
That lur'd thy feet to rove,
Thou'lt think amid thy grief and pain,
Of home—and mother's love.

Ay, boy! when all the summer flowers
Shall wither, and decay;
When from the grove, and fragrant bowers
The verdure falls away,
The Hemlock, green and shadowy still,
A safe retreat will prove;
And mark me, boy, through every ill
Such is a Mother's Love.

202

ELIJAH ON MOUNT HOREB.

'Twas burning summer o'er the wilderness,
And on the lofty mountains, that look up
With heads uncover'd reverently to heaven;
The shrubs were fainting in the noonday heat,
And weary song-birds droop'd their airy wings
In silence, midst the still and wilted leaves.
The herbage lay all languid on the rocks;
The sweet breath of the aromatic vines
And fair young flowers, of glorious forms and hues,
That grew in ravine, cleft, or narrow dell,
Lay on the still air, round the drooping cups
A very weight of fragrance, and a hush
Of sickly languor, brooded over all
The rough and thirsty landscape.
Lo! there comes
An aged wanderer from the wilderness.
With faltering step, he leaned upon his staff,
While toiling up the stern and rocky side
Of the majestic Horeb. His white locks
Were wet with perspiration, and his breast
Heav'd quick, and painfully; while his worn feet
Flinch'd from the heated rocks; yet on he climb'd,
Until the flutter of the breeze's wing,
Shook balm upon his parch'd and quivering lips,
And bath'd his burning eye-balls. Gratefully
He rais'd his face toward heaven, and then the breeze,
Lifted his damp white locks, and kiss'd his brow,

203

And wooed him sweetly to repose and peace.
He sat him down, that hungry, tired old man,
Whose tongue was swoll'n with thirst, and thank'd his God,
For that delicious airy visitant,
Which sporting now amongst the vines that grew
In tufts upon the rock, by which he sat
Show'd ripe red berries clustering 'mongst the leaves.
His joy gush'd forth in praises, as he fed
Upon the cooling fruit, which quench'd his thirst,
And half appeas'd his hunger. Seeking then
A resting-place, he found a rugged cave
Extending deep into the mountain's breast;
He enter'd it, and laid him down to sleep
Upon its mossy floor.
And who was he
That silver-hair'd, lone wanderer?
He was one,
Whose spirit was so pure, that God, himself,
Held high communion with him. Yet the world
Hated and hunted him, from place to place,
Dogging his steps, and thirsting for his life,
And he had pray'd for death. Yet now he lay
Calmly in that lone cavern. Holy peace
Was nestling in his bosom, and his brow
Was placid as the moonlit summer sky.
Sleep lay upon his eyelids, as the dew,
Lies on the clos'd corolla of the flow'rs,
In cool refreshing beauty. No fond friend
Was there, to watch his slumber, yet the God

204

Who fills all space, was with his servant there
In that vast solitude. With august voice,
He woke him from his sleep, bade him go forth
And stand upon the rock, before the Lord.

He rose—went forth—and stood on the sheer rock,
Waiting for God's appearing.
Hark! From far
A fearful rushing sound. The heavens grew dark—
Is God approaching? Lo! a strong fierce wind
Rushes upon the mountain, tearing up
The shrubs, and herbage, from its arid breast,
Lifting huge rocks from their eternal beds,
And dashing them adown the fearful steeps,
With such appalling sound as if the world,
Were falling into atoms; while the wind
Shriek'd terribly amongst the caves, and clefts,
And splinter'd rocks. 'Tis past—and all is still—
God was not in the wind.
Now wakes a sound—
A low deep moaning, in the mountain's breast,
Which trembles fearfully, as if she felt
The fearful presence. Now her bosom heaves
With strange convulsions, and she bellows forth
Her agony, while the eternal rock
On which the servant of Jehovah stood
Shook like a leaf, upon an aspen bough,
And mighty rocks fell down, and caverns yawn'd,
And the whole mountain totter'd.
It is past—

205

God was not in the earthquake.
Lo! there comes
A more appalling wonder.—Surely now
The Terrible is near. Surging along
Above the wilderness, a flood of fire
Is sweeping toward old Horeb. In its way
The atmosphere burts into whirls of fire
With frightful detonations. 'Tis too much
For mortal man to meet. With pallid fear
He shrunk within his cave. The fire rush'd past,
And vanish'd—But God was not in the fire.

A pure breeze follow'd the fierce element,
Heaven was serene, and on Mount Horeb lay
The downy wing of silence.—On that calm
There came a still small voice.
'Tis God. The servant felt his sovereign nigh;
He wrapp'd his face within his mantle folds,
And at the entrance of that hallow'd cave,
With head bow'd down, and meek attentive soul
Held converse with Jehovah.

THE WILD-WOOD HOME.

Oh, show me a place like the wild-wood home,
Where the air is fragrant, and free,
And the first pure breathings of morning come
In a gush of melody.

206

She lifts the soft fringe from her dark blue eye,
With a radiant smile of love,
And the diamonds that o'er her bosom lie,
Are bright as the gems above.

Where noon lies down in the breezy shade
Of the glorious forest bowers,
And the beautiful birds, from the sunny-glades,
Sit nodding amongst the flowers,
While the holy child of the mountain spring
Steals past with a murmur'd song,
And the honey-bees sleep in the bells that swing
Its garlanded banks along.

Where day steals away with a young bride's blush,
To the soft green-couch of night,
And the moon throws o'er with a holy hush
Her curtain of gossamer-light.
And the seraph that sings in the hemlock-dell,
Oh, sweetest of birds is she,
Fills the dewy breeze with a trancing swell
Of melody rich and free.

There are sumptuous mansions, with marble walls,
Surmounted by glittering towers,
Where fountains play in the perfum'd halls
Amongst exotic flowers:
They are suitable homes for the haughty in mind,
Yet a wild-wood home for me;
Where the pure bright streams, and the mountain-wind,
And the bounding heart, are free.

207

RECEDING JOYS.

Oh softly lies the wild-wood shade
Above the modest flowers;
And oft as through the woods I stray'd,
I fancied that sweet spirits stay'd
Amongst the rich green bowers.

For there were low sweet whisperings
Of bliss too pure for earth,
Soft music, as of tuneful strings,
And flutterings as of viewless wings,
With bursts of silvery mirth.

And unseen beings seem'd to tread,
Amongst the bending flowers,
And young buds droop'd the modest head,
As if they heard love's wooings said
And half confessed his powers.

Oh! pleasant is the wild-wood shade
With bird songs blithe and free;
Bright streams, where playful grasses wade,
And fragrant winds that love the shade
Of the old rustling tree.

Yet round my dwelling year by year
The forest melts away;
Now indistinct its bowers appear,
And faintly falls upon my ear
Its mingled melody.

208

My childhood was a fairy scene
All spangled o'er with flowers,
Where bands of spirits, all but seen,
Were sporting in the radiant sheen
That trembled through the bowers.

And whispering of celestial love
Liv'd on the scented wind;
And soft low cooings of the dove,
And waters murmuring through the grove
Their dreamy songs combin'd.

Then every dark-brow'd cloud that came
Wore heaven's resplendent bow;
And every dew-drop was a gem,
Dropp'd from some angel's diadem,
On lovely things below.

Yes, childhood was a wild-wood scene,
Where guileless creatures dwelt;
Where nature wore her own bright mien,
Where only innocence was seen,
And love, and rapture felt.

But farther from me, year by year,
Those blessed things remove;
Dim to my mind these bowers appear,
And faintly to my inward ear
Are borne those hymns of love.

209

THE LOST CHILD.

Alone, beneath the heavy shade
In forest, thick, and wild,
With timid eye and footstep, stray'd
A poor bewilder'd child.
Along the cold swamp's weedy edge
He held his devious way,
Where coil'd and hissing in the sedge,
The hideous serpent lay.

The demon wolf with cry of death
Leap'd past him in the chase,
The wild deer linger'd in his path
To scan the stranger's face.
And pale, and full of agony
That little face appeared;
And terror fill'd his soft blue eye
At every sound he heard.

His yellow curls were bare and wet,
His little coat was torn,
And stains of blood were on his feet,
By reckless travel worn.
His little heart was sick with fear,
His brain was wild and weak,
And hunger's pains so hard to bear,
Had blanch'd his rosy cheek.

210

And still by every mossy spot
Where pheasant berries hide,
He sought—and when he found them not,
Oh! bitterly he cried.
Four days, that tangled forest through
He sought his home in vain,
Fond hearts were breaking there, he knew,
To see his face again.

Mother! oh, mother! was his cry,
Until his voice grew weak,
And throat, and tongue all parch'd, and dry,
And then he could not speak.
The silent shades are gathering now
With dark and dewy wings,
Forming in dell, and valley low,
Dim shades of fearful things.

His frame with curdling horror shook,
His heart grew cold as clay,
He crept into a shelter'd nook,
Crouch'd down, and tried to pray.
And then he thought that God was near,
To watch above his bed;
And every agonizing fear,
And phantom horror fled.

The pangs of hunger died away,
And grief withdrew its sting,
And slumber o'er his spirit lay
Soft as an angel's wing.

211

And then he dream'd sweet dreams of home,
With all its love, and bliss,
The rural feast, the lighted room,
The mother's tender kiss.

The little face grew calm, and white,
His slumber still, and deep,—
Sweet boy, thy sorrows end to-night,
Thou wilt not wake to weep.
Mother—he whisper'd languidly,
And hugg'd the dewy sod—
'Tis done—he wakes to ecstasy,
And sees, the face of God.

Tell us, ye white hair'd wanderers,
In life's dark desert ways;
Ye who have sow'd your path with tears
So many weary days;
Ought we to mourn for him who lies
In that wild dell alone;
Whose weary feet, and weeping eyes,
Have found their rest so soon?

SPRING.

The beautiful spring, the generous spring,
She has come to her own again;
From the gem-like isles, that are sleeping in smiles,
On the breast of the southern main.

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She comes with her angels, a beautiful train
Of the sinless, the bright, and free;
Who joyously fling from each glittering wing
A sparkle of melody.

The sun in his gladness smiles on the young spring,
From his sapphire throne on high,
Shining down from above, like the spirit of love
From his home in a clear blue eye.

The fountains gush up like a young maiden's joy,
And flow with a silvery song;
And the rivers give out a melodious shout,
As their plum'd waves march along.

The bright dandelions bespangle the vest
Of green velvet, that earth has put on,
And Zephyrus weaves of the young forest leaves,
Her silver and emerald crown.

There's a hymn on the earth, there's a hymn on the sea,
There are hymns on the balm-breathing wind;
There's a flush of delight, on the fair and the bright,
And love is with beauty combin'd.

There's a rich gush of life in the myriad breasts,
That feel the warm breathings of spring,
There's praise all abroad, to the bountiful Lord,
And a free-will offering.

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The beautiful spring, the generous spring,
She has come to her own again:
With a message of love, from the bowers above,
Where the pure and the beautiful reign.

TO “AN UNKNOWN FRIEND”

Who sent me a Book.

There's treasure in thine offering. Every page
Is rich with pearls, as brilliant and as pure,
As Genius ever gather'd from the deeps
Of the unbounded ocean-flood of mind,
And set in priceless clusters, to enrich
The cabinets of those who gather gems
That shall shed lustre to eternity.

And yet one little word, in pencil trac'd
Upon a snowy margin, is to me
Most precious of its treasures. It is like
A sweet pale rose, twin'd in a diamond wreath.
I place the bright cold jewels on my brow
To hold their high communion with my brain;
But I will hide the blossom near my heart,
That its soft touch, and breath of precious balm
May minister kind soothings, for my heart,
Is sometimes lone, and very sorrowful,
And then it yearns for that kind sympathy
Which Friendship only can administer.

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But I have learn'd that Friendship is a flower
So pure, so priceless, so allied to heaven,
That it is seldom found in this poor world
Of earth, and fire, and ashes. If it spring
And promise fair awhile, the mildew blight
Of death comes cold upon it, or the pang
Of parting wrings the tender stem in twain;
Or interest taints it with a baleful blight;
Or the blind earth-worm of distrust creeps in
And gnaws away its root; or envy strikes
Her poison fang into its very heart;
Or black detraction eats away the buds,
And leaves the rifled tree a crown of thorns;
Or this impure and changing atmosphere
Causes the fair exotic to put forth
The rank wild flowers of passion, which breathe out
A venom'd burning odour, which is death
To the intoxicated spell-bound soul
That wears it in the bosom.
Yet I know
That this thine offering is pure, for earth
Has never touch'd it. Eye, nor voice, nor hand
Of weak mortality has soil'd the plant.
It sprang and budded in the spirit land,
All fair, and sweet, and holy. May it bloom
All my life long, to cheer my weary way
With holy fragrance of its sympathy,
And when my heart shall cease to feel its balm,
Then may its blossoms shed-their holy dew
Upon my humble grave. And when we meet

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Where there is no more death, may the choice flower,
Transplanted also to its native soil,
Burst into heavenly never-fading bloom;
And unknown Friends, meet, mingle, and rejoice,
In presence of the Ever Living Source
Of happiness, and immortality.

THE SUSPECTED.

Nay, fear me not, beloved; I am here
With other thoughts than vengeance. Turn not thus
Thy dear face from me. Henry, I am here
To soothe and comfort thee, now that thou art
Deserted of all else, as if thou wert
Indeed, a pestilent and loathsome thing
Fit only for corruption, and the worms.
(I cannot fear infection; death to me
Is all too slow in coming. Oh, that God
Would give me thy disease, and let thee live!)
Thou now hast need of me. I will remain
And serve, and aid thee, and administer
All healing medicines; I will bathe thy head
With grateful acids, and thy burning hands
In pure cold water. I will bring thee food
Such as thy state requires, and give thee drink,
And sit beside thy pillow all night long
To watch thy breath, with spirit gushing forth
In tears, and ardent prayers. I will do all

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That woman's never never weary hand
And all-enduring spirit, can perform.
When thou shalt be recover'd, I will go
Back to my hiding-place. If thou wilt then
But smile, and say I thank thee, Isabel—
Those words should lie upon my broken heart
A blessed balm leaf; and that precious smile
Should live, a glory on my weary nights,
A rainbow on the storm-cloud of my life,
To each, a beautiful, a sweet relief.

Thou art a man, and canst not comprehend
The heart of woman, which is like a harp
Strung, and attun'd to most exquisite bliss,
But which awakes not, till the master hand
Of Love is laid upon it. Then her soul
Is full of melody, and every pulse
That stirs her bosom, is an echoing thrill
Of that one tender lay, and if the strain
Be bliss or agony, or life or death,
It mingles with her soul. Identity
By her is quite forgotten; she exists
And acts, but for the idol of her love.

I will not chide thee, but I must complain:
Now, that thou can'st not fly me, I must breathe
The story of my love, my worshipping,
Which of itself is truth unchangeable.

I was a happy girl, careless of heart,

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And full of music as a warbling bird,
Which sings because its soul is melody
And floats out on its breathing. Every bliss
That young hearts take delight in was my own.

Thy voice came to my heart, the breath of life
Thrilling its fibres with a living bliss,
And pulsing through my frame a tenderness
Of which thou wert the soul. Thenceforth I knew
No life, apart from thine, no joy, no hope,
No happiness, that centred, not in thee.
'Twere vain to say I lov'd thee, for my soul
My whole existence was all full of thee,
And where thou wert was bliss. I had no aim
In life, but to promote thy happiness,—
Then I became a woman, and resign'd
The pride of girlhood, bowing meekly down
To woman's destiny, with glowing heart,
Blessing the Wisdom that ordain'd her lot,
Her blissful lot, to love and serve the man
To whom her heart does homage.
Earnestly
My kindred warn'd me that I should not wed
A haughty and ambitious man, like thee.
But what they deem'd thy faults, were in mine eyes
High excellencies. That a heart so proud,
So stern, so independent of the world,
Could worship me, a weak and simple girl,
And deem the treasure of my heart a prize

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Worth suing for, awoke my gratitude,
And seem'd a source of pride. For thee, for thee,
I threw aside the blessed coronet
Of Home's enduring jewels, and put on
The bridal ring instead. And I went forth
In blissful confidence of happiness,
With thee, and only thee.—To me thou wert
The cup of life, brim-full of happiness,
And my heart bathing in the blessed flood
Ask'd nothing more of heaven.
Shall I say on?—
Oh Henry! Henry!—Were it possible
For language to express the bitterness
That came upon my spirit, like the flood
To the primeval world, extinguishing
Beauty, and life, and spreading o'er the waste,
A cold and wiltering shroud. Could'st thou have seen
The livid, corses, and the daggled flowers,
That lay beneath the deluge of my grief,
Thou might'st perhaps have learn'd to understand
How desolate a woman's heart can be.
Death had been welcome then, for life to me
Was but a light within a sepulchre,
Showing the death and darkness brooding there.
I could have borne thy coldness; could have borne
The careless glance, and the indifferent tone,
The long protracted absence, and the death
Of all my joys in thee. I could have borne
Almost to see another in thine arms,
But to be doubted—Ah, that thou should'st doubt

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My love, my truth, my honour! Oh, that God
Had stricken me from being, while my heart
Was happy in thy love, and confidence!

There is not in the phial of Heaven's wrath,
In the black chalice of infernal ire,
Or in the more ingeniously mix'd draught
That human malice pours, a drop so keen,
So deadly bitter to a woman's soul,
As the suspicion of her purity
Utter'd by him she loves. It kills the heart;
It wounds the spirit, it destroys the soul!
She is suspected. Wherefore should she live?
Why cherish virtue? Why be innocent?

Oh man belov'd!—Could'st thou but feel the weight
That presses like a leaden monument
Upon the breast of her thou dost suspect,
Thou would'st not lightly taunt her with a crime
Including all of guilt, hypocrisy,
Falsehood, and baseness, that the human heart
Vile as it is, can practise, or conceive.

A woman once suspected is undone,
Thrown from her confidence in God, and man,
For wherefore—wherefore—should the innocent
Be doom'd to wear the heaviest of all chains,
And drink the keenest of all nauseous draughts?
There is no peace within her broken heart;
No joy, in all the glorious world around.

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Even the consciousness of innocence,
That blessed solace of all other woes,
To her heart-sickness is a bitter balm.
And when she kneels in prayer, though she lift up
The offering of a broken contrite heart;
Hands, spotless as an infant's, and sad eyes
Wet, with the holy dew of piety,
She hears the world hiss forth “The hypocrite!”
And Christianity sigh forth a prayer
That she—the Magdalen—may be forgiven.
The bitter fountain of her heart is stirr'd,
And quenches out devotion's sacred fire.
A shadow walks forever at her side,
With blackness tinging all her works, and ways.
Though as she wanders weeping through the world,
She strews her pathway with the holiest gifts
Of charity, and good-will unto man,
Even those that gather up the precious flowers
Suspect a lurking mildew in the leaves
And almost fear contagion.
Dost thou weep?
There is no balsam even in thy tears,
To heal my spirit wounds. Not the whole flood
Of the vast ocean, and the rain of Heaven,
Can e'er efface the record of my shame.
Yet I am innocent! And pure of heart
As when an infant in my mother's arms.

No,—tell me not of hope. To such as me
She points but to the grave, and that pure world

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Beyond its precincts, where the wicked cease
From troubling, and the weary are at rest.

Oh, speak it not! I cannot live with thee
And love thee, and be happy, for my heart
Is like a broken vase. 'Tis vain to pour
Hope, love, or consolation into it;
They cannot heal it, and will trickle forth,
Mix'd with the cankering dregs that rankle there,
In hot corrosive drops.
Oh no! Oh no!
Thou'st wounded—it is past thy power to heal
And we are both undone.

THE HAPPY HOME.

There's a stream in Pennsylvania,
A wild romantic stream,
More musical, and beautiful,
Than fancy's wildest dream.
'Tis braided of a thousand strands,
The little silver rills,
Spun by the Naiads in their joy
Amongst the gay green hills.
The bright green hills, that proudly wear
The crest of Liberty,
Where winds, and streams, and singing birds
And animals are free.

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And man—Oh! how his soul expands,
How free his footsteps are,
When out upon the bright green hills,
He breathes the morning air.
The morning air, that stirs the trees,
And wakes the early bird;
While in the glens the flowers look up
As if the sweet things heard.
While rising from his mossy lair
The deer goes forth in pride,
With quick bright eye, and breezy foot
Along the mountain's side.
The mountain-side, where deep ravines
Betray the heart within,
The iron heart, that still bears up
Where storm, and time have been.
While darkly o'er their rugged brows
The giant pine trees wave,
Unchang'd, while generations pass
From cradle, to the grave.—
Amongst these hills the stream I sing,
Flows gloriously along,
From everlasting hymning forth
Its everlasting song.
Where round the bases of the hills
It bathes their rock-built feet,
Its music hath a chiding tone
And seems more wild than sweet.
But in the green and shadowy vales
Oh, soft its anthem swells,

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And floats like spirit melodies
Far up the haunted dells.
And oft the trembling waters sleep
In valley's fair and bright,
As Tempe, where the gods of Greece,
Found more than heaven's delight.
The waters sleep, and seem to dream
For troubled is their rest,
And earth, and heaven in broken gleams
Are mirror'd in its breast;
And softly from the dimpling waves
The dreamy murmurs rise,
As when from sleeping tenderness
Breathe words, half lost in sighs.
While sweetly through the listening vale
The balmy breezes sweep,
And with the voices of the stream,
A tender converse keep.
Amongst these valleys of delight
One most enchanting place,
Lies bosom'd in surrounding hills
Half lock'd in their embrace.
On one side brightly rolls the stream
Where cliffs on cliffs ascend,
And crags that wear the clouds of heaven
Seem o'er its course to bend;
And every where, from cleft, and knoll,
The blossom'd streamers fair
Float out, and shed their fragrant breath
Upon the mountain air.

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And many a mossy shelf is spread
As for an elfin feast,
With cups, that shame the jewell'd gold
On regal tables placed;
Bright cups, and urns of every hue,
With limpid honey fill'd,
Or bending with the nectar drop
By nature's self distill'd.
And there the fairies of the dell
No race by fancy nurst,
But emerald coated humming birds
Allay their dainty thirst.
The fair, the bright, the beautiful,
The gentle, soft, and sweet,
The august, the magnificent,
Here all delight to meet.
And there are dwellers in this vale,
(And all along the stream,
Where'er a valley may be found
The scatter'd dwellings gleam.)
In years gone by there stood a cot
Within that valley fair,
With roof so gray, you might have deem'd
It had been always there.
In front, quite to the water's edge
Grew rose and lilac bowers,
And gardens lay on either side,
Enrich'd with choicest flowers.
All round, the little vale was fill'd
With agriculture's pride,

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And bearing orchards climb'd far up
The swelling mountain-side.
Here dwelt a couple, with their wealth
Of sweet content, and peace,
And full, confiding, mutual love,
The very soul of bliss.
There lay no sorrow on their hearts,
No shadow on their way,
And pleasant toils, and sweet delights
Attended every day.
Their fertile fields, and decent cot
Afforded food and rest,
And health-imparting exercise,
Gave these the purest zest.
They had no cares beyond the hills
That fenced their covert home;
Each to the other was the world,
Why should they wish to roam?
One gentle daughter bloom'd alone
Within their shelter'd nest,
A rose-bud, with the dew of love
Lock'd trembling in its breast.
Her name was Rhoda, and she grew
A rose serenely fair,
With all the wealth that nature wins
From sun, and living air.
The impress of all loveliness
Was perfect on her face,
Her youthful form was beautiful
With every healthy grace.

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The sun-beams saw her sporting free,
And lov'd her auburn hair,
And nestling in the silken curls,
Lay always smiling there.
And those who mark'd the brilliant thoughts
Within her dark blue eyes,
Might deem they saw the seraphim
Deep in the evening skies.
And tenderness, and purity,
Dwelt ever in her words,
That fill'd the heart with melody
Like songs of summer birds.
And as she plied her sportive toil,
Or train'd her fragrant flowers,
The gushing music of her heart
Gave gladness to the hours.
Her parents treasured in their home
Within a sacred nook,
A few choice tomes of ancient lore,
Beside the Holy Book.
All these, the noble girl had read,
And so her mind was stor'd
With pure exalted sentiments,
And knowledge of the Lord.
And when “Our Father” pass'd her lips
In prayer, at morn, and even,
She felt a child's strong confidence
In Him, who is “in heaven;”
Confiding wholly in his love,
And trusting to his care,

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She grew a “lily of the field,”
A song “bird of the air.”
Her heart toward all living things
Oerflow'd with tenderness,
And every simple flower might claim,
A sister's dear caress.
The innocence of infancy
Lay in her spirit still,
Like dew all day within the cup
Of violet by the rill.
And girlhood's guileless trust and truth,
Like that meek violet's blue,
Inbraided with her very life,
Their spell around her threw.
Full oft her father made his prayer
That never to her breast,
The knowledge of the false cold world,
Should come, to break her rest.
For he had known the world too well,
With all its crooked ways;
Had met the homage paid to wealth,
And worn the scholar's bays.
And he had prov'd what all have prov'd,
Who deem her courts divine;
And turn'd in weariness of soul,
From her unholy shrine.
And with the lady of his love,
A high-born maid was she,
He sought a dwelling, where the heart
Might tell its pulses free.

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Where wild Ambition's eagle note
Could never break his rest;
Or Avarice's serpent chain of gold
Benumb, and crush the breast.
Where fashion should not hold her court
Of fancies false and vain,
And changeful as the wildest dreams
That haunt the maniac's brain.
Where in the pleasant ways of life
Stern Hauteur should not stand,
To crush the buds of human love
With her relentless hand.
And sweetly o'er his happy home
The circling years that sped,
Had left no grief marks on his heart,
No white hairs on his head.
The dwellers all along the stream
Far as his name was known,
Lov'd, honour'd, and rever'd the man
Who made their cause his own;
Who had a dole for every want,
A balm for every grief,
And sympathy for all the ills
That might not claim relief.
And many a high-bred traveller
Who rested in his cot,
Paid homage to his noble heart,
And envied him his lot.
And many a haughty spirit there
At Rhoda's feet confess'd,

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The power of maiden loveliness
In unassuming vest.
And wonder'd at her gentle words,
And soul-entrancing grace;
And how so rich a flower had bloom'd,
In such a humble place.
But mostly at her dignity
Of action, voice, and eye,
Which might have grac'd the proudest star
Of ancient chivalry.
And some had said, it cannot be
That such a queenly maid,
Was born in this sequester'd cot,
And nurtur'd in this shade.
But when they ask'd her if she felt
No restless wish to stray,
And taste the homage which the world
Would be compell'd to pay?
She still replied, I feel no wish
To leave this home of love,
For out upon the world's cold waste
I should be like the dove,
That o'er the shoreless weltering flood
Sought rest, but sought in vain,
Until she came with weary wing
Back to the ark again.
Oh, no. The world has never given
The martyr at her shrine,
Such love, such peace, such sweet content,
As in this vale are mine.

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I dwell amongst my sister flowers,
And when the spring birds come,
I join my merry song with their's,
And bid them welcome home.
I gather berries on the hills,
And when the fawns pass by,
I tell them they are scarce more free,
More fleet of foot, than I.
And I have sketch'd this lovely scene
From various points of view,
And always find some novel charm,
Some feature, rich and new.
I cultivate my garden flowers,
I train the scented vine,
I nurse and rear the useful plant,
And teach the beans to twine;
The needle, and the merry wheel
Are playthings in my hands,
And all the housewife's healthy art,
My ready skill commands.
I never knew a day too long,
Or pass'd a sleepless night;
Or ope'd a sad or languid eye
Upon the morning light.
Not one warm feeling of my heart
Has ever been conceal'd,
Nor have I ever known a wish
That might not be reveal'd.
But I am told that in the world
A veil, to hide the heart,

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Is deem'd a necessary thing,
And worn with nicest art.
Ah, wherefore should I wish to win,
A homage false and brief,
While here I have a world of love
That fears no yellow leaf?
Then, tempt me not—Oh, tempt me not,
With restless wing to roam,
And search the desert for the flowers,
That bloom so fair at home.
My pleasant home! my happy home,
Beside the joyous stream;
I cannot dream in this dear home
Ambition's restless dream.
Then if they sorrow'd that a flower
So delicately fair,
So fragrant, and so rich in grace,
Should waste its sweetness there.
She answer'd, I have often mark'd
Amongst my garden bowers,
That meddling fingers bruise and stain
The most attractive flowers;
That admiration, while she bends
To taste the rich perfume,
Blights with the siroc of her breath
The bosom of the bloom.
And I have blest the buds that grow
By vales, and hills untrod,
Unseen, untouch'd by aught beside
The sun and wind, of God.

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The jess'mine on the arid hill
Seeks not a happier lot,
Kind nature always lays the germ
In an appropriate spot.
The rose that loves the holy dew,
The sun-shine, and the shower,
Will never bloom so sweet and fair
In artificial bower.
Time, who by magic touch transforms
All things, beneath the sky,
Who never spared the beautiful,
Or pass'd the joyous by,
Who never yet hath paus'd to hear
The heart's most earnest prayer,
Or linger'd at the shrieking cry
Of agoniz'd despair,
Hath pass'd the vale of which I sing
With his transforming touch;
Its features hardly seem the same
It has been chang'd so much.
Upon the hills where slept the deer,
Beneath the gray old trees,
Bright harvests, sporting with the wind
Display their mimic seas.
And in the dells where hemlocks spread
Their still and pall-like shade,
And drooping o'er the spring bud's tomb
The pure white ghost-flower staid.
Where hellebore beside the stream,
Grew rank, with many a weed,

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Are meadows now, and pastures green,
Where flocks, and cattle feed.
One hill with gently swelling slope
Sweeps down toward the tide;
And midway on its bosom fair,
In chaste and snowy pride,
Half veil'd in trees, and blossom'd vines,
A cottage front is seen,
Like the white bosom of a bird
Amid the leavy screen.
And there the angels peace, and truth,
And love and honour dwell,
And heart-warm hymns of gratitude
Go up with ceaseless swell.
There hospitality delights
To spread her grateful store,
And every weary pilgrim finds
A welcome at the door.
There rural elegance, and taste,
With cleanliness abide,
And wisdom, and intelligence
With modesty preside.
And this is Rhoda's happy home,
Where now a blessed wife,
She watches o'er the fair young buds
The treasures of her life.
And here her parents in their age
Claim each an easy chair,
And guide her in her pleasant tasks,
And bless her pious care.

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And he, who in his hunter's dress,
First taught her heart to love;
Who for her sake forgot the world,
And every wish to rove.
He dwells within a paradise
Of pure and tranquil bliss,
To which, if sorrow comes at all,
She brings no bitterness.

RIZPAH.

On Gibeah's rock, by the place of the dead,
The sackcloth of Rizpah, the mourner, was spread;
And all the long day in the sun's fervid glare,
That shadow of beauty sat withering there.

And all through the night she was watching there still,
She saw not its terrors, she felt not its chill;
The damp winds were sighing amid the dark hair,
That veil'd with its wealth, brow and bosom, most fair.

The dew in big drops gather'd over her face,
And still she mov'd not from that horrible place,
But sat with strain'd eye, and her soul in her ear,
The step of the stealthiest invader to hear.

The wolf from the thicket glared gloatingly forth,
Her eye kept him chain'd, by its spell, to the earth.
The foul fierce hyena crept starv'd from his lair,
And fled at the shriek of a mother's despair.

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The eagle scream'd shrill as he stoop'd from the sky,
The ravens assembled with clamorous cry,
The vultures snuff'd fiercely the blood-tainted air,
But Rizpah prevented their banqueting there.

Oh God! what a watch for a mother to keep!
What return for the heart of a mother to reap;
What horrible death to the hopes that run wild,
As the fond mother watches her innocent child.

And she who this death-watch of agony kept,
As haggard and pale as the dead ones she wept,
Was beautiful once, as the spirit of spring,
And her home of delight was the heart of a king.

And when in his palace with transports of joy,
She clasp'd to her bosom each royal young boy,
And the lord of her heart in his gladness stood by,
With pride in his mien, and delight in his eye.

Ah, little dream'd she of that proud monarch's doom;
The sorrow, the shame, and the darkness to come,
That judgment which never forgets, should require
The blood of her sons, for the sins of their sire?

That she, the beloved, the gay, and the fair,
Should keep such long watch, of heart-rending despair?
Power, pomp, joy, and beauty, and hope have gone by,
But love—woman's love—Oh, this never can die.—

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THE BOQUET.

Addressed to my Brother.

Dear J---, I've rang'd my garden through,
And cropp'd the blooms from various stems
And brought a boquet, in my view,
Rich as a regal diadem.
My flowers are emblematic too,
And since you yet may choose a wife,
They may impart a hint to you,
Of service, all your future life.

The Rose is titled queen of flowers,
And in her peerless wealth of bloom,
She beautifies the summer bowers,
And fills them with her rich perfume.
Love's emblem, too, the rose is deem'd,
Sweet, fair, and brief, with thorns beset,
But, brother, all my young heart dream'd
Was like this rose, with dew all wet;

Brief dreams of beauty, while they staid
Wet with a trembling spirit's tears;
And one by one, I saw them fade,
And leave their thorns for future years.
Yet while I wept their transient bloom,
I treasur'd every fragment leaf;
And now, amid my hours of gloom
Their lingering balm beguiles my grief.

Dear brother, may your roses prove
A wreath of never-fading flowers,

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But mark me, brother—do not love
The queenly rose of THORNY bowers.
To him who LOVES, no peerless grace,
No balm that genius breathes around,
Atones for pride's cold heartlessness,
Or heals, when thorns of passion wound.

I've violets here, of every hue,
The native purple, blue, and white,
The splendid parti-colour'd too,
The yellow, with her golden light;—
A gentle family they are,
Modest, and sweet, and well belov'd;
And calm Content delights to share
The violet's bower, from pomp remov'd.

Observe this lily, pure as snow,
With drooping head, and earthward eye,
She seems an angel, lost below;
A soul all sensibility.
Such pure and intellectual maid,
A sweet and faithful friend, may prove,
But is not fit with man to wed,
To sympathize with human love.

I've brought the splendid Peony
A thing of regal pomp and pride,
She courts the sun, at noon of day,
With ardent bosom free and wide;
Thou should'st not choose a bride like her,
A masculine and dauntless maid;

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Would not a bosom gentler far,
Beat sweeter 'neath a pillow'd head?

And here's the Fleur de lis, of France,
In purple, blue, and gold, array'd;
Its splendour fills the courtier's glance,
Its fragrance charms the cottage maid;
Just such a flower would wisdom seek,
Fair, thornless, sweet, and humble too;
A royal thing, though still and meek
She bathes her in the forest dew;

As rich, as joyous, when she grows
Beside the cotter's white-wash'd wall,
As when adorning royal brows
She blooms, the worshipp'd gem of all.
Just such a flower should woman be,
Meet jewel for a diadem;
Yet, in her cheerful piety,
The humblest garden's sweetest gem.

THE DREAMING PENITENT.

Ah, placid is thy slumber,
And peace is on thy brow,
Poor ruin'd girl! I fancy
That thou art dreaming now.
Perchance thou art retracing by memory's vivid powers,

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The sweet and holy pleasures of childhood's sinless hours.

Perchance thou now art roving
With sisters glad and fair,
To cull the richest blossoms
To bind thy sunny hair;
While blithe among the branches, the fluttering wild bird sings,
And butterflies are fanning the flowers, with spangled wings.

Or haply thou art seated
By thy fair mother's side,
Ah, wo to thee! poor wanderer,
That thine own mother died.
She would have watched her darling, with fond and ceaseless care,
And warn'd thee of the sorrow, and sav'd thee from the snare.

Perhaps thou now art listening
To fond sweet words of praise
Such as she used to lavish
Upon thine early days.
Such as a mother only can pour upon the ear,
And such as thou, poor mourner, art doom'd no more to hear.

A smile illumes thy features,
A blush is on thy cheek;
What dear and pure delusions
Do these emotions speak?
Perchance the treacherous passion, which wrought thy fearful doom,

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Now lives on fancy's scenery, in all its joy-bright bloom.

Perchance soft words are stealing
Thy trembling nerves along,
And thrilling through thy spirit
Like some false syren's song,
Which woos the list'ning sailor to some bright islet's shore,
Till in the treacherous whirlpool he sinks for evermore.

Oh, could'st thou sleep thy life out
In these fair dreams of love,
Of truth, and bliss unfading,
Like that which lives above!—
Ah, now thy breast is heaving, with deep and painful sighs,
And tears gush through the fringes, that close thy sleeping eyes.

The tears of guilt are bitter,
And Oh, they are in vain!
They cannot heal the spirit
Or cleanse the bosom's stain;
But penitence will lead thee, where living waters flow,
And trees of life eternal, with leaves of healing grow.

THE DYING BOY.

To die! Oh, it seems sad,
While yet the light of youth is in mine eye,
And all the world so beautiful—so glad—
'Tis sad to die.

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I love to see the sun
Sail upward, on a flood of dazzling light,—
Or like a victor, on his pennons, won,
Lie down at night

I love the moonlight nights,
When light clouds hover on the living breeze;
And stars are gleaming, like the sailor's lights,
On shoreless seas.

I love to see the shower
On fleecy pillows sleeping, low and still,
As if its bed were spread amongst the bowers
Of yon green hill.

'Till rising in its strength,
Its dusky wings athwart the heavens it throws,
So like an eagle rising in his strength
From long repose.

Then comes the quivering flash
Of his keen eye, and then his voice burst forth
In dread low murmurs, or the pealing crash
That rocks the earth.

I love the startling shock!
The forests bend beneath his glorious voice;
The iron bases of the mountains rock;
The floods rejoice.

I love the genial earth
When timid flowers are peeping from her breast,
And song-birds come with their melodious mirth,
Each to its nest.

And when the summer hours
Dry the mown grass, and bleach the rustling grain,

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Spread rich ripe berries, and delicious flowers,
O'er hill and plain;

When generous autumn flings
Her rich ripe treasures 'mongst the foliage sear;
And agriculture to the granary brings
The yellow ear.—

In winter-wind and storm,
And ice, and snow-drift; and high blazing hearth—
In every season—every varied form—
I love the earth.

And oh! I love the smile
That lives for me, in many a gentle eye,—
While fresh hearts love, and young hands cling the while,
'Tis hard to die.

Alas my glorious dreams!
Where is the scholar's laurel chaplet now?
Where now the diadem, with glory beams
For Genius' brow?

Already were my feet
Fix'd on the steeps of Science, and mine eyes
Turn'd to her temple, while my bosom beat
To grasp the prize.

Where are my dreams of wealth,
Long life, and honour, power, and usefulness?
Alas, this fell disease with fatal stealth,
Mocks all my bliss.

O'er all life's glorious dreams
Despair has spread her black and chilling pall.
Love, mirth, and pleasure! All your honeyed streams
Are chang'd to gall.

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Come, mother! sooth me now,
My rest and weary spirit leans on thee;
Oh, place thy hand once more upon my brow,
And comfort me.

Speak kindly in mine ear
As thou wert wont, when aught disturb'd my joy.
Oh come! and with thine angel presence cheer
Thy dying boy.

Tell me again of heaven
As thou would'st tell me in mine infancy;
Mother! The bright things of the world, have driven
Thy words away.

But tell me now again
Of that bright world, where death can never come;
And whisper to me how I may attain
That blessed home.

Kneel down by me, and pray—
The Lord will hear thee for thy dying boy.—
Oh, let me pass from thine embrace, away
To endless joy.

“I LOVE.”

Oh! do not speak it lightly!
That little word, I love,
Thou dost not know how stern a thing
One simple word may prove;
It is the word of Destiny—
The seal of woman's fate;

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And utter'd once, regret and tears,
May come—but come too late.

He unto whom thou breathest
That little thrilling word,
Becomes at once thine arbiter,
And knows himself thy lord;
His foot is on thy sceptre,
His law is on thy soul,
And o'er thy spirit evermore
The tide of his shall roll.

Thenceforth his every heart-pang
Shall quiver through thy breast;
And on thy soul, and on thy fame,
The shade of his shall rest.
Then do not utter lightly
That word of Fate—I love!
Thou dost not know how stern a thing
That little word may prove.

THE DEAD! THE DEAD!

The dead! the dead! the buried out of sight!
Why are they ever present to the heart!
For ever mirror'd in the holy night,
Of all its phantom pageantry a part.

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For ever present through the busy day,
Inseparable from the passing hours;
While from all pleasant things, their memory
Is breathing like the incense from the flowers.

Oh, my beloved Dead! though far away
The grave-grass grows above thy silent breast,
Though on that spot I may not kneel, or lay
One tear-wet leaf, above thy place of rest;

Though years have pass'd, since on the clasping vines
Of our affections, sorrow's mildew fell,
With'ring away thy branch, and blighting mine—
(If it had died, perchance it had been well.

For oh, how darkly on the breast, and brow
The shadow of that ruin'd garland lies,
With drooping buds that ne'er can open now,
With dew of heart-wept tears, and breath of sighs.)

Why art thou ever with me? my lost love!
Why do all objects cast a shade of thee?
Cannot the heavy earth that lies above
Shut in thy form,—or hide thy face from me?

Cannot the curtain of the spirit land
With its dim mystery, veil thy perfect mind?
That ever in my path I see thee stand,
And feel thy spirit with mine own entwin'd?

246

I see thee in all beauty—and thy voice
Is in all music—thou art every where;—
Where Friendship smiles—where mutual loves rejoice,
Where'er farewell! is spoken, thou art there!

And in its early, chosen place of rest,
Thy cold heart lies—for ever press'd to mine,
I feel it always there—I cannot rest—
Mine throbs,—but there is no reply of thine.

The dead! The dead!—Why are they with us thus,
If death has power to sever human ties?
To shut our lov'd and beautiful, from us,
Or break affection's braided sympathies?—

It is not so! Love mingles into one
The perfect being of each wedded pair;
With bonds that cannot be on earth undone
And knitted once in heaven—are perfect there.

THE LOST ONE.

She was a lovely child—upon her face
Lay beauty—with that ever-varying grace
Which charms, and fixes the beholder's gaze;
And you might trace in her clear, loving eye,
Each girlish feeling in its purity,
As in pure water 'neath an azure sky,
You see the bright-wing'd birds that flutter by.

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Fine threads of feeling, delicately twin'd,
Compos'd the tissue of her perfect mind,
With broider'd flowers by fancy's hand design'd.
Her spirit was a wind harp, with its flow
Of magic tones, all musically low,
Wak'd by the softest zephyr that can blow,
Blending with all the pure, and sweet below,

Still stealing through the heart unconsciously,
And moving every chord of melody,
To its own sweetly plaintive witchery.
Her every step was music, wild and free
As summer evening's breezy minstrelsy,
Which walks amongst all sweet things in its glee,
And touches every creature, lightsomely.

She seem'd a being, not of mortal birth;
She felt no sympathy with things of earth,
Its gold—its honours—or its noisy mirth.
She could not brook its hypocritic art,
Or court applause amid its busy mart;
She seem'd like light, a holy thing apart,
Yet mingling with all joy, in every heart.

And those who met her oft at summer even,
Might deem that to her purity 'twas given
To hold communion with the stars of heaven;
For then she seem'd as of ethereal clay,
All animate with love's divinest ray,
And trembling with one wish to pass away
With the soft radiance of departing day.

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For then her pure young spirit caught such gleams,—
Such thrilling pageantry of broken dreams,
Of heaven's own perfect forms, in glory beams.
She knew there was a world of perfect bliss,
Above the cares, and vanities of this,
Where all the soul is fill'd with happiness,
And folds its wings in ever-during peace.

And sometimes in those visionary hours,
She seem'd so near the angel radiant bow'rs,
She almost felt the perfume of the flowers.
And then a troubled rapture stirr'd her breast—
A sweetly painful yearning to be blest,—
A longing for some blessing unexpress'd—
To fill the heart, which had not found its rest.

She lov'd—her heart was fill'd—her shadowy dreams,
Were realiz'd—with all their glory beams,
Their never-fading flowers, and living streams.
She lov'd—Know'st thou how such a one can love?—
She was all tenderness—like the young dove,
Ardent and pure, as seraphim above—
And guiltless of a thought, that hearts can rove.

Know'st thou the trembling rapture—when at first
From the full heart the thrilling waters burst,
The stream for which her soul had been athirst?
Know'st thou the sense of sweet ecstatic rest,
With which she nestled to the chosen breast?
Like some wild bird, which, having found her nest,
Folds her bright wings, even for a song too blest.

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Then thou may'st judge how fearful was her fate,
When all too early—and yet all too late,
She found herself deceiv'd, and desolate.
Oh! WOMAN'S LOVE! To man divinely given,
His purest, sweetest treasure this side heaven—
Oh, God! that from his heart it should be riven,
And naked forth upon the cold world driven.

And she is lost! a craz'd and restless thing,—
A fair bark, shatter'd by the storm-god's wing—
A tempest-broken flower of early spring.
Still shadowy dreams pursue her every where,
But hope's bright form no more is mirror'd there—
But from the ruins of the past, despair
Brings darken'd shreds of all that once was fair.

TO AN ÆOLEAN.

Thou'rt like my heart—thou shivering string
Of wild and plaintive tone;
Thrill'd by the slightest zephyr's wing,
That over thee is thrown.

Replying with melodious wail
To every passing sigh;
And pouring to the fitful gale
Wild bursts of harmony.

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Still, by the tempest's torturing power
Thy loftiest notes are rung,
And in the stormy midnight hour,
Thy holiest hymns are sung.

Thou'rt like my heart, thou trembling string
That lov'st the gentle breeze,—
Yet yieldest to the tempest king
Thy loftiest melodies.

TO THE PINE—ON THE MOUNTAIN.

Thou giant Pine—of patriarchal years,
O'er the rock helmet of the mountain bending,
As watching you glad river, which appears
Like a bright dream, through worlds of beauty wending,
Mocking thy bleak and solitary pride,
With warm and flow'ry scenes, and soft wings gleaming,
Bright fountains smiling on the green hill-side,
'Neath bowers of blossom'd vines, profusely streaming.

And sigh'st thou o'er those visions of delight,
As my lone bosom, o'er the glowing treasures
Which live in fancy's realm, before my sight
And mock my spirit, with ideal pleasures?
Or art thou holding converse with the wind,
Waving majestic assent to some story,
Of mournful interest, how thy stately kind
Have perish'd from the places of their glory.

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Or are ye talking of the noble race
Stately as thou, with the wind's freedom roaming,
Who o'er these mountains once pursued the chase,
And stemm'd the river, with the spring flood foaming.
Oh, knew I all the legends of the past,
With life, and love, and death, and sorrow teeming,
On which thou hast look'd down, since first the blast
Play'd with thy plumes, in morning sunlight gleaming.

Thou'st seen the free-born hunters of the wild,
Chasing the fleet deer, in his antler'd glory;
Or with his chosen maid, rich nature's child,
Breathing in whispers love's ungarnish'd story.
And thou hast seen him on the mountain path,
Victor, and vanquish'd; fleeing, and pursuing;
Conquer'd, and writhing with vindictive wrath;
Or agonizing o'er his country's ruin.

While the fierce conqueror gaz'd with gloating eye
On mangled forms, in mortal anguish lying;
Or where the weekwam's flame was wreathing high,
Lighting dark forms, with frantic terror flying:
Seem'd he not king-like, with his plumy crown;
And like a tiger, streak'd with hideous painting;
With hand that sought no treasure but renown,
And heart that knew no fear, and felt no fainting?

Full many a time, perchance, beneath thy shade
The youthful sachem stood, with pride surveying
His wide dominion, and the balmy shade
Of the soft valley, where his love was straying,

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And sometimes still there comes a wasted form
With locks like thine, by many winters faded;
Well has he braved the battle and the storm,
The sachem whom thy youthful branches shaded.

Ye are a noble pair, ye stand the last,
Each, of a noble race; and ye are staying,
Magnificent mementoes of the past,
Glorious and wonderful in your decaying.
And thou dost toss thy branches to the wind,
And sigh sad dirges of thy perish'd glory,
And he is brooding with a darken'd mind
Over a perished nation's wrongful story.

A few more years—the bird of mightiest wing
Shall seek his long-loved rest, with mournful screaming—
A few more years, and no dark form shall cling
To this stern height, of perish'd glory dreaming.
Ah! who will mourn, when thou art lying low,
And o'er the shatter'd trunk green mosses creeping?
What noble heart will swell with generous wo
When the last warrior of his race is sleeping?—

TO THE FIRST SPRING FLOWER.

Sweet bud of happiness and hope
Young daughter of the spring;
How timidly thy soft leaves ope,
While o'er thy head fond zephyrs droop
The warm and dewy wing.

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Too early, little azure flower,
Thy fragile bloom is spread,
For winter yet, with lingering power,
Will heap his snow and icy shower,
Upon thy beauteous head.

How joyously thou'rt looking up
Toward the sunbright sky,
As with a timid smile of hope—
With incense in thy little cup,
And tears in thy blue eye.

Ah me! Mine eyes are filling too
With tears unlike to thine.
Thine eye is gemm'd with holy dew—
But bitter drops of earth-born wo
Swell painfully in mine.

To me thy leaves are written o'er
With mem'ries of sweet hours,
In which my little heart ran o'er
With bliss, which can return no more
With spring's returning flowers.

When I knelt down upon the sod
With unalloy'd delight,
And fondly kiss'd the early bud,
And offer'd simple thanks to God
For gifts so sweet, and bright.

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My spirit then was like to thee,
No storm had o'er it blown,
And from its holy treasury,
Young hopes and loves were joyously,
On passing zephyrs thrown.

My dreams were full of romance then,
Of everliving truth,
Of love unting'd by mortal stain,
Of years of bliss uncross'd by pain,
Of age as bright as youth;

Of blessings, which the good must gain,
Crowns that the great must wear;
Of laurels none need seek in vain,
Of bright rewards for every pain,
And gold, for toil, and care.

My hopes were like thee, April flower,
They budded all too soon,
And when the cold relentless shower
Arose, they bent beneath its power,
Crush'd, wither'd, and undone.

Yet o'er the now deserted spot
Fond memory loves to weep,
Where spring flowers bloom'd, which now are not,
And hopes that cannot be forgot,
In precious ruin sleep.

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THE LEPER.

Theresa.

Oh, Night! Thy pinions lie so heavily;
Upon the anxious brow that seeks in vain
The soothing unction of thy sister sleep.
Thy shadows take such wild and fearful forms,
And throng th' excited mind with phantasies,
That agonize the spirit as it turns
From one fantastic shape of agony,
Only to meet a more horrific shade,
And writhe in torture, till the locks that lay
In beauty o'er the brow, hang heavily,
Wet with the dew that agony wrings out
Upon the throbbing temples. Then the breath
Is painfully pent up within the lungs,
And the swollen heart's slow beats are audible,
As strains the ear to catch the first dear sound
Of an approaching footstep, which comes not
All through the weary night.
Oh, I have watch'd
And listen'd, till my heart, and ear, and brain
Are wrung almost to madness,
Thou, dear lord,
Of my whole soul and person, who dost sway
With love's all potent sceptre every wish,
And hope of this poor heart! Oh, where art thou?
Why dost thou stay so very long away?
Some evil surely has befallen thee.

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I have observed of late upon thy brow
The shadow of some evil destiny:
Which dims the sun-light of thy loving eyes,
Which dwell upon me with such long strange gaze
Of tenderness and sorrow. Oh, I fear!
I know not what, or wherefore. But thy stay
Is unaccountable. And yet, perchance,
The elders of our people, who accord
To thy young spirit their sage fellowship,
Detain thee in the temple of our God:
I know thou dost not tarry willingly,
So many weary days beyond the hour
Appointed for our meeting. Hush, poor heart!
Say not that many a fond, confiding wife,
Has felt the spirit-crushing agony
Of causeless cold desertion. Oh, my God!
Whate'er affliction it may be thy will
To lay upon my bruis'd and humbled heart,
Spare me this keenest agony of all.

Hark! 'Tis his footstep. Oh, I could kneel down
And beg his pardon for the hasty thought
That could impeach his honour.
Jared! Love!

Jared.
Nay, touch me not, Theresa. Oh, great God!
'Tis now I suffer the full bitterness
Of my most dreadful doom. No, never more
Shall I embrace thee, dearest. Never more
Shall thy fond heart throb bliss into my own,
Till my soul reels, delirious with delight.

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Thou shalt repose within my arms no more,
And sleep with thy bright cheek against my breast;
Thy pillow will be lone, and wet with tears,
And thy heart widow'd, while thy husband lives,
And loves, and longs to clasp the gentle form,
That God made all his own.
Look here, my love.
If thou art not quite petrified to stone.
Oh, may the strength of Israel's mighty God
Support thee through this trial. Look, poor wife,
Here is the loathsome plague-spot on mine arm;
Death has affixed his certain signet here.
I am a leper; fearfully unclean;
An outcast; from thy bosom, from my house,
My people; from the temple of my God;
From love and sympathy.
The holy priest
Hath said it. Leprous! and incurable.
I go forth full of anguish, and disease,
To suffer through long years a living death,
While my infected flesh is perishing
From off a hideous living skeleton,
A foul abhorrent thing, whose slightest touch
Is rife with death, whose breath is pestilence,
Whose constant cry unclean! shall warn away
Every approaching foot-step. Oh, Lord God!
What is my sin, that thou hast laid on me
This most revolting of all punishments,
This direst of all sorrows, plagues, and deaths?

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Oh, weep not thus, dear love.—And yet, thy tears,
The bitter agony that tortures there
Thy young fond bosom, is to me a pledge
Of thy fond love and pity. Fare thee well,
And do not waste thy life in grief for me.
Think of me as I am, a loathsome thing
Which none can bear to look on, whose slight touch
Is terrible contagion. Be thou blest
With health, and friendship. All this wealth is thine
I leave it all to thee. My daily bread,
And homely garments for my withering form
Is all I now require.

Theresa.
Jared! Oh God!—
I cannot hear thee speak such dreadful words,
I will not let thee go. My heart—my heart!
'Tis breaking with fierce anguish. Must it be?
Is there no hope—no mercy with the Lord,
That we must part so soon? We, who have lov'd
So long, so fervently—We, who have borne
Such cruel trials, and endur'd so much.—
Is this the meed of our tried faithfulness?
This parting, worse a hundred times than death.

Jared.
Be patient, love. Do not arraign the Lord.
I still believe him just, and merciful.
What merit could our love have in his eyes?
Perchance that very passion is a sin
For which he will chastise us. Oh, I feel
That I have lov'd thee to idolatry,

259

And madly love thee still.—Nay, come not near,
I do command thee! Oh, for one embrace!—
Might I but clasp thee to my heart once more,
And then lie down and die. Death were most sweet
To him who lives a moving pestilence,
Whose foot-print is pollution to the earth,
From whom the vilest wretch shrinks back aghast
With terror and abhorrence. Now farewell.—

Theresa.
—No, no! I cannot, will not, let thee go!
I will go with thee; happier far to share
The horrors of the outcast leper's fate,
Than, though the world were mine, apart from thee.
How can I live within thy princely halls,
And lay me down and sleep, in that alcove,
On downy pillows 'neath embroider'd silk,
The golden fringe of which lies heavily
Upon the marble pavement; while I know
That thou art outcast, perishing, perchance,
On the bare earth, unshelter'd and alone,
With none to aid or sooth thee. I will go
And share thy sufferings.

Jared.
It may not be.
Thy pangs would add to mine, a thousand fold.
Could I endure to see thy fair young form
Made horrible by this white pestilence?
No.—Let me have, amid my sufferings,
One consolation when I think of thee,
And deem thee crown'd with blessings. Dost thou faint?
Mine arm may not sustain thee, fair young flower,

260

How beauteous is thy drooping loveliness.
Now while thine eyes are clos'd, and thy rich voice
No longer chains my spirit, I will go.
Farewell, farewell for ever. [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]

Jared.
Oh praise the Lord, Theresa! Praise the Lord,
For he hath heal'd thy leper. Oh, the bliss
Of this embrace; this sunrise o'er the night
Of our long, deep despair. The blessedness
Of such a waking from the hideous dream
Of misery such as ours. Bless thee, my wife,
For thy fond love, and holy constancy
To the poor outcast. Heaven reward thy truth;
I have not words to thank thee.

Theresa.
Speak not thus,
My love, my rescued treasure. Thank not me.
To God the merciful, belongs all thanks—
And the physician whom he sent to thee,
He merits at our hands a rich reward.
When was the leper ever cleans'd till now?
Indeed I fear this bliss is all a dream,
Or thou a wretch imposing on my love
In my lost husband's name. Forgive the word,
I see, I am convinced. But where is he
To whom we owe so much? What can we give
That will express our gratitude, for all
That he has done for us. What shall we give?

Jared.
Our hearts Theresa, we will give our hearts.
The man that heal'd me, is the Nazarene
Abhorr'd by our proud rulers, and chief priests,

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Whose followers are expell'd the synagogues,
And hated by our nation. Yet I know
That he is the Messiah that should come
Of David's royal lineage, and reign
A glorious king for ever. To the wild
In which I sought to hide my wretchedness,
From scorn, and heartless pity, came the fame
Of this all-healing Jesus; and I felt
That he had power to save me, and went forth
Trembling with hope, to seek him. Oh! my wife.
Could'st thou but look upon him. Beautiful
He is, beyond description. Tall and fair,
With dark-brown locks, parted from his clear brow
Smooth o'er the perfect temples, waving thence
In curls of perfect beauty; and his eyes
So clear, so powerful, and full of love,
So rich in their expression, when they dwelt
In kind compassion on the suffering poor;
Or turn, with pride-subduing stern reproof
On stubborn sin, and haughty arrogance.
I look'd upon him, and my very soul
Seem'd gushing forth to meet him, as he mov'd
In native majesty, serenely great;
Amid the servile multitudes that prest
And knelt to kiss his garment. I advanced,—
The crowd gave way, they would not touch a form
Of pestilence like mine. Low at his feet
I knelt, and humbly supplicated, Lord,
If thou art willing, thou can'st make me clean.
He looked upon me with such pitying love,
And reaching forth his hand (oh, what a hand

262

And arm is his) he touch'd me, and replied,
I will. Be clean. Oh, how that touch divine,
And voice omnipotent, thrill'd through my soul,
In swelling rapture rushing to my heart,
And trembling through my veins, while all my flesh
Was chang'd to health, and beauty. Oh, the bliss!
The thrilling life-renewing ecstacy
Of that ecstatic moment; when my soul
And mortal body, were renew'd and chang'd,
By the pure influence of Almighty love.
I felt at once that our Immanuel,
God, shrined in manhood, had perform'd my cure,—
But as I worshipp'd him, he bade me go,
Nor speak of Him, but offer to the priest
The accustom'd gift.—In this I will obey,
But speak of him I must, for all my soul
Is flooded with his love. Earth never bore
The impress of a foot perfect as his,
Who walks from place to place, a homeless one,
Dispensing blessedness in all his ways.
His matchless hands impart the richest gifts;
Health to the sick; youth's vigour to the lame;
Speech to the dumb; and hearing to the deaf;
Sight to the blind; and reason's priceless light
To lunatics, and fierce demoniacs.—
Oh, could'st thou see him stand, serenely calm,
Amid the rolling billows of the crowd,
That press around him, while some trembling wretch
Is struggling through the throng, to reach his feet,
Where, as he bends, mute expectation holds
Her empire, o'er the expectant living flood.

263

A murmur, like the converse of the waves,
First stirs the concourse; then a mighty shout
Swells up to heaven, and melts in echoes down
Upon the distant hills. The afflicted one
Is heal'd, and leaps for joy. But Jesus stands
With pure hands clasp'd, and eyes uprais'd to heaven,
With sweet expression of deep gratitude
And holy love, oft beaming out through tears.—
He looks as if his heart had room for all
Who need his pity; while his ardent soul
Is mingled in communion with the God,
Whose power he surely wields. Nay, start not, love,
He certainly does wield the power of God,
And wield it like a God. He walks the earth,
As if he needed naught of all her wealth,
And heeded not her honours. Her rewards!
Oh, what were all her splendours, gold, and gems,
To barter for his gifts to me alone?
What were they unto him who holds the keys
Of heaven's rich treasury, and dispenses thence
Blessings beyond all price. Requiring naught,
Not even the tribute of a grateful heart.
While precepts such as man ne'er taught to man,
Pure as the dew, and searching as the light,
Flow from his lips, like incense from the rose
That lives on Sharon's mountain. Like our God's,
His gifts are great, and free; and all his words
Are full of Godlike strength, and purity.
With Godlike power he triumphs o'er the pains
And spirits, of the deep abyss of death.
He is the power, and majesty of God,

264

Enshrin'd in the most pure and faultless form
That nature ever shap'd.
He will not die
As other mortals die, for he has power
O'er death and all diseases. At his word,
The fiercest demons let their victims go,
And shrinking from the splendours of his eye,
Crouch down into black darkness. He controls
Even the elements; the raging sea
Is still at his command, and fierce, free winds,
Close their strong pinions, and with murmur'd hymns
Sink into sleep upon the rocking flood.
Can he not quell the fiercest wrath of man,
Or paralyze his limbs, or strike him down
To death and dark perdition?
If he yields
To the cold sceptre of mortality,
He must resign himself, a sacrifice,
A free-will offering for some great intent;
To make atonement at the bar of God
For some tremendous evil. He would be
A spotless sacrifice, and might atone
For a whole world of sin.
But words are vain,
His power has healed my flesh, and fill'd my soul
With gratitude, and love, and holy peace.
Theresa, thou shalt see his perfect face,
And listen to his voice, and see his deeds;
And kneel, and worship our Immanuel.

THE END.