 | Love's token-flowers |  |
22
THE LILY OF THE NILE.—Calla Æthiopica.
Maiden Purity.
Be thine the emblem, sweet one—watch and pray,
Win thy young, stainless heart from earthly things;
Oh! wait not thou till life's bright morning ray
Only o'er blighted hopes its radiance flings,
But give to Heaven thy sinless spirit now,
Ere sorrow's tradery mar thy placid brow.
Win thy young, stainless heart from earthly things;
Oh! wait not thou till life's bright morning ray
Only o'er blighted hopes its radiance flings,
But give to Heaven thy sinless spirit now,
Ere sorrow's tradery mar thy placid brow.
Sinless and pure thou art, yet is thy soul
Filled with a maiden's vague and pleasant dreams,
Sweet fantasies that mock at truth's control,
Like atoms round thee float in fancy's beams;
But trust them not, young dreamer—bid them flee,
They have deceived all others, and will thee.
Filled with a maiden's vague and pleasant dreams,
Sweet fantasies that mock at truth's control,
Like atoms round thee float in fancy's beams;
But trust them not, young dreamer—bid them flee,
They have deceived all others, and will thee.
23
Well can I read thy thoughts—thy gentle heart
(Already woman's in its wish to bless)
Now longs for one to whom it may impart
Its untold wealth of hidden tenderness,
And yearns to know the meaning of the thrill
That wakes when fancy stirs affection's rill.
(Already woman's in its wish to bless)
Now longs for one to whom it may impart
Its untold wealth of hidden tenderness,
And yearns to know the meaning of the thrill
That wakes when fancy stirs affection's rill.
Thou dreamest of love's happiness,—the deep
And placid joy which poets paint so well.
Alas! our passions, even when they sleep,
Like ocean waves, are heaved with secret swell,
And they who hear the frequent, low-breathed sigh,
Know 'tis the wailing of the storm gone by.
And placid joy which poets paint so well.
Alas! our passions, even when they sleep,
Like ocean waves, are heaved with secret swell,
And they who hear the frequent, low-breathed sigh,
Know 'tis the wailing of the storm gone by.
Vain, vain are all thy visions; couldst thou know
The secrets of a woman's weary lot,
Oh! couldst thou read upon her pride-veiled brow
Her wasted tenderness, her love forgot,
In humbleness of heart thou wouldst kneel down,
And pray for strength to wear her martyr crown.
The secrets of a woman's weary lot,
Oh! couldst thou read upon her pride-veiled brow
Her wasted tenderness, her love forgot,
In humbleness of heart thou wouldst kneel down,
And pray for strength to wear her martyr crown.
| Love's token-flowers | |