 | The coronal |  |
TO THE AUTHOR OF HOPE LESLIE, THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS MOST RESPECTFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED, BY A SINCERE ADMIRER OF HER PURE AND BEAUTIFUL WRITINGS.
1
LINES,
SUGGESTED BY VANDERLYN'S FINE PICTURE OF CAIUS MARIUS AMONG THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.
Pillars are fallen at thy feet,
Fanes quiver in the air,
A prostrate city is thy seat,
And thou alone art there.
Fanes quiver in the air,
A prostrate city is thy seat,
And thou alone art there.
No change comes o'er thy noble brow,
Though ruin is around thee;
Thine eye-beam burns as proudly now,
As when the laurel crown'd thee.
Though ruin is around thee;
Thine eye-beam burns as proudly now,
As when the laurel crown'd thee.
It cannot bend thy lofty soul,
Though friends and fame depart;
The car of fate may o'er thee roll,
Nor crush thy Roman heart.
Though friends and fame depart;
The car of fate may o'er thee roll,
Nor crush thy Roman heart.
2
And genius hath electric power,
Which earth can never tame;
Bright suns may scorch, and dark clouds lower—
Its flash is still the same!
Which earth can never tame;
Bright suns may scorch, and dark clouds lower—
Its flash is still the same!
The dreams we loved in early life,
May melt like mist away;
High thoughts may seem, 'mid passion's strife,
Like Carthage in decay.
May melt like mist away;
High thoughts may seem, 'mid passion's strife,
Like Carthage in decay.
And proud hopes in the human heart
May be to ruin hurl'd,
Like mould'ring monuments of art
Heap'd on a sleeping world.
May be to ruin hurl'd,
Like mould'ring monuments of art
Heap'd on a sleeping world.
Yet there is something will not die,
Where life hath once been fair;
Some towering thoughts still rear on high,
Some Roman lingers there!
Where life hath once been fair;
Some towering thoughts still rear on high,
Some Roman lingers there!
30
TO A LADY,
CELEBRATED FOR MUSICAL TALENT.
“Methinks, it should have been impossible
Not to love all things in a world so filled;
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute, still air,
Is Music slumbering on her instrument.”
Coleridge.
Not to love all things in a world so filled;
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute, still air,
Is Music slumbering on her instrument.”
Coleridge.
Thanks, Orphea, thanks! Thy magic spell
Has waked my soul to sound;
And deep within a sealed well
A spring of joy is found!
Has waked my soul to sound;
And deep within a sealed well
A spring of joy is found!
My ear was like the wayward strings,
Which the wild winds breathe o'er;
And fitful in its echoings,
Has my spirit been before!
Which the wild winds breathe o'er;
And fitful in its echoings,
Has my spirit been before!
But something in my inmost heart
Responds to each touch of thine,—
And bids me own thy wond'rous art
The soul of the “tuneful Nine.”
Responds to each touch of thine,—
And bids me own thy wond'rous art
The soul of the “tuneful Nine.”
Yes, all I've dream'd of bright or fair,
Is but embodied sound—
Music is floating on the air,
In every thing around!
Is but embodied sound—
Music is floating on the air,
In every thing around!
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All Nature hath of breezy grace,
In motion swift and free,
Each lovely hue upon her face,
Is living melody.
In motion swift and free,
Each lovely hue upon her face,
Is living melody.
Well might thy witchery inspire
The bard's enraptured lay,
And flashes of prophetic fire
Around thy fingers play;
The bard's enraptured lay,
And flashes of prophetic fire
Around thy fingers play;
But vainly would the haunted king
Have sought relief from thee,—
For chain'd had been each demon's wing
By thy rich minstrelsy.
Have sought relief from thee,—
For chain'd had been each demon's wing
By thy rich minstrelsy.
Priestess of a mighty power!
My spirit worships thee;
For inspiration is thy dower—
Thy voice is poetry!
My spirit worships thee;
For inspiration is thy dower—
Thy voice is poetry!
61
LINES,
OCCASIONED BY HEARING A LITTLE BOY MOCK THE OLD SOUTH BELL RINGING THE HOUR OF TWELVE.
Aye, ring thy shout to the merry hours!
Well may ye part in glee!
From their sunny wings they scatter flowers,
And laughing look on thee!
Well may ye part in glee!
From their sunny wings they scatter flowers,
And laughing look on thee!
Thy thrilling voice has started tears—
It brings to mind the day,
When I chased butterflies and years,
And both flew fast away.
It brings to mind the day,
When I chased butterflies and years,
And both flew fast away.
Then my glad thoughts were few and free,—
They came but to depart;
They did not ask where heaven could be—
'Twas in my little heart.
They came but to depart;
They did not ask where heaven could be—
'Twas in my little heart.
I since have sought the meteor crown,
Which fame bestows on men—
How gladly would I throw it down,
To be so gay again!
Which fame bestows on men—
How gladly would I throw it down,
To be so gay again!
But youthful joy has gone away—
In vain 'tis now pursued!
Such rainbow glories only stay
Around the simply good.
In vain 'tis now pursued!
Such rainbow glories only stay
Around the simply good.
62
I know too much to be as blest
As when I was like thee;
My spirit, reason'd into rest,
Has lost its buoyancy.
As when I was like thee;
My spirit, reason'd into rest,
Has lost its buoyancy.
Yet still I love the winged hours—
We often meet in glee;
And sometimes, too, are fragrant flowers
Their farewell gifts to me.
We often meet in glee;
And sometimes, too, are fragrant flowers
Their farewell gifts to me.
78
ADDRESS TO THE VALENTINE
PAINTED BY W. ALLSTON, IN THE POSSESSION OF GEORGE TICKNOR, ESQ.
What are thy thoughts, thou placid one?
Thy glance is mild as evening sun;
Holy and bright the lucid beam,
As love and hope were in thy dream.
Calm are thy feelings—still and deep
As seraph's joy, or infant's sleep.
Not thine the British Sappho's eye,
With love's volcano blazing high:
Flush'd cheek and passion-stricken brow,
Are not for one so pure as thou;
Thou 'rt not a thing all smiles and tears,
Wasting thy soul in hopes and fears;
Yet thou, sweet maiden, can'st not hide
Affection's deep and noiseless tide.
A sadden'd hue is on thy cheek—
Thy thoughtful look is still and meek;
And well I know that young Love flings
A shadow from his purple wings.
'Tis sad to think life's sunlight gleam
May leave thee, like a morning dream.
Can brows so gentle and so fair,
Be early mark'd by with'ring care?
Ah! listen to the plaintive tone
O'er all Felicia's music thrown!
Heaven spare thee the thrilling sigh,
That wakes her harp to melody!
Thy glance is mild as evening sun;
Holy and bright the lucid beam,
As love and hope were in thy dream.
Calm are thy feelings—still and deep
As seraph's joy, or infant's sleep.
Not thine the British Sappho's eye,
With love's volcano blazing high:
Flush'd cheek and passion-stricken brow,
Are not for one so pure as thou;
Thou 'rt not a thing all smiles and tears,
Wasting thy soul in hopes and fears;
Yet thou, sweet maiden, can'st not hide
Affection's deep and noiseless tide.
A sadden'd hue is on thy cheek—
Thy thoughtful look is still and meek;
And well I know that young Love flings
A shadow from his purple wings.
'Tis sad to think life's sunlight gleam
May leave thee, like a morning dream.
Can brows so gentle and so fair,
Be early mark'd by with'ring care?
79
O'er all Felicia's music thrown!
Heaven spare thee the thrilling sigh,
That wakes her harp to melody!
There 's subtle power in every line
Of that bewitching Valentine;
If once within the throbbing heart,
Nor time, nor change, bids it depart;
And seldom it 's a quiet guest,
In woman's fond, devoted breast.
New thoughts may fire the weary brain,
But hearts, once chill'd, ne'er warm again.
Of that bewitching Valentine;
If once within the throbbing heart,
Nor time, nor change, bids it depart;
And seldom it 's a quiet guest,
In woman's fond, devoted breast.
New thoughts may fire the weary brain,
But hearts, once chill'd, ne'er warm again.
Yet, lady, trust the dang'rous boy!
His smiles are full of light and joy;
And e'en his most envenom'd dart,
Is better than a vacant heart.
His smiles are full of light and joy;
And e'en his most envenom'd dart,
Is better than a vacant heart.
123
BEAUTY.
On evening sky, or tinted flower,
Or wild bird in his sportive hour,
Or the gay insect's tinsel'd wing,
Rich as poetic imaging,—
Where'er thy radiant form may dwell,
Beauty, I love thee passing well!
Or wild bird in his sportive hour,
Or the gay insect's tinsel'd wing,
Rich as poetic imaging,—
Where'er thy radiant form may dwell,
Beauty, I love thee passing well!
In the blest infant's cherub eye,
Beaming with all its native sky,
In the folds of its weak embrace,
Or the smile on its lovely face;
Where'er thy radiant form may dwell,
Beauty, I love thee passing well!
Beaming with all its native sky,
In the folds of its weak embrace,
Or the smile on its lovely face;
Where'er thy radiant form may dwell,
Beauty, I love thee passing well!
In ample waves of glossy hair,
Floating about the young and fair,
As they rejoiced, in breezy play,
O'er beings bright as summer's day;
Where'er thy radiant form may dwell,
Beauty, I love thee passing well!
Floating about the young and fair,
As they rejoiced, in breezy play,
O'er beings bright as summer's day;
Where'er thy radiant form may dwell,
Beauty, I love thee passing well!
Where sculpture leaves its magic trace
Of woman, in her airy grace;
Or on the lofty brows of men,
Imprints their godlike origin;
Where'er thy radiant form may dwell,
Beauty, I love thee passing well!
Of woman, in her airy grace;
Or on the lofty brows of men,
Imprints their godlike origin;
Where'er thy radiant form may dwell,
Beauty, I love thee passing well!
124
And where the painter's power hath given
To earthly things the hues of heaven,
'Tis Nature's mirror, bright and fair,
And all we love is lovelier there!
Blest art! I find no words to tell
The power I love so passing well!
To earthly things the hues of heaven,
'Tis Nature's mirror, bright and fair,
And all we love is lovelier there!
Blest art! I find no words to tell
The power I love so passing well!
147
TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN.
Purple flower, pale autumn's child,Blooming in beauty lone and wild—
Slowly matured by sun and shower,
To reign awhile in fleeting power;
Yet bashfully in that brief space
Hiding from view thy lovely face,
Veiling thy imperial tinge
Beneath a modest robe of fringe.
When summer-days are long and bright,
Thy lovely form ne'er meets the sight;
But when October guides the year,
And points to seasons cold and drear,
It gracefully his path-way strews,
And smiles beneath his shiv'ring dews.
Thus buds of virtue often bloom
The fairest, mid the deepest gloom.
Their latent loveliness conceal'd,
And not one embryo tint reveal'd;
Till left by fortune's sunny beam,
To ripen in affliction's gleam.
161
TO A WEALTHY LADY,
WHOSE HUSBAND SOON BECAME INDIFFERENT TO HER.
Lady, thou art passing fair!
And flowers are wreathed around thee—
With marble brow, and shining hair,
Hath the spirit of beauty crowned thee.
And flowers are wreathed around thee—
With marble brow, and shining hair,
Hath the spirit of beauty crowned thee.
Embedded in a radiant curl,
The diamond mocks thine eye;
And snowy bands of orient pearl
Around thy bosom lie.
The diamond mocks thine eye;
And snowy bands of orient pearl
Around thy bosom lie.
And yet thy smile, I know not why,
Hath lost its joyful meaning;
And the low music of thy sigh
Is sorrow's fitful dreaming.
Hath lost its joyful meaning;
And the low music of thy sigh
Is sorrow's fitful dreaming.
Thou canst not hide it, lovely one,
By any splendid token;
Thy transient dream of bliss is done—
Thy widow'd heart is broken.
By any splendid token;
Thy transient dream of bliss is done—
Thy widow'd heart is broken.
I envy not the gold and pearl
That shine on thy aching breast;
I could not seek life's giddy whirl,
To stun my spirit into rest.
That shine on thy aching breast;
I could not seek life's giddy whirl,
To stun my spirit into rest.
Ah no! when those I love are cold,
And look on me with careless eye,
Not all thy dazzling heaps of gold
Could tempt me not to die.
And look on me with careless eye,
Not all thy dazzling heaps of gold
Could tempt me not to die.
183
LINES,
OCCASIONED BY A BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT IN THE MIDST OF DISTRACTING EMPLOYMENT.
How oft amid perplexing cares,
Fancy comes with her sweetest airs,
And brightest scenes—
Like the midnight serenade,
Waking the beauteous maid
From earth-born dreams.
Fancy comes with her sweetest airs,
And brightest scenes—
Like the midnight serenade,
Waking the beauteous maid
From earth-born dreams.
'Tis as if the spirits of thought
Their fair and fragrant wreaths had brought,
From realms above;
But on earth too pure to stay,
Threw but one bright rose away,
To prove their love.
Their fair and fragrant wreaths had brought,
From realms above;
But on earth too pure to stay,
Threw but one bright rose away,
To prove their love.
263
A NEW YEAR'S OFFERING
TO A FRIEND.
A happy New Year, thou lovely one!
As bright as roses bathed in sun—
Around thy path may the dancing hours
Scatter wreaths of radiant flowers!
As bright as roses bathed in sun—
Around thy path may the dancing hours
Scatter wreaths of radiant flowers!
On thy pure cheek health's mantling glow
Flits like a sun-blush o'er the snow;
And the soft shade of thy raven hair
Rests on a brow so passing fair,
I dare not think, majestic maid,
Thy soul-lit beauty e'er can fade.
And may it not—I would that thou,
With gentle lip and lofty brow,
And the changing light of thy lucid eye,
Should'st live on earth immortally!
Sure life and love must stay with thee,
Chain'd by thy potent witchery.
Yet would I not the flatt'ring throng
Should lure thee with a syren song—
'Twere better far for one pure heart
To love for what thou really art:
Not a painted toy to please awhile,
To feign a blush, and act a smile—
But one whose noble, generous soul,
Spurn's affectation's mean control;
Who life's most sparkling cup has quaff'd,
Uninjured by the dang'rous draught.
'Tis this that binds me with a spell,
Whose power I find no words to tell.
Flits like a sun-blush o'er the snow;
And the soft shade of thy raven hair
Rests on a brow so passing fair,
I dare not think, majestic maid,
Thy soul-lit beauty e'er can fade.
And may it not—I would that thou,
With gentle lip and lofty brow,
And the changing light of thy lucid eye,
Should'st live on earth immortally!
Sure life and love must stay with thee,
Chain'd by thy potent witchery.
Yet would I not the flatt'ring throng
Should lure thee with a syren song—
'Twere better far for one pure heart
To love for what thou really art:
Not a painted toy to please awhile,
To feign a blush, and act a smile—
264
Spurn's affectation's mean control;
Who life's most sparkling cup has quaff'd,
Uninjured by the dang'rous draught.
'Tis this that binds me with a spell,
Whose power I find no words to tell.
A happy New Year, thou lovely one!
As bright as roses bathed in sun—
Around thy path may the dancing hours
Scatter wreaths of radiant flowers!
As bright as roses bathed in sun—
Around thy path may the dancing hours
Scatter wreaths of radiant flowers!
281
TO A HUSBAND.
Who presented, as a New-Year's Offering, a Heart and a Laurel wreath, the leaves of which were not very abundant.
I care not for the wreath of laurel
It never soothed my brow—
Its scanty leaves convey a moral,
I've learned full well ere now.
It never soothed my brow—
Its scanty leaves convey a moral,
I've learned full well ere now.
And could fame's fairest amplest dower
Descend to one like me,
I'd not exchange a transient hour
Of sunny smiles from thee!
Descend to one like me,
I'd not exchange a transient hour
Of sunny smiles from thee!
Then take the wreath—I love the heart—
For 'tis a type of thine—
From such a gift I cannot part,
While there is life in mine.
For 'tis a type of thine—
From such a gift I cannot part,
While there is life in mine.
But keep the wreath—I prize it not,
While I am loved by thee;
And should my image be forgot,
Oh! what were crowns to me?
While I am loved by thee;
And should my image be forgot,
Oh! what were crowns to me?
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