University of Virginia Library

Pr'ythee dear Helen, let me see thee smile!
Thy brow of late hath ever been o'ercast,
As if the presence of some inward grief
Were shadow'd there.—Now would I give the world,
Were the world mine, with all its bravery,
To win the sunshine back to that dear face!
Come, let us forth, this gentle summer's eve—
Thou canst not gaze on the fair face of heaven,
All glowing with the sun's last golden smile;
Thou canst not breathe the mild, and balmy air,
Whereon the flowers have shed their odorous sighs;
Thou canst not tread the green, and dewy turf,
Nor listen to the bird's last vesper song,
And not feel cheer'd by their glad influences.
Come, gentle cousin, Nature woos thee forth,
And will not be refused;—see, how she points
With rosy finger, to yon bowery wood,
Our favourite play-place in the days of yore;—
Have you forgotten all its flowery nooks,
Those still, sweet places, where we used to sit
At eventide, poring with earnest eyes
Over some wondrous page of gramarye;—
And when the shadows deepen'd, and the book,
Perforce, was closed, how we scarce dared to look
Around us, as we stole with stealthy step,
And timid silence, to our home again.—
Have you forgotten this? Oh, no! that smile
Is bright with sunny memories of the past,
Those gentle memories, garner'd in the heart,
Like gems in the deep places of the earth,—
But see! Time chides our stay—your hand sweet friend,—
Nay, nay, forget the present, let us be
Children once more! . . . . . . . . .

Now let us sit upon this flowery bank,
And rest awhile; the violet's faint perfume
Floats on the air, and yonder gentle stream,
Murmurs its welcome as it rolls along.—
How lovingly it laves its mossy banks,
And kisses the sweet flowers, that rise and fall,
Stirr'd by its tremulous motion, like the gems
That lie upon young beauty's heaving breast!—
Now will I cull those lilies for a wreath,
To deck thy brow, dear Helen, they will form
A coronet more rich than Indian queen's—
Besides, they are an emblem of true love—
Nay, do not blush, and turn your head aside,
'Tis no vain fable!—Is not true love pure,
And beautiful, and constant? Not less pure,
Less fair, is that white flower, that like a star,
Shines in thy clustering tresses;—constant too,
For on the bosom of the self-same stream
It resteth ever, whether sunshine smile
On the clear waters, or dark winter frown,
And when by pityless hands 'tis torn away
From its abiding place, doth it not lose
Its snowy hues, and its sweet scents, and die?
My peerless Helen! would I were that stream,
So thou wert the white lily on my breast!
Aye, now you frown, and rob me of the hand,
The little hand that once was all my own—
Do you remember how 'twas clasp'd in mine
When first we parted, and the tears we shed?—
There was no cold, dark veil between us then,
When we were wont to say we loved each other
Better than any in the whole wide world!—
Helen, there is no change in this true heart—
I have not turn'd from my first love aside;
They were false friends, dear girl, who told thee so;
Thou hast been ever with me, like a star,
Lighting my path, when all around was dark.
Shall I repeat those words of “auld lang syne,”
And tell thee, dear one, that I love thee still,
Better than any in the whole, wide world!
Speak to me!—tell me that my heart's best wealth,
Its warm affections, its confiding hopes,
Have not been given in vain—oh, speak to me!

Now blessings on that smile!
Those whisper'd words, those warm tears falling fast,
This hand restored;—Flow on, thou merry stream,
I envy thee no longer, on my breast
I bear the blushing lily I have sigh'd
So long to win—my life's best, holiest hope,
Is realized!