University of Virginia Library

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269

THE WREATH.

WHAT CAN BE THY GRIEF, MY CHILD?

I

Come, my child! a crowd rejoices,
To the casement quickly come.
Hark! that shout of many voices,
'Tis the victor's welcome home!
Age forsakes the blazing hearth,
Youth exulting hurries forth,
Eager to be first to say:
“See, the warriors on their way!”
Hail thy brother; turn and see
Yon bright multitude with me.
Silent still, with eyes so wild!
What can be thy grief, my child?

II

Oh, look forth! the hill ascending,
Now they quit the leafy glen;
And the trumpet's note is blending
With the tramp of armed men!
I can see thy brother lead
Some lamented comrade's steed.
Start not, child! I say again
That thy brother is not slain!
Think how deep had been our gloom,
Had he shared that comrade's doom—
Silent still! with eyes so wild—
Oh! I guess thy grief, my child!
270

ROSE OF AILEEN.

I

It is not long since last we met, and you are still the same,
Yet, oh! I saw you knew me not, until I told my name;
You mourn the change, and well you know how deep my grief has been,
For you were with me when I won the love of Rose Aileen.

II

I grieve to think my looks betray the anguish of my heart,
In death I'd proudly still deny that I had felt the dart:
Assuming smiles, amid the gay I fain would still be seen,
I would not have the world believe I sigh for Rose Aileen.

III

Yet do not heed my selfish boast, a motive far more pure
Would make me struggle to conceal the anguish I endure;
I'd rather mourn in solitude, unpitied and unseen,
Than that my gloom should seem to chide the smiles of Rose Aileen.

THE TIDE IS EBBING FAST, MY CHILD.

I

“The tide is ebbing fast, my child,
Come hither to the shore,
And where the waves recede, we'll keep
Our weary watch once more.
They say thy father's boat was wreck'd—
Nay, child, look not so pale,
As yet no fragments on the sand
Confirm the dreadful tale.
271

II

“I dare not move those dark sea weeds,
To see what lies beneath;
At ev'ry step I dread to meet
Some harbinger of death.
But cheer thee, child—the storm abates!
We have no cause to mourn,
For with the morning's flowing tide,
Thy father will return.”

III

The night is gone,—and calmly comes
The ripple of the tide.
The fisher's wife is there—her child
Stands weeping at her side.
“Behold!” the mother cries, “a form
Is floating on the wave!
'Tis he! droop not, for 'tis our task
To bear him to his grave.”

THE SELF-DEVOTED NUN.

I

When I hear the vesper bell,
And the sisters bend the knee,
Breathing prayers for all the world,
In my heart I pray for thee.
Yes—for thee alone I pray;
But the novice they would blame,
Did they know that in her cell
She had dared to breathe thy name.

II

I have spurned thy proffer'd love,
And thy presence still I shun;
I am blameless—what art thou
To the self-devoted nun!
272

Oh! it is thy boast to dwell
With the gay—the false—the free—
And 'tis therefore on my knee
That I still must pray for thee.

III

We shall meet no more on earth,
Thou wilt think of me no more;
But I'll pray that we may meet
When this transient life is o'er.
When this world has lost its charm,
May it sooth thy soul's despair,
To remember that thy name
Has been hallow'd by my prayer.

TELL ME NOT OF HOARDED GOLD.

I

Tell me not of hoarded gold
From rich Peru;
Rather let me first be told
That thou art true;
Tell me not of honours won,
For I shall fear,
One so honour'd soon will shun
My humbler sphere.

II

Tell me not of happy Isles
Where thou hast been;
Tell me not of lovely smiles
That thou hast seen:
For I fear again thoul't seek
A foreign shore;
And the smile on Ellen's cheek
Will charm no more.
273

WITHER AWAY.

I

Wither away, green leaves,
Wither away, sweet flowers!
For me in vain young Spring has thrown
Her mantle o'er the bowers.
Sing not to me, gay birds,
Borne in bright plumage hither;
The heart recoils from pleasure's voice
When all its fond hopes wither!
Wither away! Wither away!

II

Wither away, my friends,
Whom I have loved sincerely:
'Tis hard to sigh for the silent tomb,
As a place of rest, so early!
While others prize the rose,
The cypress wreath I'll gather;
The heart recoils from pleasure's voice,
When all its fond hopes wither!
Wither away! Wither away!

OH! REST MY DUENNA.

I

“Oh, rest, my Duenna, thou'rt weary I see;
Oh, rest, for 'tis my turn to watch over thee!
We've wander'd too long in the heat of the sun,
But now it is night, and thy labour is done;
Thy cushions I'll place, and thy casement I'll close,
And the voice of Sybella shall soothe thy repose.
Oh rest, my Duenna, 'tis time to sleep,
If you fear danger, strict watch I will keep!”
274

II

The cushions were soft, and the casement was closed,
The lady Duenna soon nodded and dozed;
Sybella, still singing her lullaby strain,
Ran from her, and open'd the casement again.
The slumberer moved when she felt the night air,
In terror Sybella flew back to her chair:
“Oh, rest, my Duenna, 'tis time to sleep,
“If you fear danger, strict watch I will keep!”

III

She saw that she slept, and she stole from her side—
She heard a low signal, and softly replied;
Her lover appeared, and with treacherous care,
The sleeping Duenna they tied to her chair.
She woke in dismay, but she struggled in vain;
They laughingly varied the lullaby strain:
“Oh, wake my Duenna, 'tis wrong to sleep,
“For if you fear danger, strict watch you should keep!”

THE SONG OF GULNARE.

I

Far from my own land, the land of my fathers,
The ship of the stranger now bears me away;
Darkly around me the ocean mist gathers,
I hear not a sound, save the dash of the spray.
Now, near me, night-watch the forecastle paces,
Striving to banish the exile's despair,
He praises the Isles that we seek, but all places
Are cheerless without the sweet song of Gulnare.
275

II

Oh! my own country, thy fruits and thy flowers
Would fade 'neath the islander's temperate sky,
Let me return to the orange-tree bowers,
And there with my own love contented I'll die.
They say that they lead me where woman possesses
A soft eye of azure, and light golden hair;
But give me the land of the long ebon tresses,
The glance of dark lustre, the song of Gulnare.

OH! REMEMBER THOSE SWEET HOURS.

I

Oh! remember those sweet hours
Pass'd amid Italia's bowers,
Or on Como's tranquil waters,
Singing with her dark-eyed daughters.
Oh! forget not the melodies stealing
From the shore full of sweetness and feeling!
Those indeed were happy times,
When we rov'd in southern climes.

II

Oh! remember the rich lustre
Of the ripe grape's purple cluster,
And the dance and song of pleasure,
When they cull'd the vintage treasure.
Oh! forget not the melodies stealing
From the shore full of sweetness and feeling!
Those indeed were happy times
When we rov'd in southern climes!
276

MY OWN CHILD, MY DEAR CHILD.

I

My own child, my dear child, oh, smile on me again!
And let me have one cheerful word; alas! I ask in vain:
As well might I expect new bloom from blossoms I have crush'd;
Or listen for the nightingale, whose melody I've hush'd:
My own child, my dear child, forgive me ere we part,
That look of anguish seems to say, “My mother broke my heart!”

II

My own child, my dear child, your early love was poor,
And poverty hath many griefs, that you could ill endure;
Too oft you met in former days, I feel my error now,
But never think you were to blame, to break so rash a vow.
My own child, my dear child, forgive me ere we part,
That look of anguish seems to say, “My mother broke my heart!”

III

My own child, my dear child, a noble bride you'll be,
The lover of your early days is gone far o'er the sea:
He doubtless long hath ceas'd to prize the love of youthful years;
Nay, do not weep, I meant my words to check these fruitless tears.
My own child, my dear child, forgive me, ere we part,
That look of anguish seems to say, “My mother broke my heart!”
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