 | Letters of Laura D'Auverne |  |
53
POEMS AND SONGS.
64
THE MOTHER'S HAND.
A wand'ring orphan child was I,—
But meanly, at the best, attired;
For oh! my mother scarce could buy
The common food each week required;
But when the anxious day had fled,
It seem'd to be her dearest joy,
To press her pale hand on my head,
And pray that God would guide her boy.
But meanly, at the best, attired;
For oh! my mother scarce could buy
The common food each week required;
But when the anxious day had fled,
It seem'd to be her dearest joy,
To press her pale hand on my head,
And pray that God would guide her boy.
But more, each winter, more and more
Stern suffering brought her to decay;
And then an Angel pass'd her door,
And bore her ling'ring soul away!
And I—they know not what is grief
Who ne'er knelt by a dying bed;
All other woe on earth is brief,
Save that which weeps a mother dead.
Stern suffering brought her to decay;
And then an Angel pass'd her door,
And bore her ling'ring soul away!
And I—they know not what is grief
Who ne'er knelt by a dying bed;
All other woe on earth is brief,
Save that which weeps a mother dead.
65
A seaman's life was soon my lot,
'Mid reckless deeds, and desperate men;
But still I never quite forgot
The prayer I ne'er should hear again;
And oft, when half induced to tread
Such paths as unto sin decoy,
I've felt her fond hand press my head,—
And that soft touch hath saved her boy!
'Mid reckless deeds, and desperate men;
But still I never quite forgot
The prayer I ne'er should hear again;
And oft, when half induced to tread
Such paths as unto sin decoy,
I've felt her fond hand press my head,—
And that soft touch hath saved her boy!
Though hard their mockery to receive,
Who ne'er themselves 'gainst sin had striven,
Her who, on earth, I dared not grieve,
I could not—would not—grieve in heaven:
And thus from many an action dread,
Too dark for human eyes to scan,
The same fond hand upon my head
That bless'd the boy—hath saved the man!
Who ne'er themselves 'gainst sin had striven,
Her who, on earth, I dared not grieve,
I could not—would not—grieve in heaven:
And thus from many an action dread,
Too dark for human eyes to scan,
The same fond hand upon my head
That bless'd the boy—hath saved the man!
71
THE SISTERS.
Sisters!—is there name—relation—
Nearer, dearer, upon earth?
Is there, through this broad creation
Tie more sweet in human birth?
Yet how oft that link is broken
As life's selfish path we roam;—
Years have pass'd since we have spoken—
We—who'd once one heart, one home!
Nearer, dearer, upon earth?
Is there, through this broad creation
Tie more sweet in human birth?
Yet how oft that link is broken
As life's selfish path we roam;—
Years have pass'd since we have spoken—
We—who'd once one heart, one home!
She had chosen, in the feeling
Of a moment, one whose name
Linked itself with crafty dealing,—
Things, 'twas said, allied to shame;
And I urged her, in my sorrow
Mingling tears with all I said,
To avoid that dread to-morrow
Which must come if him she wed.
Of a moment, one whose name
Linked itself with crafty dealing,—
Things, 'twas said, allied to shame;
And I urged her, in my sorrow
Mingling tears with all I said,
To avoid that dread to-morrow
Which must come if him she wed.
76
If I wronged him 'twas in terror
Lest her life should be o'ercast;
If I wronged him—'twas an error
She might pardon now—at last!
Three long years—nor yet once near me—
She who with me nightly slept:—
Oh! ye blessed angels hear me,—
Hear me, ye who've loved, and wept!
Lest her life should be o'ercast;
If I wronged him—'twas an error
She might pardon now—at last!
Three long years—nor yet once near me—
She who with me nightly slept:—
Oh! ye blessed angels hear me,—
Hear me, ye who've loved, and wept!
Angels that on earth, when living,
Had dear sisters by your side;
Teach mine own how sweet's forgiving!
And how hard a thing is pride!
As she wept—'mid feelings holy—
Wond'ring if they e'er should meet;
Some one enter'd—slowly—slowly—
And sank humbly at her feet,
Had dear sisters by your side;
Teach mine own how sweet's forgiving!
And how hard a thing is pride!
As she wept—'mid feelings holy—
Wond'ring if they e'er should meet;
Some one enter'd—slowly—slowly—
And sank humbly at her feet,
Saying, “For her sake who bore us,
Fed us at the same fond breast,
Let God's spirit now come o'er us,
And this angry spirit rest:—
Pardon—pardon,—sister—sister!”—
Upward sprang she with a start,
Fell upon her neck and kissed her—
Lip to lip, and heart to heart!
Fed us at the same fond breast,
Let God's spirit now come o'er us,
And this angry spirit rest:—
77
Upward sprang she with a start,
Fell upon her neck and kissed her—
Lip to lip, and heart to heart!
Thus forgiven and forgiving,
In each other's arms they wept;—
Oh! in holier regions living,
One had watch around them kept!—
And they talk'd of times departed,—
Of their mother,—what she'd said,
When together, broken hearted,
They had knelt beside her bed!
In each other's arms they wept;—
Oh! in holier regions living,
One had watch around them kept!—
And they talk'd of times departed,—
Of their mother,—what she'd said,
When together, broken hearted,
They had knelt beside her bed!
Ah! could she have thought this ever,
Thought that we for three long years,—
We,—that loved so much,—could sever,
She had died in tears,—in tears!—
Not in smiles like those she gave us,
Like a seraph called to bliss;—
Let us pray that God may save us
From all future sin like this!
Thought that we for three long years,—
We,—that loved so much,—could sever,
She had died in tears,—in tears!—
Not in smiles like those she gave us,
Like a seraph called to bliss;—
Let us pray that God may save us
From all future sin like this!
78
And the sister mused in wonder
How a word, a little word,
Had the power two hearts to sunder,
Leaving truth for years unheard!—
Long she ponder'd,—but she knew no
Higher aid had lent its store:
That an Angel she could view not,
Led her to her sister's door!
How a word, a little word,
Had the power two hearts to sunder,
Leaving truth for years unheard!—
Long she ponder'd,—but she knew no
Higher aid had lent its store:
That an Angel she could view not,
Led her to her sister's door!
79
THE SON'S VOW.
Cold and dark the wind blew, and the rain fell in gloom,
As Time struck each hour in the dying man's room;—
And the father's last grasp stiffen'd close, as he sigh'd,
“Remember thy promise,—make Mary thy bride!”
So, to comfort the dying, he vow'd this should be,
Though that vow came in tears—and those tears were for me.
As Time struck each hour in the dying man's room;—
And the father's last grasp stiffen'd close, as he sigh'd,
“Remember thy promise,—make Mary thy bride!”
So, to comfort the dying, he vow'd this should be,
Though that vow came in tears—and those tears were for me.
Pale and thin grew his cheek, though he breath'd not a word;
He thought of the dead, and no murmur was heard:
The hand that grasp'd his until life was no more,
Seem'd leading him still unto Mary's own door.
Long he strove 'gainst his vow,—long he fled its decree,
For his love was another's,—his heart was with me.
He thought of the dead, and no murmur was heard:
The hand that grasp'd his until life was no more,
Seem'd leading him still unto Mary's own door.
Long he strove 'gainst his vow,—long he fled its decree,
For his love was another's,—his heart was with me.
80
But life had no comfort,—no pity had Time,—
The bridal morn came,—and despair rang its chime;
He wed;—but no longer his spirit was strong,—
His work was neglected,—his conduct grew wrong;
And I all this struggle, this sorrow, must see,—
Must know his heart breaking,—and breaking for me!
The bridal morn came,—and despair rang its chime;
He wed;—but no longer his spirit was strong,—
His work was neglected,—his conduct grew wrong;
And I all this struggle, this sorrow, must see,—
Must know his heart breaking,—and breaking for me!
Then sought I the lost one;—'twas months since we'd met,
But the spot we once wander'd, I knew he loved yet;
And I spoke for the wife he had render'd forlorn,—
For the home he'd deserted,—the babe newly born;
And he look'd in my face,—but no tears could he see;
For I call'd on my God, and His help was with me!
But the spot we once wander'd, I knew he loved yet;
And I spoke for the wife he had render'd forlorn,—
For the home he'd deserted,—the babe newly born;
And he look'd in my face,—but no tears could he see;
For I call'd on my God, and His help was with me!
Still he gazed in my face,—still my weak hand he prest,
Then murmur'd,—“So be it,—perchance 'tis the best!
'Tis easy to work when we love those we serve,—
But there's strength in despair,—and that strength I must nerve;
The bark of my fortune is wreck'd on life's sea,—
But, dark and despairing, that heart's still with thee!”
Then murmur'd,—“So be it,—perchance 'tis the best!
'Tis easy to work when we love those we serve,—
But there's strength in despair,—and that strength I must nerve;
The bark of my fortune is wreck'd on life's sea,—
But, dark and despairing, that heart's still with thee!”
81
White as death were his lips, and his limbs trembled sore,
As slowly he left me,—and sought me no more!
But the flowers of his garden grew brighter each day,
And his child laughed again in its innocent way;
Oft I took it, and held it, unseen, on my knee,—
Oft pray'd, in my tears,—may his heart be with thee!
As slowly he left me,—and sought me no more!
But the flowers of his garden grew brighter each day,
And his child laughed again in its innocent way;
Oft I took it, and held it, unseen, on my knee,—
Oft pray'd, in my tears,—may his heart be with thee!
Then turn'd to my home,—where no smile met my view,—
For relations I'd none, and my friends they were few;
But a spirit at peace leaves a smile in the breast!—
A duty perform'd brings a light God hath blest!—
And I dreamt that the angels each night came to me,
And whisper'd,—“Take comfort,—our love is with thee!”
For relations I'd none, and my friends they were few;
But a spirit at peace leaves a smile in the breast!—
A duty perform'd brings a light God hath blest!—
And I dreamt that the angels each night came to me,
And whisper'd,—“Take comfort,—our love is with thee!”
83
I WISH MY LOVE WERE SOME FAIR STREAM.
I wish my love were some fair stream,
Soft singing through her woodland way;
And I some star, whose loving beam
Might in her bosom rest its ray.
Soft singing through her woodland way;
And I some star, whose loving beam
Might in her bosom rest its ray.
I wish my love were like the dew,
Half hidden 'neath the rose's lip;
And I the young dawn, trembling through
The fragrance, none but I might sip!
Half hidden 'neath the rose's lip;
And I the young dawn, trembling through
The fragrance, none but I might sip!
I wish—like flowers that fondly meet,
And cheer and charm the humblest spot—
Our lives might blend while life was sweet,
And even death divide us not!
And cheer and charm the humblest spot—
Our lives might blend while life was sweet,
And even death divide us not!
84
WHEN THE PURSE IS FULL.
Oh! happy are the hours when the purse is full;
Time passes over flowers when the purse is full;
Where'er our fancy wends,
We are sure to meet with friends,
And there's nothing that offends—when the purse is full!
Time passes over flowers when the purse is full;
Where'er our fancy wends,
We are sure to meet with friends,
And there's nothing that offends—when the purse is full!
But weary are the hours when the purse is low,
And few and far the flowers when the purse is low;
Where'er our footsteps range
Comes the chilling breath of change,
And the best of friends look strange when the purse is low!
And few and far the flowers when the purse is low;
Where'er our footsteps range
Comes the chilling breath of change,
And the best of friends look strange when the purse is low!
Morn cometh with a dance when the purse is full;
There is music in her glance when the purse is full;
Life then is something worth,—
There is pleasure upon earth,—
There is beauty, song, and mirth—when the purse is full!
There is music in her glance when the purse is full;
Life then is something worth,—
There is pleasure upon earth,—
There is beauty, song, and mirth—when the purse is full!
85
Yet man, we're often told, though his purse be low,
Is himself the truer gold, though his purse be low;
But the saying is not true,
For the blindest yet may view,
Man's friends are of the few—when his purse is low!
Is himself the truer gold, though his purse be low;
But the saying is not true,
For the blindest yet may view,
Man's friends are of the few—when his purse is low!
86
OH! MARY, THOUGH IN RUSSET CLAD.
Oh! Mary, though in russet clad,
I lov'd thee not for this world's gear;
An honest heart was all I had,
And that I gave thee, Mary dear.
I thought not for this fop,—this beau,—
So true a love thou e'er would'st slight;
But woman's heart is all for show,
And glitter is her soul's delight!
Oh! Mary dear,—my Mary dear,—
The world's grown dreary to my sight.
I lov'd thee not for this world's gear;
An honest heart was all I had,
And that I gave thee, Mary dear.
I thought not for this fop,—this beau,—
So true a love thou e'er would'st slight;
But woman's heart is all for show,
And glitter is her soul's delight!
Oh! Mary dear,—my Mary dear,—
The world's grown dreary to my sight.
He seeks thee but because he sees
To woo thee sends me from thy side;
Thou would'st have fewer charms to please,
Did my despair not feed his pride!
And could'st thou find no other walk
Than that where first our vows were said?
But woman's won by boast and talk,—
Her favour is a brittle thread!
Oh! Mary dear,—my Mary dear,—
Would thou wert true,—or I were dead!
To woo thee sends me from thy side;
Thou would'st have fewer charms to please,
Did my despair not feed his pride!
And could'st thou find no other walk
Than that where first our vows were said?
But woman's won by boast and talk,—
Her favour is a brittle thread!
Oh! Mary dear,—my Mary dear,—
Would thou wert true,—or I were dead!
95
SIXTEEN AND SIXTY.
SIXTEEN.
Her form,—oh! you might muse till night,
And never image aught so bright,
So sweet,—so delicately slight,—
As that half-girlish form,
Which seemed just born for summer hours,
For love and kindness, smiles and flowers,—
Unfit for cloud or storm!
And never image aught so bright,
So sweet,—so delicately slight,—
As that half-girlish form,
Which seemed just born for summer hours,
For love and kindness, smiles and flowers,—
Unfit for cloud or storm!
Her forehead fair, as moonlight fair,
Half glancing 'neath her graceful hair,
Look'd like a shrine some angel there
For holy thought had won;
Her cheeks, where sixteen summers played,
Seem'd lilies that had lived in shade,
And never seen the sun:
Half glancing 'neath her graceful hair,
Look'd like a shrine some angel there
For holy thought had won;
Her cheeks, where sixteen summers played,
Seem'd lilies that had lived in shade,
And never seen the sun:
96
And yet not pale,—a lingering ray
Of day-break in the month of May,
Or rose leaf that had lost its way,
Flushed through that snowy skin;
And, as each hue would nectar sip,
Ran dimpling to the cherry lip,
That clos'd the heaven within!
Of day-break in the month of May,
Or rose leaf that had lost its way,
Flushed through that snowy skin;
And, as each hue would nectar sip,
Ran dimpling to the cherry lip,
That clos'd the heaven within!
SIXTY.
Her form,—'twas like a wintry day,
But cheerful still, as if a ray
Of heaven lit those temples grey,
Where change would still encroach;
Yet even Age had touched her face
With something of a tender grace,
And soften'd Time's approach!
But cheerful still, as if a ray
Of heaven lit those temples grey,
Where change would still encroach;
Yet even Age had touched her face
With something of a tender grace,
And soften'd Time's approach!
Her brow,—the spirit was not there
That first illum'd her forehead fair,
But something yet, one could not spare,
Like beauty did remain,
And could a kindred charm impart,
As dear, as sacred to the heart,
As in her beauty's reign!
That first illum'd her forehead fair,
But something yet, one could not spare,
Like beauty did remain,
And could a kindred charm impart,
As dear, as sacred to the heart,
As in her beauty's reign!
97
For oh! let but the heart be kind,
Let beauty linger in the mind,
And even Age appears refined,—
Age even can delight!
Till Life, like Hope's departing star,
Dies on the breast of heaven afar,
And takes an angel's flight!
Let beauty linger in the mind,
And even Age appears refined,—
Age even can delight!
Till Life, like Hope's departing star,
Dies on the breast of heaven afar,
And takes an angel's flight!
98
CATHERINE SEYTON.
Is it a gift so rare on earth,—
So seldom proved to worldly eyes,
That we invest with matchless worth,—
With something more than mortal birth,
The heart that for another's weal
Can smiling make, and yet conceal
Its own self-sacrifice?
Like Curtius, when a nation's breath,
Hung trembling o'er his doom;
Or he who, on the pass of death,
Swept tyrants to the tomb,
And, foremost 'mid the combat, cried,—
“Make way for Liberty!”—and died.
And thus with thee, heroic girl:
Though all that's feminine and fair
Dwells in thy sweet and noble air,—
Though love smiles out from every curl,—
Yet thou, with more than woman's soul,
Stept boldly forth in danger's hour,
And, self-devoted, faced the power
That would thy hapless Queen control.
So seldom proved to worldly eyes,
That we invest with matchless worth,—
With something more than mortal birth,
The heart that for another's weal
Can smiling make, and yet conceal
Its own self-sacrifice?
Like Curtius, when a nation's breath,
Hung trembling o'er his doom;
Or he who, on the pass of death,
Swept tyrants to the tomb,
And, foremost 'mid the combat, cried,—
“Make way for Liberty!”—and died.
99
Though all that's feminine and fair
Dwells in thy sweet and noble air,—
Though love smiles out from every curl,—
Yet thou, with more than woman's soul,
Stept boldly forth in danger's hour,
And, self-devoted, faced the power
That would thy hapless Queen control.
When clash'd the swords of death around,—
With but one boltless door between
The murderous ruffians and thy Queen,—
Thou,—graced with every female charm,—
Yet prized thy living beauty less
Than honour's higher loveliness;—
Thou through the staple fixed thine arm,
And, like the Douglas heart of old,
Bade them come on,—if on they could,—
Through thy resolved, heroic blood!
With but one boltless door between
The murderous ruffians and thy Queen,—
Thou,—graced with every female charm,—
Yet prized thy living beauty less
Than honour's higher loveliness;—
Thou through the staple fixed thine arm,
And, like the Douglas heart of old,
Bade them come on,—if on they could,—
Through thy resolved, heroic blood!
And for this noble sacrifice,—
For this devoted, bold emprise,
The Poet's harp should wreathe thy name,
And link it to undying fame.
Hadst thou been loveless, dark, and dull,
As thou wert lov'd and beautiful;
For, oh! the hero's proudest crown,
The bravest scutcheon sword e'er gained,
The trophy dearest to renown,
Is by self-sacrifice attained.
And he who, for the general cause,
Seeks first to reach that path sublime,
Oh! give his name a world's applause,—
Engrave it on the heart of Time!
For this devoted, bold emprise,
The Poet's harp should wreathe thy name,
And link it to undying fame.
100
As thou wert lov'd and beautiful;
For, oh! the hero's proudest crown,
The bravest scutcheon sword e'er gained,
The trophy dearest to renown,
Is by self-sacrifice attained.
And he who, for the general cause,
Seeks first to reach that path sublime,
Oh! give his name a world's applause,—
Engrave it on the heart of Time!
105
DON'T SAY ONE THING AND MEAN ANOTHER.
The little lane,—the greenwood lane,—
Where Mary dwelt, was gay with singing;
For brook and bird, in many a strain,
Down vale and moor their notes were flinging.
But Mary's heart was deaf to song,
No longer she her tears could smother;
For she had learnt,—at last,—'twas wrong
To say one thing and mean another!
Where Mary dwelt, was gay with singing;
For brook and bird, in many a strain,
Down vale and moor their notes were flinging.
But Mary's heart was deaf to song,
No longer she her tears could smother;
For she had learnt,—at last,—'twas wrong
To say one thing and mean another!
'Tis right,—'tis due, when hearts are true,
To show that heart without deceiving,
And not to speak, in idle freak,
To try if one's the power of grieving!
In Mary's heart, and Mary's mind,
She loved one youth,—and loved no other;
But Mary's tongue was oft inclin'd
To say one thing and mean another!
To show that heart without deceiving,
And not to speak, in idle freak,
To try if one's the power of grieving!
In Mary's heart, and Mary's mind,
She loved one youth,—and loved no other;
But Mary's tongue was oft inclin'd
To say one thing and mean another!
106
Would all might see how sweet 'twould be,
If truth alone their words directed;
How many a day might then be gay,
That passeth now in tears, dejected.
Would all might learn, and all discern,
That truth keeps longest, friend or brother:
Then maids be kind, and speak your mind,
Nor say one thing and mean another!
If truth alone their words directed;
How many a day might then be gay,
That passeth now in tears, dejected.
Would all might learn, and all discern,
That truth keeps longest, friend or brother:
Then maids be kind, and speak your mind,
Nor say one thing and mean another!
109
WHAT IS IT?
It was seen in the dawn that encircled the earth,When the light of creation first leapt into birth;
It sprang 'mid the ocean, and laugh'd at its roar,
As it dash'd the first wave of the deep on the shore;
It thrill'd through the spheres, which the archangels trod,
In the hymns of devotion ascending to God;
In the roar of the whirlwind it circled the sky,
And the forest king shook as he heard it rush by;
In wickedness rife, wheresoever ye tread,
Yet 'tis never found out, for 'tis last in the head;
'Tis fond,—and 'tis faithful in fondness,—and yet
'Tis inclin'd to deceit,—and for ever in debt;
Its kindness to lovers can scarce be requited,
For, without it, no couple could e'er be united!
You may hide it,—divide it,—scarce leave it a name,
Still it stands from a hundred concealments the same;
110
And where there's a garden, 'tis sure to be in it;
'Tis the pilot of day,—first and last to defend,—
And your bed lies unmade until it is your friend!
Though seen in the distance, 'tis never seen near,
Though on land, yet it rarely on earth doth appear;
Its changes are really surprising to some,
For though powerful in diction, 'tis deaf, and 'tis dumb;
'Tis the herald of danger,—in darkness 'tis hurl'd,—
The beginning of death, and the end of the world!
111
A WIFE'S LAST CARE.
Another day will pass away,
Another sun in beauty rise;
But ere its light shall greet thy sight,
Death will have closed thy mother's eyes;
And thou wilt weep to know that sleep
Is set, and seal'd for evermore;
Yet think, 'mid all the tears that fall,
Life's pangs,—as well as joys,—are o'er.
Another sun in beauty rise;
But ere its light shall greet thy sight,
Death will have closed thy mother's eyes;
And thou wilt weep to know that sleep
Is set, and seal'd for evermore;
Yet think, 'mid all the tears that fall,
Life's pangs,—as well as joys,—are o'er.
And when the last sad dues are past,
And said, and sung, the service brief,
Oh! look to him whose eyes are dim,
And comfort him 'mid all his grief.
With tender care his home prepare,—
No daily act neglected leave;
And put away each thing, I pray,
Which, seeing, might but make him grieve.
And said, and sung, the service brief,
Oh! look to him whose eyes are dim,
And comfort him 'mid all his grief.
With tender care his home prepare,—
No daily act neglected leave;
And put away each thing, I pray,
Which, seeing, might but make him grieve.
112
And ever seek, ere he can speak,
To set all things in comfort round:
However poor, content is sure,
Where neatness,—kindness,—love,—are found!
He likes to see the fire burn free,—
A clear, warm, welcome, kindly ray;
Oh! think of this, and let him miss
Thy mother little as he may!
To set all things in comfort round:
However poor, content is sure,
Where neatness,—kindness,—love,—are found!
He likes to see the fire burn free,—
A clear, warm, welcome, kindly ray;
Oh! think of this, and let him miss
Thy mother little as he may!
And mind the hour,—for time's a dower
Prized often only when 'tis gone;
Ne'er be too late, nor let him wait,—
Sharp labour brings sharp hunger on!
And oh! my child, be ever mild,
However hasty he may be;
And God shall know how much I owe,
In these my last—last—hours to thee!
Prized often only when 'tis gone;
Ne'er be too late, nor let him wait,—
Sharp labour brings sharp hunger on!
And oh! my child, be ever mild,
However hasty he may be;
And God shall know how much I owe,
In these my last—last—hours to thee!
113
LIFE'S SHADOWS.
Who ne'er hath seen the day new born,
Nor wish'd for night, and yet at eve
Sigh'd not again, and wish'd 'twas morn,
Knows not how life through love may grieve!
Who ne'er hath mourn'd o'er friendship lost,—
Ne'er failed to gain the thing he sought,
Knows not at what a bitter cost
Resignment to hard fate is bought!
Nor wish'd for night, and yet at eve
Sigh'd not again, and wish'd 'twas morn,
Knows not how life through love may grieve!
Who ne'er hath mourn'd o'er friendship lost,—
Ne'er failed to gain the thing he sought,
Knows not at what a bitter cost
Resignment to hard fate is bought!
Who ne'er hath set a day apart
To welcome pleasure to his breast,
Nor found, with disappointed heart,
That day more cloudy than the rest,
Knows not how sadly life beguiles,—
How oft'ner far it cheats than cheers,—
That not a hope, pursued with smiles,
But sometime brings the Hoper tears!
To welcome pleasure to his breast,
Nor found, with disappointed heart,
That day more cloudy than the rest,
Knows not how sadly life beguiles,—
How oft'ner far it cheats than cheers,—
That not a hope, pursued with smiles,
But sometime brings the Hoper tears!
118
A SWING OF THE GATE.
A swing of the gate, and a loud, loud rap,
When the beams of the morning their red couch leave,
Never startle the heart like a single tap,
That's heard in the silence and sweetness of eve!
When the beams of the morning their red couch leave,
Never startle the heart like a single tap,
That's heard in the silence and sweetness of eve!
A visit at noon never touches the heart;
Ne'er at noon may a glance for a moment deceive;
Nor whisper, nor music a magic impart,
Like the music—the whisper—we listen at eve!
Ne'er at noon may a glance for a moment deceive;
Nor whisper, nor music a magic impart,
Like the music—the whisper—we listen at eve!
At evening the angels look down from above,
And they that have doubted rejoice, and believe!
At evening the earth breathes a spirit of love,
And that is the reason we maidens love eve!
And they that have doubted rejoice, and believe!
At evening the earth breathes a spirit of love,
And that is the reason we maidens love eve!
123
THE CHERRY TREE.
“Sermons in stones, and good in everything.”
When the dew-drop glitters clear,
In the golden atmosphere,
Glad and gay
The blossoms play,
While the spring birds carol near.
In the golden atmosphere,
Glad and gay
The blossoms play,
While the spring birds carol near.
And the young tree, bending low,
Whiter seems than silver bow;
Or the skies,
When moonlight lies
In the south, like piles of snow.
Whiter seems than silver bow;
Or the skies,
When moonlight lies
In the south, like piles of snow.
But these beauties of the trees,
Yet untouch'd by blight or breeze,
Soon must fade,
And be decayed:
Youth leaves all things by degrees.
Yet untouch'd by blight or breeze,
Soon must fade,
And be decayed:
Youth leaves all things by degrees.
124
Time sweeps on 'mid smiles or gloom
Early fruitage follows bloom,
Gleaming bright
With ruby light,
And dancing 'mid the air's perfume!
Early fruitage follows bloom,
Gleaming bright
With ruby light,
And dancing 'mid the air's perfume!
Yet, when unto sweetness grown,
All must fall, and be o'erthrown:
Left no more
Of beauty's store,
Than the poor dry stalk and stone!
All must fall, and be o'erthrown:
Left no more
Of beauty's store,
Than the poor dry stalk and stone!
Thus hath Man as brief a boon,—
A little summer,—passing soon,—
And then the stone,—
The churchyard lone,
And ghosts that glide beneath the moon!
A little summer,—passing soon,—
And then the stone,—
The churchyard lone,
And ghosts that glide beneath the moon!
125
THE MAIDEN'S CHOICE.
A young maid sat by her cottage tree,—
A beautiful maid,—at the dawn of day;
Her sewing fell idle upon her knee,
For her heart and her thoughts were far away;
When a sober old wooer came up the dell,
A wooer whose hopes, one would think, were few;
But a maid's heart is a puzzle to tell,—
And though old his face,—yet his coat was new;
Oh! a young maid's heart is a puzzle to tell,—
And though old his face,—yet his coat was new.
A beautiful maid,—at the dawn of day;
Her sewing fell idle upon her knee,
For her heart and her thoughts were far away;
When a sober old wooer came up the dell,
A wooer whose hopes, one would think, were few;
But a maid's heart is a puzzle to tell,—
And though old his face,—yet his coat was new;
Oh! a young maid's heart is a puzzle to tell,—
And though old his face,—yet his coat was new.
The wooer he gave her a wistful look,—
And wistful too, were the words he said;
While merry she sang, like a summer brook,
And play'd with her needle, and knotted the thread:
He spoke of the ring and the wedding chime,
He press'd her hand, and he bended his knee,
And he begg'd and implor'd her to fix the time!
“No, go and ask my mother,” said she;
“Oh! fix it yourself, my darling,” said he;
“No, go and ask my mother,” said she.
And wistful too, were the words he said;
While merry she sang, like a summer brook,
And play'd with her needle, and knotted the thread:
He spoke of the ring and the wedding chime,
He press'd her hand, and he bended his knee,
And he begg'd and implor'd her to fix the time!
“No, go and ask my mother,” said she;
“Oh! fix it yourself, my darling,” said he;
“No, go and ask my mother,” said she.
126
Scarce into the house had the wooer gone,
When a young man leap'd o'er a neighbouring stile;
And sad was the look that the youth put on,
And playful and gay was the maiden's smile:
“Pray, who is this carle that comes here to woo,
And why at your side does he talk so free?
Must I ask your mother, dear Mary, too?”
“No, Harry,” she whispered, “you must ask me!”
“I'd better go in your mother to see?”
“No, Harry, no—no, you must kneel and ask me.”
When a young man leap'd o'er a neighbouring stile;
And sad was the look that the youth put on,
And playful and gay was the maiden's smile:
“Pray, who is this carle that comes here to woo,
And why at your side does he talk so free?
Must I ask your mother, dear Mary, too?”
“No, Harry,” she whispered, “you must ask me!”
“I'd better go in your mother to see?”
“No, Harry, no—no, you must kneel and ask me.”
There was waiting one morn at the village church,
Waiting, and weeping, and words of woe;
For the wealthy old wooer was left in the lurch:
The maid had gone off with a younger beau.
Warmly the sun on the hedgerow glowed,
Warmly it shone on the old farm gate;
And wild was the laughter upon the road,
As Harry rode off with his wedded mate!
“Ha, ha!” cried she,—“Ho, ho!” laughed he,
“They may wait a long while ere the bride they see!”
Waiting, and weeping, and words of woe;
For the wealthy old wooer was left in the lurch:
The maid had gone off with a younger beau.
Warmly the sun on the hedgerow glowed,
Warmly it shone on the old farm gate;
And wild was the laughter upon the road,
As Harry rode off with his wedded mate!
“Ha, ha!” cried she,—“Ho, ho!” laughed he,
“They may wait a long while ere the bride they see!”
129
WHEN BEAUTY'S ROSE.
When beauty's rose is virtue's flower,—
When beauty's pride is honour's glow,
I'd take that rose for better dower
Than riches merely can bestow;
But when that rose is born to bloom,
In lieu of roses born of truth,—
When vain conceit takes up the room
Of flowers that live beyond our youth:
Then give me, love, a plainer face,
And I will ne'er adore it less,
If but the heart's enchanting grace,
The heart's warm feeling it express!
When beauty's pride is honour's glow,
I'd take that rose for better dower
Than riches merely can bestow;
But when that rose is born to bloom,
In lieu of roses born of truth,—
When vain conceit takes up the room
Of flowers that live beyond our youth:
Then give me, love, a plainer face,
And I will ne'er adore it less,
If but the heart's enchanting grace,
The heart's warm feeling it express!
It is not blooming cheeks alone,
Nor sunny lips, nor sparkling eyes,
Nor brow that seemeth beauty's throne,
Wherein love's truest witchery lies!
There is a charm beyond the power
Of rose or lily to excel,—
A charm that glads a summer hour,
And gilds a wintry hour as well!
So give me, love, a plainer face,
And I will ne'er adore it less,
If but the heart's enchanting grace,
The heart's warm feeling it express.
Nor sunny lips, nor sparkling eyes,
Nor brow that seemeth beauty's throne,
Wherein love's truest witchery lies!
130
Of rose or lily to excel,—
A charm that glads a summer hour,
And gilds a wintry hour as well!
So give me, love, a plainer face,
And I will ne'er adore it less,
If but the heart's enchanting grace,
The heart's warm feeling it express.
131
KINDNESS.
Oh! if kindness sought one
When her hand were needed,
Low as fate had brought one,
Misery might be heeded!
But, in his elateness,
Proud of worldly praises,
Man, to grasp at greatness,
Tramples man,—not raises!
When her hand were needed,
Low as fate had brought one,
Misery might be heeded!
But, in his elateness,
Proud of worldly praises,
Man, to grasp at greatness,
Tramples man,—not raises!
With life's units rarely
Man true progress classes;
Kindness grants he sparely,
Preaching as he passes!
Though, would one befriend one,
All might be befriended;
If but one would mend one,
All might be amended!
Man true progress classes;
Kindness grants he sparely,
Preaching as he passes!
Though, would one befriend one,
All might be befriended;
If but one would mend one,
All might be amended!
132
Would man's language knew
Less of mere profession,—
Glad his part to do
According to possession!
For, while thousands wait,
With no friend to heed them,
Little helps are great
To the hearts that need them.
Less of mere profession,—
Glad his part to do
According to possession!
For, while thousands wait,
With no friend to heed them,
Little helps are great
To the hearts that need them.
133
THE STORMS.
The sky was blue from east to west,
Yet there was anger in the sky,
And coming storm, as well exprest
As if the blackest clouds rolled by.
No bird upon the air was seen,
The leaves hung moveless, as in awe;
A gloom was on the very green,
And fear in everything we saw.
Yet there was anger in the sky,
And coming storm, as well exprest
As if the blackest clouds rolled by.
No bird upon the air was seen,
The leaves hung moveless, as in awe;
A gloom was on the very green,
And fear in everything we saw.
So sped the day, till from the north,
The warring winds drove on the rain;
And red the tempest gallop'd forth,
With lightning hoof, across the plain.
The trees in terror swept the ground,
The oak lay like a giant thrown;
And from the channel'd hills around
The narrow floods to spray were blown.
The warring winds drove on the rain;
And red the tempest gallop'd forth,
With lightning hoof, across the plain.
The trees in terror swept the ground,
The oak lay like a giant thrown;
And from the channel'd hills around
The narrow floods to spray were blown.
136
When by the western slope, aloof
From river's marge, and torrent's bound,
I saw a lowly cottage roof,
With garden path, and field around.
And from the door, unto the blast,
A helpless girl and babe were driven,
Whose weeping eyes were upward cast,
To Him, who sees our tears, in heaven.
From river's marge, and torrent's bound,
I saw a lowly cottage roof,
With garden path, and field around.
And from the door, unto the blast,
A helpless girl and babe were driven,
Whose weeping eyes were upward cast,
To Him, who sees our tears, in heaven.
Scant was her garb, but from her breast
She tore the last thin robe she had,
And tenderly her babe caress'd,
And warmer its poor bosom clad!
She thought upon her shame,—her sin,
And scarcely felt the tempest's rout:
Alas! the bitter storm within
Smote sharper than the storm without.
She tore the last thin robe she had,
And tenderly her babe caress'd,
And warmer its poor bosom clad!
She thought upon her shame,—her sin,
And scarcely felt the tempest's rout:
Alas! the bitter storm within
Smote sharper than the storm without.
The sun, from forth the rainy cloud,
Flash'd purple jewels o'er the sky;
The mist hung like a silken shroud,
As, robed in gold, the storm rode by.
But she, to misery still a prey,
Sat shivering cold,—the Night's lone guest;
Ah me! earth storms speed soon away,—
The storms of sin do never rest!
Flash'd purple jewels o'er the sky;
The mist hung like a silken shroud,
As, robed in gold, the storm rode by.
But she, to misery still a prey,
Sat shivering cold,—the Night's lone guest;
Ah me! earth storms speed soon away,—
The storms of sin do never rest!
138
DISAPPOINTMENT.
Hath one young, impassion'd, breast
Ever realised its dream,—
Ever found that vision blest
Which was once its treasur'd theme?
No!—'neath all that life beguiles,
Many a thorn of sorrow sleeps;
Hope, that with the morning smiles,
Ere the evening cometh, weeps!
Ever realised its dream,—
Ever found that vision blest
Which was once its treasur'd theme?
No!—'neath all that life beguiles,
Many a thorn of sorrow sleeps;
Hope, that with the morning smiles,
Ere the evening cometh, weeps!
Who of all the pictur'd hours,
Promis'd bloom, and bliss in store,
Ever found but faded flowers,—
Reach'd but when the charm was o'er?
He who hopes may look for tears,—
He who loves see love depart,—
He who builds on future years,
Builds himself an aching heart!
Promis'd bloom, and bliss in store,
Ever found but faded flowers,—
Reach'd but when the charm was o'er?
He who hopes may look for tears,—
He who loves see love depart,—
He who builds on future years,
Builds himself an aching heart!
143
PRIDE.
Though Pride may show some nobleness,
When Honour's its ally,
Yet there is such a thing on earth,
As holding heads too high!
The sweetest bird builds near the ground,
The loveliest flower springs low;
And we must stoop for happiness,
If we its worth would know.
When Honour's its ally,
Yet there is such a thing on earth,
As holding heads too high!
The sweetest bird builds near the ground,
The loveliest flower springs low;
And we must stoop for happiness,
If we its worth would know.
Like water that encrusts the rose,
Still hard'ning to its core,
So Pride encases human hearts
Until they feel no more.
Shut up within themselves they live,
And selfishly they end
A life, that never kindness did
To kindred, or to friend!
Still hard'ning to its core,
So Pride encases human hearts
Until they feel no more.
Shut up within themselves they live,
And selfishly they end
A life, that never kindness did
To kindred, or to friend!
144
Whilst Virtue, like the dew of heaven,
Upon the heart descends,
And draws its hidden sweetness out
The more—as more it bends!
For there's a strength in lowliness,
Which nerves us to endure,—
A heroism in distress,
Which renders victory sure!
Upon the heart descends,
And draws its hidden sweetness out
The more—as more it bends!
For there's a strength in lowliness,
Which nerves us to endure,—
A heroism in distress,
Which renders victory sure!
The humblest being born is great,
If true to his degree;
His virtue illustrates his state,
Whate'er that state may be!—
Thus let us daily learn to love
Simplicity and worth;—
For not the Eagle, but the Dove,
Brought Peace unto the earth!
If true to his degree;
His virtue illustrates his state,
Whate'er that state may be!—
Thus let us daily learn to love
Simplicity and worth;—
For not the Eagle, but the Dove,
Brought Peace unto the earth!
147
MAIDEN BEAUTY.
Her hand's like a lily,—
But just at the tip
It hath stolen a tint
Like the hue of her lip!
Her breath's like the morning,
When hyacinths blow;
Her feet leave a blessing
Wherever they go!
But just at the tip
It hath stolen a tint
Like the hue of her lip!
Her breath's like the morning,
When hyacinths blow;
Her feet leave a blessing
Wherever they go!
For each one she's something
To comfort or cheer;
When her purse fails her wishes,
She gives them a tear!
E'en the sound of her step
Seems to bring them relief;
And they bless that sweet face
Which speaks hope 'mid their grief!
To comfort or cheer;
When her purse fails her wishes,
She gives them a tear!
E'en the sound of her step
Seems to bring them relief;
And they bless that sweet face
Which speaks hope 'mid their grief!
148
Her mouth's like a rose-bud,
Just budding half through,
When it opens at morn
Amidst fragrance and dew;
And her heart is a dwelling
Where angels might rest,
And forget their own heaven
In that of her breast!
Just budding half through,
When it opens at morn
Amidst fragrance and dew;
And her heart is a dwelling
Where angels might rest,
And forget their own heaven
In that of her breast!
149
COME, NAME A GOOD FELLOW.
Come, name a good fellow,
And drink to his health,—
No matter his station,
No matter his wealth!
If the heart be but noble,
'Tis title enough:
'Tis the heart makes the man,
Though his fortune be rough!
Then name a good fellow,
And to him we'll drink;
And our lip with a blessing
Shall hallow the brink!
And drink to his health,—
No matter his station,
No matter his wealth!
If the heart be but noble,
'Tis title enough:
'Tis the heart makes the man,
Though his fortune be rough!
Then name a good fellow,
And to him we'll drink;
And our lip with a blessing
Shall hallow the brink!
Come, name a good fellow,—
The vintage we quaff
Seems merry, and mellow,
And ready to laugh!
And what to enjoyment
Fresh pleasure can lend?—
'Tis to toast the kind heart
That to all is a friend!
Then name a good fellow,
And to him we'll drink;
And our lip with a blessing
Shall hallow the brink!
The vintage we quaff
Seems merry, and mellow,
And ready to laugh!
150
Fresh pleasure can lend?—
'Tis to toast the kind heart
That to all is a friend!
Then name a good fellow,
And to him we'll drink;
And our lip with a blessing
Shall hallow the brink!
151
THE RAIN WAS ABATING.
The rain was abating,
The storm seem'd to wander
In thunder, that distance
Made solemn and grander;
Yet the night had set in,
And the mountains loom'd dreary,
As Mary look'd forth
With a spirit less weary.
The storm seem'd to wander
In thunder, that distance
Made solemn and grander;
Yet the night had set in,
And the mountains loom'd dreary,
As Mary look'd forth
With a spirit less weary.
She saw not the river
Its wide banks o'erflowing;
She reck'd not the torrents
Like wild horses going;
She heard not the scream
Of the eagle dark flying,—
Nor the shriek of her lover,
Far drowning,—and dying!
Its wide banks o'erflowing;
She reck'd not the torrents
Like wild horses going;
She heard not the scream
Of the eagle dark flying,—
Nor the shriek of her lover,
Far drowning,—and dying!
152
From his home, through the storm,
'Mid the night, did he venture,
To seek that lov'd door
He must never more enter!
Oh! woe for the hearts
Which the storm-waters sever;
And woe for the hopes
Which are lost,—and for ever!
'Mid the night, did he venture,
To seek that lov'd door
He must never more enter!
Oh! woe for the hearts
Which the storm-waters sever;
And woe for the hopes
Which are lost,—and for ever!
153
SYMPATHY.
Oh! to see one's own emotion
Make another's cheek burn bright!
Oh! to mark one's own devotion
Fill another's eye with light!
Tears are types of woe and parting;
But o'er woe a charm is thrown,
When from other eyes are starting
Tears that mingle with our own.
Make another's cheek burn bright!
Oh! to mark one's own devotion
Fill another's eye with light!
Tears are types of woe and parting;
But o'er woe a charm is thrown,
When from other eyes are starting
Tears that mingle with our own.
Never sweeter—never dearer—
Seems the world and all it holds,
Than when loving hearts see clearer
All that “Sympathy” unfolds!
Every thought, and look, and feeling—
Every passion we can name,
Still a second-self revealing!
Still another—yet the same!
Seems the world and all it holds,
Than when loving hearts see clearer
All that “Sympathy” unfolds!
Every thought, and look, and feeling—
Every passion we can name,
Still a second-self revealing!
Still another—yet the same!
154
WAS THE GLASS MADE FOR PHYSIC?
Was the glass made for physic?
Was life made for pain?
Must care and must sorrow
Still visit the brain?
No!—music and friendship
Shall teach us to-night,
That the glass is for liquor,
And life for delight!
The glass for good liquor,
And life for delight!
Was life made for pain?
Must care and must sorrow
Still visit the brain?
No!—music and friendship
Shall teach us to-night,
That the glass is for liquor,
And life for delight!
The glass for good liquor,
And life for delight!
For the glass is a gladness
Wherever it glows,—
Wit, spirit, and song
From its crystal lip flows!
Blame him that with physic
First dull'd its pure shine;
But long life to the god
Who first fill'd it with wine!
Great Bacchus,—god Bacchus,
Who fill'd it with wine!
Wherever it glows,—
Wit, spirit, and song
From its crystal lip flows!
Blame him that with physic
First dull'd its pure shine;
But long life to the god
Who first fill'd it with wine!
Great Bacchus,—god Bacchus,
Who fill'd it with wine!
155
PEACE.
Slowly the early mists of dawn arise,
A change, a movement, trembles o'er the skies;
Valley and forest, mead and mountain height,
Seem with faint breath to wait the morning light:
And lo! a foot of beauty from its sphere,
Beaming with jewels, climbs the mountain near.
Whate'er it touches, by some magic bold,
Blushes to ruby, or transmutes to gold!
Laced by a thousand tissues, rich and fair,
Woven by rainbow looms from threads of air:
Auroras of a moment glad the sight,
The poetry of clouds, and dews, and light!
Turn where ye will, on every side behold,
Ethereal pictures, framed in Nature's gold!
See, the dark beech leaf, like an Indian's ear,
Glitters with crystal-gold, and gem-drops clear:
And every reed on which the south hath blown
Seems dancing to a music of its own!
Come, let us mount the cliff, the crested height,
Where Dover rears her fortress to the sight;—
Like beings of the deep the vessels glide,
Proud of their own reflection in the tide;
Proud of their mission,—which is War no more,
But Commerce, Christian-love, from shore to shore
The cannon,—sentenced ne'er again to float,—
Still'd the red thunder in its murderous throat,—
Lies, by the majesty of Truth o'erthrown,
Rusted, dismounted, weed and moss o'ergrown.
The cautious lamb hath dared to make its way
Unto the very mouth which spoke—to slay!
Whilst e'en the butterfly within it dips,
And grass and flowers spring from its iron lips!
A change, a movement, trembles o'er the skies;
Valley and forest, mead and mountain height,
Seem with faint breath to wait the morning light:
And lo! a foot of beauty from its sphere,
Beaming with jewels, climbs the mountain near.
Whate'er it touches, by some magic bold,
Blushes to ruby, or transmutes to gold!
Laced by a thousand tissues, rich and fair,
Woven by rainbow looms from threads of air:
Auroras of a moment glad the sight,
The poetry of clouds, and dews, and light!
Turn where ye will, on every side behold,
Ethereal pictures, framed in Nature's gold!
See, the dark beech leaf, like an Indian's ear,
Glitters with crystal-gold, and gem-drops clear:
And every reed on which the south hath blown
Seems dancing to a music of its own!
158
Where Dover rears her fortress to the sight;—
Like beings of the deep the vessels glide,
Proud of their own reflection in the tide;
Proud of their mission,—which is War no more,
But Commerce, Christian-love, from shore to shore
The cannon,—sentenced ne'er again to float,—
Still'd the red thunder in its murderous throat,—
Lies, by the majesty of Truth o'erthrown,
Rusted, dismounted, weed and moss o'ergrown.
The cautious lamb hath dared to make its way
Unto the very mouth which spoke—to slay!
Whilst e'en the butterfly within it dips,
And grass and flowers spring from its iron lips!
Oh! might of Peace, that in the throat of death
Can scatter bloom with thine immortal breath,
And bid the timid lamb no longer heed
The cannon's mouth, but there in safety feed!—
Crop the wild flowers that live within its breast,
And taste the sweets of nature and of rest!
When will men learn, who still to battle haste,
That peace is property,—and war is waste?
That Education makes a Nation great,
And Knowledge is the safeguard of the State?
False is the triumph of the battle-hour,—
The noblest triumph is in moral power.
Time laughs at battles, and the fruits they earn;
The conquering sword lies conquered in its turn.
But there's a power which even Time can bind;
E'en Time itself is vanquished by the Mind!
It grasps beyond the victor's blood-won name,
And marshals cent'ries on the path of fame,
Can scatter bloom with thine immortal breath,
And bid the timid lamb no longer heed
The cannon's mouth, but there in safety feed!—
Crop the wild flowers that live within its breast,
And taste the sweets of nature and of rest!
When will men learn, who still to battle haste,
That peace is property,—and war is waste?
That Education makes a Nation great,
And Knowledge is the safeguard of the State?
159
The noblest triumph is in moral power.
Time laughs at battles, and the fruits they earn;
The conquering sword lies conquered in its turn.
But there's a power which even Time can bind;
E'en Time itself is vanquished by the Mind!
It grasps beyond the victor's blood-won name,
And marshals cent'ries on the path of fame,
Then welcome, Peace!—may Nations build thy shrine,
Profess thy creed, and own thy breath divine;
May Science, Literature, and Genius, spring,
Like rays of glory from thine angel wing!
Strike down Deception,—let no wrong endure,—
Take to thy heart the interests of the poor;
And prove, O Peace, that war usurps thy right,—
Not his, but thine, the victory and the might!
Strength, with simplicity; with grandeur, rest;
And majesty, with meekness; guard thy breast:
Till War, and Misery, and Crime, be gone,
And all the people of the earth are one.
Profess thy creed, and own thy breath divine;
May Science, Literature, and Genius, spring,
Like rays of glory from thine angel wing!
Strike down Deception,—let no wrong endure,—
Take to thy heart the interests of the poor;
And prove, O Peace, that war usurps thy right,—
Not his, but thine, the victory and the might!
Strength, with simplicity; with grandeur, rest;
And majesty, with meekness; guard thy breast:
Till War, and Misery, and Crime, be gone,
And all the people of the earth are one.
160
EPITAPH ON THE LATE SALIS SCHWABE, ESQ.
Whoe'er thou art who read'st this sculptur'd line,
Here pause, and learn how death becomes divine,—
How holy grows the spot where rests the just,—
What living flowers enwreath his lifeless dust!
And learning thus what Virtue's path can give,
Oh! seek thy home, and aim like him to live!
Here pause, and learn how death becomes divine,—
How holy grows the spot where rests the just,—
What living flowers enwreath his lifeless dust!
And learning thus what Virtue's path can give,
Oh! seek thy home, and aim like him to live!
Of gentle manners,—cultivated mind,—
A spirit seeking good for all mankind,—
A heart with every fond affection rife,
Through all the dear relationships of life;—
A lover of that greatness which hath birth
In things of heaven, and not in gauds of earth;
The high,—the pure,—the intellectual dower
That soars from truth to truth,—from power to power,
And seeks to prove, wherever man hath trod,
That Progress is the ordinance of God!
To Art,—to Science,—lending aid sincere,
Anxious to cherish and expand their sphere;
To welcome Knowledge as the people's friend,
And bid the lowest in earth's scale ascend!
A spirit seeking good for all mankind,—
A heart with every fond affection rife,
Through all the dear relationships of life;—
A lover of that greatness which hath birth
In things of heaven, and not in gauds of earth;
The high,—the pure,—the intellectual dower
That soars from truth to truth,—from power to power,
And seeks to prove, wherever man hath trod,
That Progress is the ordinance of God!
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Anxious to cherish and expand their sphere;
To welcome Knowledge as the people's friend,
And bid the lowest in earth's scale ascend!
Woe for the hour when that warm heart grew cold,—
'Twas the first time, to young, or poor, or old!
Woe for the hour when that kind hand grew still,—
'Twas death alone could check the generous will!
'Twas death alone,—no other might succeed
To keep unhelped the widow in her need!
Oh! ye to whom the like rich store is given,
Learn here the way that leads the heart to heaven;
And you, ye poor, with flowers his sad grave strew:
He was a Man!—woe that such men are few!
'Twas the first time, to young, or poor, or old!
Woe for the hour when that kind hand grew still,—
'Twas death alone could check the generous will!
'Twas death alone,—no other might succeed
To keep unhelped the widow in her need!
Oh! ye to whom the like rich store is given,
Learn here the way that leads the heart to heaven;
And you, ye poor, with flowers his sad grave strew:
He was a Man!—woe that such men are few!
165
THE BOY-BARD.
He loves all things that rambling boyhood loves,—
The woods,—the fields,—or what mere idlesse proves;
To view the unwinged race their play resume,
Nestling and hiding 'neath the cowslip's bloom;
Or watch the dew slip down like liquid glass,
Bathing the tired bee on the bladed grass;
See the quick spider his torn web renew,
Sparkling with atoms of the vapoury dew,
Light as a dancer running o'er his line,
His rope a thread, than Oberon's hair more fine!
Or mark the insect take the stream alone,
Columbus like, and venture the unknown!
Catch the shy cricket of the field, and hear
His song of Spring, free-toned and shrilly clear.
Then lie with face upturning to the skies,
Gazing on palaces of clouds, that rise
With amber gates,—with gold and purple trees,—
Bridges of rainbows spanning heavenly seas;
Or rich interior, showing couch of gold,
Carpets of fleecy silver, fold on fold;
In which celestial home some angel fair,
Still more ethereal than ethereal air,
Rests, with one hand sleep-thrown in careless grace
'Neath the charm'd beauty of her dream-warm face!
Till, one by one, the cloudy curtains roll,
And shut the matchless wonder from his soul.
The woods,—the fields,—or what mere idlesse proves;
To view the unwinged race their play resume,
Nestling and hiding 'neath the cowslip's bloom;
Or watch the dew slip down like liquid glass,
Bathing the tired bee on the bladed grass;
See the quick spider his torn web renew,
Sparkling with atoms of the vapoury dew,
Light as a dancer running o'er his line,
His rope a thread, than Oberon's hair more fine!
Or mark the insect take the stream alone,
Columbus like, and venture the unknown!
Catch the shy cricket of the field, and hear
His song of Spring, free-toned and shrilly clear.
Then lie with face upturning to the skies,
Gazing on palaces of clouds, that rise
With amber gates,—with gold and purple trees,—
Bridges of rainbows spanning heavenly seas;
166
Carpets of fleecy silver, fold on fold;
In which celestial home some angel fair,
Still more ethereal than ethereal air,
Rests, with one hand sleep-thrown in careless grace
'Neath the charm'd beauty of her dream-warm face!
Till, one by one, the cloudy curtains roll,
And shut the matchless wonder from his soul.
Then, with closed eyes, he questions his own mind,
Wrecks of that magic paradise to find,—
Some feature of that seraph-nymph to trace,
Which, as he wooes, still fades from his embrace!
His heart is full of unaccomplish'd deeds,—
Battles for Liberty, in which he bleeds!
Distinctions, honours, greatness to be won,—
Some vast achievement some way to be done,—
Some high emprise,—some strange immortal joy,
Swells the wild heart of that poetic boy!
A thousand visions sweep athwart his brain,—
His blood, like lava, flushes through each vein;
Giddy with hopes, that thus his heart can cheat,
He rambles on, with triumph 'neath his feet,
To find, ere long, his visions melt like frost,
And leave but tears, in memory of the lost!
Wrecks of that magic paradise to find,—
Some feature of that seraph-nymph to trace,
Which, as he wooes, still fades from his embrace!
His heart is full of unaccomplish'd deeds,—
Battles for Liberty, in which he bleeds!
Distinctions, honours, greatness to be won,—
Some vast achievement some way to be done,—
Some high emprise,—some strange immortal joy,
Swells the wild heart of that poetic boy!
A thousand visions sweep athwart his brain,—
His blood, like lava, flushes through each vein;
Giddy with hopes, that thus his heart can cheat,
He rambles on, with triumph 'neath his feet,
To find, ere long, his visions melt like frost,
And leave but tears, in memory of the lost!
167
WORDS.
If words could satisfy the heart,
The heart might find less care;
But words, like summer birds, depart,
And leave but empty air.
The heart, a pilgrim upon earth,
Finds often, when it needs,
That words are of as little worth
As just so many weeds.
The heart might find less care;
But words, like summer birds, depart,
And leave but empty air.
The heart, a pilgrim upon earth,
Finds often, when it needs,
That words are of as little worth
As just so many weeds.
A little said,—and truly said,—
Can deeper joy impart
Than hosts of words, which reach the head,
But never touch the heart,
The voice that wins its sunny way,
A lonely home to cheer,
Hath oft the fewest words to say;
But, oh! those few,—how dear!
Can deeper joy impart
Than hosts of words, which reach the head,
But never touch the heart,
The voice that wins its sunny way,
A lonely home to cheer,
Hath oft the fewest words to say;
But, oh! those few,—how dear!
168
If words could satisfy the breast,
The world might hold a feast;
But words,—when summoned to the test,—
Oft satisfy the least!
Like plants that make a gaudy show,
All blossom to the root;
But whose poor nature cannot grow
One particle of fruit!
The world might hold a feast;
But words,—when summoned to the test,—
Oft satisfy the least!
Like plants that make a gaudy show,
All blossom to the root;
But whose poor nature cannot grow
One particle of fruit!
171
THE WAYWARD ONE.
So modest her advances,
Such softness in her lip and eye,
You'd think such angel glances
Were borrowed from the saints on high!
'Tis sweeter thus believing,
Than doubting,—though they say that she
Deliciously deceiving,
Can never long with Love agree!
Such softness in her lip and eye,
You'd think such angel glances
Were borrowed from the saints on high!
'Tis sweeter thus believing,
Than doubting,—though they say that she
Deliciously deceiving,
Can never long with Love agree!
At morn you'd fancy really
That maiden's heart is mine indeed;
And speak of wedlock cheerly,—
But lesser haste the better speed!
You buy the ring quite boldly,
And with it to her presence fly:
She turns aside quite coldly,
And curtseys you a brief “Good-bye!”
That maiden's heart is mine indeed;
And speak of wedlock cheerly,—
But lesser haste the better speed!
You buy the ring quite boldly,
And with it to her presence fly:
She turns aside quite coldly,
And curtseys you a brief “Good-bye!”
172
May wrinkles seize the beauty,
The sweet, bewitching, sparkling jade,
Who first makes love a duty,
Then laughs away the vows she made!
Oh! make her less a charmer,
Dear Nature, let her less excel;
Or make her bosom warmer
To one who loves her but too well!
The sweet, bewitching, sparkling jade,
Who first makes love a duty,
Then laughs away the vows she made!
Oh! make her less a charmer,
Dear Nature, let her less excel;
Or make her bosom warmer
To one who loves her but too well!
173
A NIGHT JOURNEY.
Night her golden host is leading,
To the wood the crow is speeding,
Solemn lies the way, and lonely,
Field, and lane, and forest only!
Not a hut for miles appearing,
Ever toiling,—never nearing.
To the wood the crow is speeding,
Solemn lies the way, and lonely,
Field, and lane, and forest only!
Not a hut for miles appearing,
Ever toiling,—never nearing.
Thoughts on wild tradition dwelling,
Every step its legend telling;
Robbers lurking near the hedges,
Murders hid 'neath river-sedges!
Many sounds, but not one cheery,—
Even one's own foot creaks dreary.
Every step its legend telling;
Robbers lurking near the hedges,
Murders hid 'neath river-sedges!
Many sounds, but not one cheery,—
Even one's own foot creaks dreary.
Gipsies down in lonesome hollows,
Listening for each step that follows;—
Hist!—that bough, which snapt in parting.
Distant bark of lurcher starting,
Stays the foot with timid feeling,
Cautious o'er the dry leaves stealing!
Listening for each step that follows;—
Hist!—that bough, which snapt in parting.
Distant bark of lurcher starting,
Stays the foot with timid feeling,
Cautious o'er the dry leaves stealing!
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Fast the Night her starry legions
Westward calls, to other regions!
See!—a hand, as of the Dawn,
Sudden gleams, then swift withdrawn,—
Like a maiden, shyly hiding,
Blushing, loving, half-confiding!
Westward calls, to other regions!
See!—a hand, as of the Dawn,
Sudden gleams, then swift withdrawn,—
Like a maiden, shyly hiding,
Blushing, loving, half-confiding!
Bed!—the curtain-silk adorning,
Blinding out the golden morning,—
Little recks your silken sleeper,
'Midst deep cares, and night-roads deeper,
How the light, which he despises,
Like a hymn of glory rises!
Blinding out the golden morning,—
Little recks your silken sleeper,
'Midst deep cares, and night-roads deeper,
How the light, which he despises,
Like a hymn of glory rises!
Last, we reach the quiet village,
View our cottage-field and tillage;
Though with limbs both faint and weary,
We forget the midnight dreary,
Cares and fears, how swift we lose them,
With our children at our bosom!
View our cottage-field and tillage;
Though with limbs both faint and weary,
We forget the midnight dreary,
Cares and fears, how swift we lose them,
With our children at our bosom!
179
GIPSY GLEE.
When the windy clouds float wild,
Threat'ning tempest from the west;
When the young moon, like a child,
Rocks upon the cloud's soft breast;
Then sing we our gipsy glee,
By the faint light merrily!
Threat'ning tempest from the west;
When the young moon, like a child,
Rocks upon the cloud's soft breast;
Then sing we our gipsy glee,
By the faint light merrily!
When the raven shrieks on high
O'er her cold and rifled nest;
When her swart wing specks the sky,
Just above the moon's dim crest;
Then sing we our gipsy glee,
By the grim light cheerily!
O'er her cold and rifled nest;
When her swart wing specks the sky,
Just above the moon's dim crest;
Then sing we our gipsy glee,
By the grim light cheerily!
When all evil things awake,
And all good are wrapp'd in dream,
Then prowl we till morning break,—
Wayside hedge and willow stream;
Then lurk we by bank and tree,
Through the long night drearily!
And all good are wrapp'd in dream,
Then prowl we till morning break,—
Wayside hedge and willow stream;
Then lurk we by bank and tree,
Through the long night drearily!
182
THE SEA SERPENT.
Behemoth and Dragon old,
All in song or story told,
Vast or strange,
Are as minnows unto me,
Floating roods upon the sea,
In my range:
I am swifter,—stronger,—than
Lion or leviathan;
Storm may shake the shuddering sky,
Lightnings glare;
Monarch of the main am I,
And my title to deny
Who will dare?
All in song or story told,
Vast or strange,
Are as minnows unto me,
Floating roods upon the sea,
In my range:
I am swifter,—stronger,—than
Lion or leviathan;
Storm may shake the shuddering sky,
Lightnings glare;
Monarch of the main am I,
And my title to deny
Who will dare?
Towers and palaces of kings
Are the dens of vilest things
Fathoms low;
Fleets and armies lie decayed,
Broken toys for children made,
Crumbling slow.
Mightiest spoils that earthly be,
Are the meanest 'neath the sea,—
Baubles time but tosses by,
Stripp'd and bare:
Coil'd 'mid ruin'd worlds I lie,
And my kingdom to deny
Who will dare?
Are the dens of vilest things
Fathoms low;
Fleets and armies lie decayed,
Broken toys for children made,
Crumbling slow.
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Are the meanest 'neath the sea,—
Baubles time but tosses by,
Stripp'd and bare:
Coil'd 'mid ruin'd worlds I lie,
And my kingdom to deny
Who will dare?
Prone within the primal deep,
Where forgotten ages sleep,
Is my lair;
Monsters of the ocean slime,
Gorgons of the unknown time,
Guard me there.
Every century I roam,
And the billows shout and foam,
As I dash them all awry
In mid air;
Monarch of the main am I,
And my title to deny
Who will dare?
Where forgotten ages sleep,
Is my lair;
Monsters of the ocean slime,
Gorgons of the unknown time,
Guard me there.
Every century I roam,
And the billows shout and foam,
As I dash them all awry
In mid air;
Monarch of the main am I,
And my title to deny
Who will dare?
184
JUDGE NOT IN HASTE.
Ne'er be hasty in your judgment,—
Never foremost to extend
Evil mention of a neighbour,
Or of one you've call'd a friend!
Of two reasons for an action
Choose the better, not the worst;
Never let the meaner motive
Be the one you urge the first;
But be gentle with misfortune,
Never foremost to extend
Evil mention of a neighbour,
Or of one you've call'd a friend!
Never foremost to extend
Evil mention of a neighbour,
Or of one you've call'd a friend!
Of two reasons for an action
Choose the better, not the worst;
Never let the meaner motive
Be the one you urge the first;
But be gentle with misfortune,
Never foremost to extend
Evil mention of a neighbour,
Or of one you've call'd a friend!
Judge not with detracting spirit,
Speak not with disdainful tongue;
Nor, with hard and hasty feeling,
Do one human creature wrong!
Words there are that, sharp as Winter,
Strip the little left to cheer;—
Oh! be yours the kinder mission,
Prone to soothe, not cause, a tear!
Then be gentle with misfortune;
Never foremost to extend
Evil mention of a neighbour,
Or of one you've call'd a friend!
Speak not with disdainful tongue;
Nor, with hard and hasty feeling,
Do one human creature wrong!
185
Strip the little left to cheer;—
Oh! be yours the kinder mission,
Prone to soothe, not cause, a tear!
Then be gentle with misfortune;
Never foremost to extend
Evil mention of a neighbour,
Or of one you've call'd a friend!
186
HOME IS WHERE THERE'S ONE TO LOVE US.
Home's not merely four square walls,
Though with pictures hung and gilded;
Home is where Affection calls,—
Filled with shrines the Heart hath builded!
Home!—go watch the faithful dove,
Sailing 'neath the heaven above us;
Home is where there's one to love!
Home is where there's one to love us!
Though with pictures hung and gilded;
Home is where Affection calls,—
Filled with shrines the Heart hath builded!
Home!—go watch the faithful dove,
Sailing 'neath the heaven above us;
Home is where there's one to love!
Home is where there's one to love us!
Home's not merely roof and room,—
It needs something to endear it;
Home is where the heart can bloom,—
Where there's some kind lip to cheer it!
What is home with none to meet,—
None to welcome, none to greet us?
Home is sweet,—and only sweet,—
Where there's one we love to meet us!
It needs something to endear it;
Home is where the heart can bloom,—
Where there's some kind lip to cheer it!
What is home with none to meet,—
None to welcome, none to greet us?
Home is sweet,—and only sweet,—
Where there's one we love to meet us!
187
THE SHIP “EXTRAVAGANCE.”
Oh! Extravagance saileth in climes bright and warm,
She is built for the sunlight, and not for the storm;
Her anchor is gold, and her mainmast is pride,—
Every sheet in the wind doth she dashingly ride!
But Content is a vessel not built for display,
Though she's ready and steady, come storm when it may;
So give us Content as life's channel we steer,—
If our pilot be Caution, we've little to fear!
She is built for the sunlight, and not for the storm;
Her anchor is gold, and her mainmast is pride,—
Every sheet in the wind doth she dashingly ride!
But Content is a vessel not built for display,
Though she's ready and steady, come storm when it may;
So give us Content as life's channel we steer,—
If our pilot be Caution, we've little to fear!
Oh! Extravagance saileth 'mid glitter and show,
As if fortune's rich tide never ebbed in its flow;
But see her at night, when her gold-light is spent,
When her anchor is lost, and her silken sails rent;
When the wave of destruction her shatter'd side drinks,
And the billows—ha! ha!—laugh and shout as she sinks!
No!—give us Content, as life's channel we steer,
While our pilot is Caution, there's little to fear.
As if fortune's rich tide never ebbed in its flow;
But see her at night, when her gold-light is spent,
When her anchor is lost, and her silken sails rent;
When the wave of destruction her shatter'd side drinks,
And the billows—ha! ha!—laugh and shout as she sinks!
No!—give us Content, as life's channel we steer,
While our pilot is Caution, there's little to fear.
189
THE BETTER SPIRIT.
He prized not things as some men prize,
Who reck not of the spirit's strife;
But seeing earth with earthly eyes,
Find common joy in common life!
He would have searched the farthest clime,
That garden of the soul to find,
Whose flowers are precious to all time,—
Whose fruits immortalize mankind.
Who reck not of the spirit's strife;
But seeing earth with earthly eyes,
Find common joy in common life!
He would have searched the farthest clime,
That garden of the soul to find,
Whose flowers are precious to all time,—
Whose fruits immortalize mankind.
Poor heart, he said, that still would bless,
Still spread thy loving light around,
Men leave thee to thy loneliness,—
Thy spirit hath too weak a sound.
An angel's trumpet could not reach
This stern and stony ear of Earth;
An angel dying could not teach
This mammon world,—an angel's worth
Still spread thy loving light around,
Men leave thee to thy loneliness,—
Thy spirit hath too weak a sound.
An angel's trumpet could not reach
This stern and stony ear of Earth;
An angel dying could not teach
This mammon world,—an angel's worth
190
EVERY MAN HAS HIS FAULT.
Take life as it is,—'tis a folly to sigh,
Or to seek for a treasure when seeking is vain;
If friendship's a light that goes speedily by,
Regretting its loss is but adding to pain.
Perfection's a thing rarely found upon earth:
We may cherish the hope,—and our fancy exalt;
But though we meet many of honour and worth,
We find, before long, Every man hath his fault.
Or to seek for a treasure when seeking is vain;
If friendship's a light that goes speedily by,
Regretting its loss is but adding to pain.
Perfection's a thing rarely found upon earth:
We may cherish the hope,—and our fancy exalt;
But though we meet many of honour and worth,
We find, before long, Every man hath his fault.
If a world we require that will always be true,
We must learn where it is from the fairies or elves;
The errors of friendship are easy to view,—
Not so easy the errors that lie in ourselves.
No!—perfection's a thing rarely found upon earth:
We may cherish the hope,—and our fancy exalt;
But though we meet many of honour and worth,
We find, before long, Every man hath his fault.
We must learn where it is from the fairies or elves;
The errors of friendship are easy to view,—
Not so easy the errors that lie in ourselves.
No!—perfection's a thing rarely found upon earth:
We may cherish the hope,—and our fancy exalt;
But though we meet many of honour and worth,
We find, before long, Every man hath his fault.
191
WORDS AND HEARTS.
Fond words do not ensure fond hearts,
Nor glances bold prove love;
The tongue that deepest truth imparts,
May often faltering prove.
Love's ways, 'tis known, are different ways,
In different tempers found;
But oh!—give me the timid gaze,
That, bashful, seeks the ground!
Nor glances bold prove love;
The tongue that deepest truth imparts,
May often faltering prove.
Love's ways, 'tis known, are different ways,
In different tempers found;
But oh!—give me the timid gaze,
That, bashful, seeks the ground!
Give me the steps that softly glide,
Lest earth their place should tell;—
The feelings that 'neath blushes hide,
As birds 'mid roses dwell;—
The lips that tremble lest a word
Their secret hopes betray;—
The whispers 'neath the moonlight heard,
That shun the ruder day!
Lest earth their place should tell;—
The feelings that 'neath blushes hide,
As birds 'mid roses dwell;—
The lips that tremble lest a word
Their secret hopes betray;—
The whispers 'neath the moonlight heard,
That shun the ruder day!
192
MIND YOU THAT.
Should you love one dearly,
Never breathe it out;
Though he woo sincerely,
Keep him still in doubt.
Tell him love's a bubble,—
Leave him still in fears;
More you cause him trouble,
Less he'll cause you tears!—
Mind you that;
More you cause him trouble,
Less he'll cause you tears!
Never breathe it out;
Though he woo sincerely,
Keep him still in doubt.
Tell him love's a bubble,—
Leave him still in fears;
More you cause him trouble,
Less he'll cause you tears!—
Mind you that;
More you cause him trouble,
Less he'll cause you tears!
Something sad in knowing,
Love can ne'er endure,
If, by too much showing,
Love is made too sure.
Pique him well, and spare not,
Every time ye meet;
If you seem to care not,
Soon he's at your feet,—
Mind you that;
If you seem to care not,
Soon he's at your feet!
Love can ne'er endure,
If, by too much showing,
Love is made too sure.
193
Every time ye meet;
If you seem to care not,
Soon he's at your feet,—
Mind you that;
If you seem to care not,
Soon he's at your feet!
194
HUMBLE HAPPINESS.
Oh! would some cottage home were mine,
How blest the hours would glide;
Life then would seem a thing divine,
With Mary by my side;
With not a wish but her to bless,
Where'er her steps might move;
My only care her happiness,—
My only wealth,—her love!
How blest the hours would glide;
Life then would seem a thing divine,
With Mary by my side;
With not a wish but her to bless,
Where'er her steps might move;
My only care her happiness,—
My only wealth,—her love!
I'd think no roses sweeter born
Than on her cheeks I view;
I'd ask not for more heavenly morn
Than her dear eyes of blue.
No bird that sings this world below
I'd think could her eclipse;
For all that's sweet is doubly so,
When coming from her lips.
Than on her cheeks I view;
I'd ask not for more heavenly morn
Than her dear eyes of blue.
No bird that sings this world below
I'd think could her eclipse;
For all that's sweet is doubly so,
When coming from her lips.
195
True wealth is in the heart alone,
Its coin like music rings:
It cometh from a brighter throne
Than any earthly king's!
We're poor,—but we could live on less,
And still some comfort win;
When true Love shares one's humbleness,
An Angel dwells therein!
Its coin like music rings:
It cometh from a brighter throne
Than any earthly king's!
We're poor,—but we could live on less,
And still some comfort win;
When true Love shares one's humbleness,
An Angel dwells therein!
196
WE NE'ER CAN KNOW.
We ne'er can know what time may show,
Nor what we lose when bent to roam;
But this I see—for love and me—
'Twere better far I'd stayed at home.
'Twas by the stream, where lilies dream,
'Mid music by the waters given,
I saw a maid—or angel strayed—
Just newly strayed—away from heaven!
Nor what we lose when bent to roam;
But this I see—for love and me—
'Twere better far I'd stayed at home.
'Twas by the stream, where lilies dream,
'Mid music by the waters given,
I saw a maid—or angel strayed—
Just newly strayed—away from heaven!
Her eyes soft hue had caught their blue
From summer morns, when skies are sweet;
Her golden hair, like sun-clouds there,
Half wander'd to her snowy feet!
And oh! her lips,—the rose that dips
Its first young buds in vernal dew
Were pale beside their crimson pride,—
Those lips, that might a world subdue.
From summer morns, when skies are sweet;
Her golden hair, like sun-clouds there,
Half wander'd to her snowy feet!
And oh! her lips,—the rose that dips
Its first young buds in vernal dew
Were pale beside their crimson pride,—
Those lips, that might a world subdue.
200
Alas for me, that this should be,
Alas that I went out to roam;
My heart, 'tis clear, hath changed its sphere,—
I'd better far have stayed at home.
As sure as fate, with wings elate,
She's borne my heart to yonder sky;
And I may weep, and long watch keep,
But see no angel passing by!
Alas that I went out to roam;
My heart, 'tis clear, hath changed its sphere,—
I'd better far have stayed at home.
As sure as fate, with wings elate,
She's borne my heart to yonder sky;
And I may weep, and long watch keep,
But see no angel passing by!
Oh! should you meet, with snowy feet,
A maiden fair,—or eyes of blue,
And lips whose rose a magic throws,
That thrills with love one's spirit through:
Then, ere she flies to yonder skies,
And seeks the Eden of her birth,
Oh! call me nigh, and we will try
To keep one angel upon earth!
A maiden fair,—or eyes of blue,
And lips whose rose a magic throws,
That thrills with love one's spirit through:
Then, ere she flies to yonder skies,
And seeks the Eden of her birth,
Oh! call me nigh, and we will try
To keep one angel upon earth!
| Letters of Laura D'Auverne | |