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 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 

 Tlu)? Cltul)T)uck,ETi^T_3jnjigfi.6ld,M3. 
 
CUT-FLOWERS: 
 
 COLLECTION OF POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. D. ELLEN GOODMAN SHEPARD. 
 
 EDITED BY J. G. HOLLAND. 
 
 SPRINGFIELD: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY BESSEY 6c CO. 
 
 MDCCCLIV. 
 
 7^ 
 
75 2-801 
 
 SAMUKL BO-WLES & COMPANY, PEINTEKS, 
 SPKINGFIELD, MASS. 
 
r 
 
 \ 
 
 IN ACCORDANCE 
 
 WITH THE 
 
 toisi) of t\)t ^zijiiattcb, 
 
 ATTD AS A 
 
 DYING MEMOEIAL OF HER FILIAL AFFECTION, 
 THIS VOLUME. 
 
 IS DEDICATED TO HER 
 
 MOTHSR. 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Love in her heart, and song upon her lip — 
 A daughter, friend, and wife — 
 She lived a beauteous life, 
 And love and song shall bless her in her sleep. 
 The flowers whose language she interpreted, 
 The delicate airs, calm eves, and starry skies 
 That touched so sweetly her chaste sympathies. 
 And all the grieving souls she comforted, 
 Will bathe in separate sorrows the dear mound. 
 Where heart and harp lie silent and profound. 
 Oh, Woman ! all the songs thou left to us 
 We will preserve for thee, in grateful love; 
 Give thou return of our affection thus, 
 And keep for us the songs thou sing'st above! 
 
 J. G. H. 
 
ELLEN. 
 
 BY SARAH J. C. WHITTLESEY. 
 
 They told me thou wast dead! 
 
 And I said I would not grieve, 
 But the stars came softly out o'erhead, 
 
 And slanted thro' the eve ; 
 And round our quiet cot, 
 
 We heard the night- winds sweep, 
 Then, dear departed, I forgot 
 
 I said I would not weep ! 
 
 They told me thou wast laid 
 
 Down in the peaceful dell, 
 Beneath the moaning maple shade, 
 
 You loved in life so well ; 
 I said I would not mourn, 
 
 Since all the past was vain. 
 Till musing round the silent urn. 
 
 Ah! I forgot again ! 
 
 They tell me thou hast gone 
 
 To fairer worlds on high, 
 Where Summer's close comes never on, 
 
 Nor buds in darkness die. 
 The eve is blue and still. 
 
 The wind is mild and free, 
 I'm leaning on the window-sill, 
 
 And waiting, love, for thee. 
 
 I wonder if those eyes — 
 
 In life so dark and bright — 
 Are looking from the starry skies, 
 
 Down in my own to-night ; 
 Oh ! guard me from afar. 
 
 From out the heaven's fold, 
 Like yonder tiny, burning star, 
 
 That dots the blue with gold. 
 
 Be like that lovely ray 
 
 Thro' all of this heart's gloom. 
 And light me, angel, down the way 
 
 That slopes into the tomb ; 
 And when life's trembling dove, 
 
 The flood of death flies o'er, 
 Come to the water's dark edge, love, 
 
 And meet me on the shore ! 
 Alexandria, Va. 
 
 1# 
 
PREFACE 
 
 A CUP of flowers, cut from mossy banks and grassy- 
 borders, with their stems drawing life from affection's dew, 
 is its own best apology, while the elaborately arranged 
 bouquet provokes criticism and challenges comparison. 
 The poems contained in this volume have nearly all 
 appeared in the periodicals of the day. They were, when 
 uttered, the expression of a harmonious and sympathetic 
 nature, touched to the necessity of song by appeals to its 
 sensibility from the Spirit of Beauty, the Spirit of Love, the 
 Spirit of Humanity, and the Spirit of Christianity. The 
 unambitious soul in which they had their birth has passed 
 away ; the gentle hand that penned them lies folded with 
 its fellow over a silent heart ; but the literary flowers thus 
 planted by the wayside still smile and blossom, and a com- 
 bination of their fragrance in a chosen collection is deemed 
 a fitting tribute to the memory of her who trained and 
 nourished them, and an appropriate expression of the 
 affection of the multitude of friends she left behind her. 
 
 THE EDITOR. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 OBITTTARy AND INTRODUCTORY, 9 
 
 TO THE RIVER CONNECTICUT, 13 
 
 THE LAMENT, 19 
 
 WHERE DOTH THY SPIRIT DWELL 1 21 
 
 OH, TELL ME NOT ! SONG, 23 
 
 THE YOUNG- MISSIONARY, . 25 
 
 TO AN OLD MAN, 29 
 
 THE MAY QUEEN, . 33 
 
 FAVORITE WILD FLOWERS, 35 
 
 MORNING IN JUNE, 39 
 
 STANZAS, 42 
 
 TO AN OLD FRIEND, 45 
 
 SWEET MEMORIES, 47 
 
 TO A SOUTHERN POETESS, 50 
 
 THE CAPTIVE EXILe's DREAM, 54 
 
 THE mother's gift, 60 
 
 KING DEATH AND THE MAIDEN, 64 
 
 BY-GONE DAYS, ......... 67 
 
 MORNING IN OCTOBER, 73 
 
 ida's grave, 76 
 
 MY prayer, ^9 
 
 THE FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS CHILDREN, .... 83 
 
 TO ON HIS MARRIAGE, 86 
 
 THE DYING STUDENT, 89 
 
 SOFTLY THE MORNING LIGHT— SONG, 93 
 
 A DIRGE, 95 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE SNOW, 97 
 
 THE exile's lament, . . . . . . . . 100 
 
 WE HAVE MET, 103 
 
 THE bride's adieu TO HER MOTHER, 106 
 
 THE BLIND GIRL, 109 
 
 TO ALICE, ; . . 113 
 
 SONG OF SPRING, 116 
 
 TO LIZZIE, . . . 119 
 
 TO A SLEEPING CHILD, 121 
 
 THE YOUNG WIFE, 124 
 
 WALOLULA — A TALE, . 126 
 
 THE DESERTED WIFE TO HER MOTHER, . . . . . 145 
 
 TO DICK, MY CANARY BIRD, 148 
 
 THE BANISHED WIFe's APPEAL, 151 
 
 LINES, 153 
 
 THE BREATH OF SPRING, 155 
 
 THE HOPES OF EARTH, r • 157 
 
 THE WOODS, 159 
 
 TO A LOCK OF HAIR, . 162 
 
 FLOWERS ON THE GRAVE, 164 
 
 DIRGE FOR THE BEAUTIFUL, * . 166 
 
OBITUARY AND miRODUCTORY. 
 
 DOLLY ELLEN RING was the second daughter of Jesse 
 and Keziah Ring, and was bora in Springfield, Mass., 
 March 21st, 1820. At the age of thirteen, she became the 
 adopted daughter of Joel and Dolly Brown, in the same 
 place. November 14th, 1844, she was married to Haskell 
 C. Goodman, with whom she lived but about eight months, 
 he dying on the 24tb. of July. 1845. On the 5th of May, 
 1852, she was re-married, becoming the, wife of James T. 
 Shepard. On the 3d of February, 1853, she died, at the age 
 of 32, and her remains lie in the Springfield Cemetery, — a 
 beautiful spot which her own pen has rendered doubly 
 attractive, and where she can sleep sweetly among her own 
 dreams. A brief record ! but covering a world of bitter 
 disappointment, holy aspiration, single-hearted love, tender 
 and out-reaching sympathy, untiring industry, and numberless 
 offices of affection and kindness, growing out of the hallowed 
 relations of daughter and wife — relations which, in her appre- 
 ciation, were fraught with a tenderness so deep and touching 
 that they became invested with the profoundest romance of 
 her nature. 
 
 At an early age, the subject of this sketch exhibited a 
 remarkable taste for drawing and literary composition. 
 These tastes received development in a careful education, 
 and the wonderful facility with which she wrote is evidenced 
 in the large mass of materials left in her portfolios and scrap- 
 books. The first of her published compositions was written 
 for the Springjield Repuhlican, and entitled " Clara Maywood." 
 The Republican was always a favorite medium, with her, for 
 the communication of her thoughts to the public, but she 
 wrote largely for the Columbian Magazine, Godey's Lady*s 
 
10 OBITUARY AND INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 Bookj Peterson's Ladies' Magazine, Morris ^ Willis' Home 
 Journal^ ArtJiur^s Gazette, the Southern Era, Dollar Newspaper, 
 Aurora Borealis. and other periodicals. These poems were 
 thrown off with great ease, among the duties of the family 
 and the school, and show that "song was her solace/' and 
 numbers the language of her thoughts and dreams. There 
 is no show of labor upon her poems. If there appear to be 
 carelessness Of expression, it is not the carelessness of art. 
 Her thoughts are first thoughts — her emotions fresh, and the 
 language chosen for their expression is artless and unstudied. 
 
 The muse of Mrs. Shepard, though not habitually sad, was 
 usually so. To this strain both her temperament and her 
 heart- trials tended. The majority of her published poems 
 were issued between the dates of her first and second mar- 
 riage — the long widowhood of a loving nature, and an unfor- 
 getful heart. A hearty, joyous, exulting song she never sung. 
 She had no language for th© wilder passions, for she never 
 felt their influence. Grandeur, and storm, and ardent life, 
 found no mirror within her, and, therefore, no expression. 
 Retiring in her tastes, and secluded by choice from the strifes 
 and tumults of society, her poems all had their birth in her 
 own private experience, and her own sympathies. That^^ 
 experience had been sad, and its memory was only softei 
 and chastened by years, while it opened her heart ia the 
 bereavements and sorrows of others so broadly, that she 
 could never withhold the word of comfort an^^i-^mpathyj 
 breathed in her best numbers, from those who wept over 
 precious dust, and bowed above the grave of buried hopes. 
 This latter fact particularly endeared her to a multitude of 
 her acquaintances, and it is to be regretted that many of her 
 poems— poems really among her best— cannot, with propriety, 
 be introduced in this volume, because of their occasional and 
 personal nature and interest. 
 
 Her prose contributions to the periodical press were numer- 
 ous, and, many of them, extended, consisting mostly of tales 
 and sketches : but her poetical productions illustrate so per- 
 fectly her literary genius, and her peculiar cast of thought 
 and sentiment, that one would easily decide upon the identity 
 
OBITUARY AND INTRODUCTORY. 11 
 
 of authorship existing between the former and the latter. 
 Her prose is all poetical — teeming with soft and familiar 
 images, sweet and pensive in tone, and always illustrative of 
 the simple romances of the heart, or of the sorrows which 
 they beautify, chasten, or dispel. In these, as well as in her 
 poetical efforts, her velvet-shod fancy walked constantly 
 among dim old trees, and whispering leaves and rare and 
 beautiful flowers. Her imagination invested the inanimate 
 things around her with human sympathies, and clothed 
 humanity with the attributes of external nature so perfectly, 
 that she illustrated one with the other with an interchangeable 
 facility that gave to her style its worst characteristic — that of 
 monotony. Never going beyond her own experience in one, 
 and her own vision in the other, her productions have not the 
 variety that a more varied life and a wider range would have 
 given them. Yet all her writings, in both fields of her effort, 
 and perhaps for the very reasons that have been given, 
 touched the popular heart, and spoke to a popular apprecia- 
 tion, with most fortunate felicity. 
 
 With Mrs. Shepard, the simple romance of girlhood never 
 wore away. The relentless hand of grief could not tear from 
 her eyes the veil whose colors clothed even the face of grief 
 itself in ideal hues. She had a flower for every weed of 
 mourning — a bud of hope for every sorrow. The brow of 
 death was, to her, invested with an immortal beauty, and the 
 unseen winds which lifted the damp curls that clustered upon 
 it, her fancy endowed with angel life, and heavenly forms 
 and fingers. She lived and moved in the companionship of 
 graceful, gentle, calm and chastened dreams, and yet these 
 dreams so walked hand in hand with her daily duties, so 
 intertwined themselves with all her relations, and were so 
 indissolubly associated with human life and all its objects 
 and pursuits, that her own life and labor, and all thoughts, 
 all events, all circumstances, all joys, all griefs, and all 
 existence, were beautified through the fellowship, and 
 became dreamlike to her imagination. 
 
 Mrs. Shepard wrote more for private satisfaction (han pub- 
 lic praise— more for friends than fame. Her efforts are all 
 
 \ 
 
12 OBITUARY AND INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 brief and unpretending, — drawn forth by some simple and 
 familiar object, some meet occasion, or some private experi- 
 ence. Her poems are to be judged by no cold rules of art — 
 by no unyielding standard of criticism, for they were written 
 without reference to such rules and such a standard. They 
 sprang from the heart, and sought simply and naturally for a 
 tuneful expression. The form of this expression was arrived 
 at through the instincts of a tuneful spirit, rather than any 
 rules of composition, or any recognized principles of art. 
 
 With this brief obituary notice of one whose memory is 
 cherished among the treasures of her native city, and this 
 tribute to her life, and description of her literary character, 
 the following collection of her poems is submitted to the 
 public. They are '^ cut-flowers,"' — unbound by a single 
 thread of relation, save that of a common origin, and brought 
 for the first time into companionship. Many poems will be 
 missed from the book which individuals would be glad to see, 
 but the rules which were deemed best to be adopted in the 
 preparation of a work for the public have shut them out. 
 
 It is proper to allude to the fact that many of the poems 
 collected in this volume were written over the signature of 
 *^ Lelia Mortimer" — the majority of their readers never 
 having mistrusted the identity of authorship existing between 
 them and those published over the writer's real signature. 
 Both names won a reputation which made them current coin 
 in the realm of periodical literature. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 TO THE RIVER CONNECTICUT. 
 
 How long will thy murmur 
 With voices of Summer 
 
 Mingle as now, 
 While the green mossy shore 
 Bends like a shadow o'er 
 
 Thy shining brow ? 
 Softly the fair sunlight 
 Over thy waters bright 
 
 Throws its white beam ; 
 Deeply the sky above 
 Mirrors its eye of love 
 
 In the clear stream ! 
 
14 TO THE RIVER CONNECTICUT. 
 
 n. 
 
 Through the long years agone^ 
 Thou hast been floating on, 
 
 Silent — serene — 
 WitliKhe same glance of light 
 Over thy wavelets bright, 
 
 And banks of green. 
 Sitting upon thy shore, 
 Gazing thy water o'er, 
 Musing and lone — 
 Can'st thou not to my heart 
 Softly some tale impart 
 Of ages gone ?' 
 
 iir. 
 
 Ere the pale-face had come 
 From his far distant home,, 
 
 Dauntless and brave ; 
 Or the fair blue-eyed girls, 
 With their light flowing curls,. 
 
 Smiled o'er the wave ; — 
 Ere the proud father bore 
 To a lone, stranger shore 
 
 Youth's unbent form, 
 That o'er the infant brow 
 Freedom's own breath might blow,. 
 Joyous and warm ; 
 
TO THE RIYER CONNECTICUT. 15 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ere the fond mother gave 
 T'rom the cold, cheerless wave 
 
 Her parting sigh 
 For her fair girlhood's home, 
 -Never again to roam 
 
 'Neath its blue sky ; — 
 In the deep forest's shade 
 Thy gentle waters played 
 
 With the pure light. 
 Streaming with glance of love 
 'Through wreathing bows above. 
 
 Golden and bright. 
 
 V. 
 
 Meek flowerets, lulled to rest, 
 Rocked on thy heaving breast. 
 
 Closed their blue eyes. 
 Dreaming all pleasant dreams, 
 -Bathing in golden beams 
 
 From the fair skies. 
 And the dark Indian maid 
 Through the deep forest-shade 
 
 Glided along. 
 Twining the blossoms fair 
 Hn her long, flowing hair, 
 
 Trilling a song. 
 
16 TO THE KIVER CONNECTICUT. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Over thy waves of blue 
 Floated her frail canoe, 
 
 Graceful and light ; 
 To the fair azure skies 
 Looked up her flashing eyes, 
 
 Dark-fringed and bright. 
 In the pure white-winged cloud, 
 In the heaven's gloomy shroud, 
 
 Or the clear gem 
 Looking with eye of love 
 From the fair host above — 
 
 Night's diadem — 
 
 VII. 
 
 In the meek wild-flower's eye. 
 Or the wind's solemn sigh, 
 
 Wafting its breath ; 
 In her own guileless hearf, 
 Where free from sinful art 
 
 Love lived till death ; — 
 Kead the dear maiden there 
 Of the Great Spirit's care ? 
 
 Saw she his face ? 
 Heard she his whisper low 
 In the calm streamlet's flow. 
 
 Blessing her race ? 
 
TO THE RIYER CONNECTICUT. 17 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Ages with silent tread 
 Onward their course have sped, 
 
 Bearing the brave — 
 Bearing the young and gay, 
 From thy fair shores away. 
 
 To the lone grave. 
 Long since the Indian maids 
 Went from their forest-shades 
 
 To a far home, — 
 No more with glances bright 
 Over these waves of light 
 
 Gaily to come. 
 
 And the proud chief — for him 
 Grew the bright sun so dim — 
 
 Life's beacon star — 
 Palely he fell asleep, 
 Not one his fate to weep. 
 
 Near or afar. 
 Now forms of light and grace, 
 Now beauty's witching face 
 
 Bend from thy shore, 
 Tones ever blithe and free 
 Float in their mirth and glee 
 
 Thy waters o'er. 
 2* 
 
18 TO THE RIVER CONNECTICUT. 
 
 River ! How long shall gleam 
 'Neath the sun's golden beam 
 
 Thj waters fair ? 
 How long the flowerets stoop, 
 And the pale lilies droop, 
 
 In beauty there ? 
 Soon shall the eyes that now 
 Gaze on thy shining brow, 
 
 Loveful and bright, — 
 Soon shall these tones of mirth, 
 Trembling in music forth. 
 
 Joyful and light ; — 
 
 XI. 
 
 Soon hands that twine the flowers, 
 Plucked from thy shady bowers 
 
 For love's warm breast, — 
 Feet that with tread of fawn 
 At Summer's rosy dawn 
 
 Thy banks have prest — 
 Soon all shall pass away : 
 Still will the sunlight play 
 
 Warmly and brig>xt 
 Upon thy flowing stream, 
 Smiling with silvery beam. 
 
 And glance of light. 
 
THE LAMENT. 
 
 The ice is on his brow ! My hand hath lain 
 
 Upon its polished surface long, to feel 
 The warm life-blood come creeping back again : 
 
 And I have watched to see the faint flush steal 
 Over his marble cheek : to mark the lid 
 
 That droops so coldly o'er the azure eyes — 
 Where such a world of noble love lies hid — 
 
 In this full, radiant burst of glory rise ! 
 Yes I have raised the curtain, that the light 
 
 From the far Eastern skies, all bathed in gold, 
 May rest upon his face — a halo bright — 
 
 And touch with gentle warmth his forehead cold. 
 
20 THE LAMENT. 
 
 II. 
 
 How the soft flood creeps to his raven hair 
 
 Tinging its blackness with a purple glow, 
 As the rich masses fall so darkly where 
 
 The shades are mingling with his brow's pure snow ! 
 How oft these curls have round my fingers twined — 
 
 Tossing and waving in the Summer breeze ; 
 Now drooping heavily, my soul can find 
 
 No life 'mid shadows deep and dark as these. 
 No life ! The ice is creeping round my heart — 
 
 I feel a cold hand press its broken strings : 
 A low voice whispers that not long we part — 
 
 Oh, to my soul what joy the whisper brings ! 
 
 Beloved one ! I can see an angel's wings 
 
 Sweeping across the far etherial blue — 
 Snow-white — excej)t where radiant beauty flings 
 
 Across their edge a tinge of golden -hue. 
 On toward the rising sun the winglets soar, 
 
 Bearing thy soul into the realms of day ; 
 There 'mid the sinless seraphs evermore 
 
 Thy happy feet and shining form shall stray. 
 Thy brow shall wear a wreath of burning gold. 
 
 Thy fingers shall strike harp-chords, waking notes 
 More exquisite than mortal tongue hath told, — 
 
 Pure as thy soul that in yon ether fioats ! 
 
 
WHERE DOTH THY SPIRIT DWELL ? 
 
 Where, oh ! where doth thy spirit dwell ? 
 By its home in the bosom of yonder star 
 That is shedding its silvery beams afar ? 
 Does it wander among the fadeless flowers 
 Which grace with their beauty its lovely bowers ? 
 Does it bask in the light of its cloudless skies ? 
 Is it fanned by its zephyrs which softly rise ? 
 
 Is thy home in that star ? Oh, tell ! 
 
 Where, oh where, is the loved one now ? — 
 In the cold, dark grave we have laid his head, 
 And planted a rose-tree over his bed ; 
 And the Autumn breeze, with its sad, soft sound. 
 Sweeps tremblingly over the verdant mound, 
 And the murmuring stream that is gliding by 
 Breathes forth its meaning and mournful sigh — 
 
 A requiem plaintive and low. 
 
22 WHERE DOTH THY SPIRIT DWELL ? 
 
 But where, oh where doth the spirit rest ? 
 It is not chained by the cheerless tomb ; 
 It doth not dwell in its deepening gloom. 
 It is far away in a home on high, 
 Where eyes never weep and hearts never sigh, 
 Where the flowers of happiness never fade, 
 In a mansion of bliss, by hands not made — 
 
 Thy home is the land of the blest. 
 
OH, TELL ME NOT. — SONG. 
 
 Oh tell me not of an azure eye 
 
 With its glances soft and meek ; 
 Nor of golden curls that gracefully 
 
 Wave over the marble cheek ! 
 Oh tell me not of a step as free 
 
 As that of the bounding hare, 
 Of a laugh that echoes joyously, 
 
 And a bosom free from care ! 
 
 Oh tell me not of a lustrous eye, 
 
 With its depth of changing light. 
 And of ringlets waving gaily by 
 
 As dark as the shades of night! 
 Oh tell me not of a snowy brow, 
 
 And a lip of coral dye — 
 Of a voice as softly sweet and low 
 
 As a Summer zephyr's sigh ! 
 
24 OH, TELL ME NOT. SONG. 
 
 The maid / love has an eye of gray, 
 
 With a glance as wild and bright 
 As the rich brown curls, that float away 
 
 From her forehead, pure and white. 
 When from the depths of her gushing soul 
 
 The quivering song is stirred, 
 The soft strains over the hushed heart roll 
 
 Like the music of a bird. 
 
 The maid I love has a smile and word 
 
 Of endearment sweet for all ; 
 No note of scorn has ever been heard 
 
 From her ruby lips to fall. 
 She is blithe and gladsome as a child, 
 
 With a bosom light and gay ; 
 And her home is in the woodland wild 
 
 Far over the hills away. 
 
THE YOUNG MISSIONARY. 
 
 She was a fair, pale girl with mild, soft eyes, 
 Shaded by heavy lashes, and a cheek 
 Of lily pureness ; and upon her brow — 
 That gleamed beneath the braids of golden brown — 
 Were rich intelligence and holy thought ; 
 And she had been by the deserted hearth 
 Of her poor widowed mother, like a ray 
 Of silver sunlight, piercing through a cloud. 
 Yet, when the roses bloomed about the door. 
 And the bright birds poured forth their low, sweet strains^ 
 And the blue skies smiled lovingly o'er all — 
 The dear girl bowed her head upon the breast 
 Where oft it had been pillowed, and through tears 
 Of mingled grief and gladness, fondly gazed 
 On the beloved, mild and gentle face, 
 That ever, through her hours of joy and grief, 
 Had hovered over her. And the pale hand 
 3 
 
26 THE YOUNG MISSIONARY, 
 
 Of that meek mother lingered 'mid her curls, 
 And the thin lips upon her brow ; and sighs 
 Broke the hushed stillness of the hour. Blessings 
 Were breathed above the bended head, and there, 
 With the chosen, one beside her, she went forth 
 To labor in a stranger land, and die 
 Beneath the warm, bright sun of Ai:ia's skies. 
 
 Evening drew on — the quiet, holy eve — 
 And its first star was gleaming in the sky, 
 Golden and bright, amid the blue expanse. 
 They took her out amid the tall palm-trees, 
 And let the heavy, fragrant air blow back 
 From her transparent brow its wealth of curls. 
 And with its fairy fingers touch her cheek. 
 Bringing a rose-like luster to its pure 
 And pearly whiteness. And, as she gazed around, 
 A beautiful smile came to her deep eyes, 
 And parted her thin lips ; while soft and low 
 Came up her music-tones like the faint breath 
 Of lute-strings, swept by snowy wings ; — 
 
 " To look my last 
 Upon thy holy brow, my love, 
 
 As gathering fast 
 These tears thy deep affection prove : 
 
THE YOUNG MISSIONARY. 27 
 
 To see this band 
 Of dark-browed children meekly press 
 
 My drooping hand, 
 And weep in their deep tenderness : 
 
 *' To lay my brow 
 And fevered cheek upon thy breast, 
 
 And thus to know 
 That to its happy, peaceful rest 
 
 My soul must wing 
 Its way — a sadness to my heart 
 
 The thought might bring, 
 With thee and these so soon to part. 
 
 *'But there are flowers 
 In that far land of cloudless skies. 
 
 Not such as ours 
 That fade and droop, no more to rise ; 
 
 And golden beams 
 Are trembling in the fragrant air. 
 
 And sunlight gleams, 
 And glorious beauty everywhere. 
 
28 THE YOUNG MISSIONARY. 
 
 " And we shall meet — 
 Meet there, my love, to part no more ; 
 
 And low and sweet, 
 My mother's voice upon that shore 
 
 Will softly come, 
 And I shall see her own dear eyes 
 
 As, in my home. 
 They beamed like light from Summer skies. 
 
 "'Tis well to die 
 Here on this pleasant eventide — 
 
 Thus happily 
 To pass from thy dear, faithful side : 
 
 But bear thou up. 
 And humbly kiss the chastening rod ; 
 
 This bitter cup 
 Will draw thee nearer to thy God. " 
 
TO AN OLD MAN. 
 
 I am looking on thy brow. 
 
 With its furrows broad and deep ; 
 At the thin and silver locks 
 
 That across it gently sweep; 
 And I think of other days. 
 
 When upon that forehead fail', 
 Waved more gracefully and free 
 
 Curls of soft and silken hair. 
 
 As I gaze upon thy eye, 
 
 Sunken, dull, but sweetly mild 
 Soft and blue as Summer sky. 
 
 And with love and meekness filled — 
 Of thy youthful days I dream. 
 
 When its glance was wild and bright 
 As the sunlight on a stream. 
 
 Or the starry eyes of night. 
 
30 TO AN OLD MAN. 
 
 Pale and sunken is thy cheek, 
 And thy lips are thin and white, — 
 
 Trembling ever when they speak, 
 Like an aspen in the night. 
 
 I am thinking of the time 
 When the rose was blooming there : 
 
 Once the glow of youthful prime 
 Spread o'er all thy features fair. 
 
 And thy feet that totter now 
 
 Underneath the weight they bear, 
 Once, upon the green hill's brow, 
 
 Koamed as free as Summer air. 
 Proud and careless was thy tread — 
 
 As a wild deer's o'er the vale — 
 Crushing down the lily's head, 
 
 And the violet blue and pale. 
 
 Sitting at the gate of death, 
 
 With a sweet light on thy brow, 
 And within thy humble heart 
 
 Angel-whispers soft and low — 
 Thou canst throw thy failing eyes 
 
 Back upon life's checkered leaf. 
 Calling out its smiles and sighs, 
 
 And its hours of joy and grief. 
 
TO AN OLD MAN. 31 
 
 Like a painful, pleasant dream 
 
 Must the past appear to thee ; 
 Here a bright and golden beam — 
 
 There a shade of misery. 
 Here the glance of sunny eyes, 
 
 And the calm brow of the brave ; 
 There the turf that coldly lies 
 
 Over Beauty's early grave. 
 
 Tones of softest melody 
 
 Reach thee on the wind's light wing, 
 Pouring joy into the heart 
 
 Like the pleasant breath of Spring ; 
 Moans that from the troubled soul 
 
 Break in grief's abandoned wail, 
 Turning the warm blood to ice, 
 
 And the flushed cheek deadly pale. 
 
 Here the wild flowers in the path, 
 
 Throwing sweets upon the air — 
 And the dewy, glittering wreath. 
 
 Shining in its beauty rare : 
 There the flowerets, withered, dead. 
 
 Lying on the damp, cold earth 
 And the bloom forever fled 
 
 That endowed their fragrant birth ! 
 
32 TO AN OLD MAN. 
 
 Turn, old man, thy weary eyes, 
 
 And thy crushed and bleeding heart, 
 To that rest where bitter sighs 
 
 Never from the bosom start, — 
 Where, the cares and bliss of earth 
 
 Are remembered as a dream, 
 And upon thy brow a crown, 
 
 Placed by angel hands, shall beam. 
 
 Oh ! it must be sweet to look. 
 
 In thy meek and childish age, 
 Far away from Life's dark book — 
 
 From each dull and tear-dimmed page 
 To a home of radiant light, 
 
 To a land of flowers and bloom. 
 Where will come no shade of night — 
 
 Wliere will creep no thought of gloom. 
 
THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 We crown thee Queen ! — 
 Thou with the dark hair and gentle eye — 
 
 The ivy green 
 Is twined with the rose-bud of delicate dye ; 
 
 The lily, too, 
 With its snowy bosom all wet with dew, 
 
 And violets 
 From their shady nook we have culled for you. 
 
 II. 
 
 We have wandered o'er 
 The soft, green meadows in quest of flowers, 
 
 And by the shore 
 Of lake and stream, for many long hours ; 
 
34 THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Then sat us down 
 In this cool, and sweet, and shadowy place, 
 
 To weave a crown — 
 A beautiful garland for thy dear face. 
 
 III. 
 
 The lily fair, 
 With its leaves all spotless, and pure and white, 
 
 In thy dark hair 
 Looks forth like a spirit of beauty and light. 
 
 The sweet blush-rose 
 Has nestled beside thy soft, bright cheek ; 
 
 And the violet 
 Looks forth from its curtain with glances meek. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh ! touch her brow 
 With a light, soft pressure, sweet wreath of flowers ! 
 
 And whisper low 
 Of hope and comfort in future hours ! 
 
 From her fond heart 
 Oh ! banish each feeling of anguish and care ; 
 
 And never depart — 
 The deep, pure thoughts thou hast planted there ! 
 
\ 
 
 FAVORITE WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 Ye are here, at last, sweet flowers ! 
 
 I've roamed in a shadowy grove — 
 With a sigh through the bright Spring hours 
 
 To catch your first glance of love. 
 I've knelt to the deep, rich moss, 
 
 With its glimmer of green and gold, 
 To see if your azure leaves 
 
 Were not hid in its velvet fold. 
 
 I've bent to the laughing rill 
 
 That went singing in its glee, 
 To see if its voice of love 
 
 Were not breathing, flower, of thee. 
 And among the lilies white — 
 
 That drooped with their shining dew 
 I've looked for a form of light — 
 
 For an eye of meekest blue. 
 
36 FAVORITE WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 I stooped to a violet's bed, 
 
 Where a fragrant sigh rose up, 
 And a softened light was shed 
 
 O'er its delicate, golden cup. 
 And I thought to find thee there — 
 
 Thou lowly and lovely thing — 
 For the fairest and the fair 
 
 Should nestle with wing to wing. 
 
 But the violet and the rill 
 
 Were breathing no word of thee, 
 And the moss upon the hill 
 
 Bore flowers less dear to me. 
 Then I sought a sheltered nook. 
 
 Where the sunbeams rarely play, 
 (Except with a farewell look 
 
 At close of a Summer's day ;) 
 
 Where the deep, green vines were clinging 
 
 In a wreath above thy head. 
 And stealthy winds were bringing 
 
 Soft perfumes from thy bed. 
 Where gleams of the deep blue sky 
 
 In the thick leaves seemed to rest, 
 Lending azure to thine eye 
 
 And glory to thy breast : 
 
FAVORITE WILD FLOWERS. 37 
 
 Yes — I found tliee there, sweet flower, 
 
 With a sudden, joyous start ; 
 For thou hast the strange, strange power 
 
 To move and melt my heart. 
 I have borne thee to my home ; 
 
 Thou'rt here, thou'rt here at last. 
 And a throng have with thee come — 
 
 Bright memories of the past. 
 
 Not strange that you thus should throw 
 
 Your tendrils around my soul ! 
 Not strange that you thus should bow 
 
 My spirit to your control ! 
 Was your fragrant breath not shed 
 
 O'er a beauteous brow and cold, 
 That lay in its coffin bed — 
 
 In its hair of sleeping gold ? 
 
 Did your leaves not nestle down 
 
 To a chill and pulseless breast^ 
 Wlience the pure, meek soul had gone 
 
 To its bright and heavenly rest ? 
 And did not a hand of snow — 
 
 Tiny and frozen as death — 
 Lie heavily on your brow, 
 
 And press out your fragrant breath '< 
 4 
 
38 FAVOKITE >yiLD FLOWERS. 
 
 You whispered so softly there 
 
 Of a glorious home above, 
 As you lay in her golden hair 
 
 With your look of patient love ; 
 You withered so meekly, too, 
 
 On her still and icy breast. 
 With your leaves of palest blue. 
 
 As you shared her grave's deep rest 
 
 Thou art loved like her, dear flower, 
 
 And I dream her soul, in thee — 
 In the balmy summer hour — 
 
 May smile in its love on me ; — 
 That I see the loving gaze 
 
 Of her radiant, heaven-blue eye, 
 And hear her tone as thy breath 
 
 In fragrance is wafted by. 
 
MORNING IN JUNE. 
 
 Come out beneath the skies 
 On this June morning 1 Oh ! how deeply bUie 
 
 Above the stream that lies 
 Among the flowers, all wet with pearly dew, 
 
 They bend ! And cloudlets sail 
 Within the azure depths with snowy wing, 
 
 And, flitting o'er the vale, 
 Their shadows with a somber beauty fling. 
 
40 MORNING IN JUNE. 
 
 Come out among the flowers ! 
 The glad, bright flowers that peep from grove and hedge 
 
 Within the leafy bowers, 
 And by the streamlet, stooping o'er its edge 
 
 They wave ; and on the air — 
 The pure, warm air — their breath comes gushing forth. 
 
 On morn like this — so fair 
 And glorious — how beautiful is earth I 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh ! Month of Eoses I Thou 
 Hast ever been most welcome month to me ; 
 
 I love to bare my brow 
 To thy soft winds, and to the minstrelsy 
 
 Of thy glad songsters bend 
 The ear to listen. Matins soft and lo^^ 
 
 With thy mild zephyrs blend, 
 And o'er the shaded rills the sweet notes flow. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Come out ! The fresh green leaves 
 Are whispering of joy, and peace, and love ; 
 
 And the low-drooping eaves 
 The wild vine thi'ows its tendrils far above ; 
 
MORNING IN JUNE, 41 
 
 And butterflies on wing 
 Of gold are floating tliix)ugli the heavy air. 
 
 And purple violets bring 
 Their morning incense, smiling everywhere. 
 
 And rose-wreaths clamber up 
 Each mossy stone, flinging their leaves of snow 
 
 Into the blue-bell's cup ; 
 And opening buds with fragrant freshness blow 
 
 With dew-gems on their breast, 
 And sweetly smile, as the warm sunbeam's kiss 
 
 Calls them from their deep rest. 
 To yield their offering to a morn like this. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Come forth ! And Avith a heart 
 Swelling with grateful rapture look abroad ! 
 
 A thrill of joy must start 
 In the full soul a note of praise to God, 
 
 For the dear birds and flowers. 
 The singing streams that glance thus in the light, 
 
 The leafy groves and bowers. 
 And all that makes this world so fair and brisrht. 
 
 4* 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 I had a dream, a pleasant dream, for tliou wert by my side, 
 In the flush of manly beauty and in all thy strength and 
 
 pride ; 
 A healthy bloom was on thy cheek, a brightness in thy 
 
 eye, 
 And I heard thy voice of melody come trembling softly by. 
 
 It was a dream — and yet methought I felt upon my brow 
 The pressure of thy gentle hand — I feel that pressure 
 
 now ; 
 But when I start with wild delight to fall upon thy neck, 
 I stand all desolate and lone, to misery awake. 
 
STANZAS. 43 
 
 III. 
 
 It seems but yesterday I stood a blest and liappy bride, 
 And fondly gazed into thy eyes, and saw thy glance of 
 
 pride. 
 We little thought how deep a night would close that ^loud- 
 
 less day. 
 How soon thy gentle spirit, love, would rise and pass away. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I saw thee falling suddenly : they told me thou must die ; 
 A death-like chill was on my heart, a tear within my eye ; 
 I bent above thy marble brow, and saw the paleness there, 
 And put the clustering ringlets back in mute and dark 
 despair. 
 
 Oh! none may know the agony that tore my bleeding 
 
 heart. 
 When I pressed thy white and icy cheek, and saw thy life 
 
 depart : 
 One look of love unspeakable beamed from thy dying eyes, 
 And then thy spirit, freed from earth, had soared beyond 
 
 the skies. 
 
44 STANZAS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Oh ! would that I might pierce the veil that hides the 
 
 spirit land, 
 And listen to the heavenly strains that flow beneath thy 
 
 hand ; 
 Oh ! would that I might gaze upon the crown that gilds 
 
 thy brow, 
 And see thy face all radiant with smiles of rapture now ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Within the green and silent grave they've laid thee down 
 
 to rest. 
 With thy cold and marble Angers folded lightly on thy 
 
 breast ; 
 But thou ne'er shalt see the springing buds that blossom 
 
 o'er thy brow, 
 For the flowers which never, never fade, are blooming 
 
 round thee now. 
 
TO AN OLD FRIEND. 
 
 Glad Summers have fled since we met : 
 
 Cold Winters with chill, icy breath : 
 Full many a Spring-day hath set, 
 
 And its flowers have faded in death. 
 Mild Autumn's gay, delicate finger 
 
 Hath silently passed o'er the land, 
 'Till on the broad earth seemed to linger 
 
 A charm from a fairy's bright wand. 
 
46 TO AN OLD FRIEND. 
 
 Fair forms have grown cold since we met, 
 
 And passed to the desohite tomb ; 
 Soft eyes Avhose light comes o'er me yet 
 
 Have grown rayless in Death's deep gloom. 
 Sunny curls that the flushed-cheek shaded — 
 
 That waived o'er the calm, open brow, 
 Have been stilled as the rose-hue faded, 
 
 And Life's current liath ceased to flow. 
 
 Youth's hopes have been crushed since we met, 
 
 Sweet visions have faded in night, 
 And wrongs the heart may not forget 
 
 Have left with me coldness and blight. 
 Fond dreams that had come to the heart — 
 
 Like the soft, trembling winds over flowers — 
 Have fled as the glad birds depart 
 
 For the light of their own fadeless bowers. 
 
 These eyes have grown dim since we met. 
 
 These dark locks are changing to white : 
 The sun of my youth has long set 
 
 In the dimness and shadow of night. 
 But the heart, my old friend, the warm heart, 
 
 In its freshness and sunshine is free. 
 And its deep love will never depart 
 
 From the image and memory of thee. 
 
SWEET MEMORIES. 
 
 Oh ! there are memories that throng 
 
 So closely round the heart. 
 That of its hidden, trembling strings 
 
 They seem to form a part. 
 They're woven in with every dream 
 
 That haunts our nightly rest, 
 And nestle like a golden beam 
 
 Deep in the troubled breast. 
 
48 SWEET MEMORIES. 
 
 Oh ! there are memories that crowd 
 
 And cluster in the brain — 
 That bind us gently to the past, 
 
 And make us grasp again 
 The blooming flowers our childhood knew. 
 
 Ere change had come, or blight. 
 When each fair bud was Avet with dew — 
 
 Each blossom crowned with light. 
 
 Sweet memories I Ye gently now 
 
 Are whispering to my heart ; 
 I feel your light upon my brow, 
 
 And tears of rapture start. 
 Ye tell me of the sun-lit hours 
 
 Of life's transcendent morn, 
 When birds sang gaily, and the flowers 
 
 Bore not their later thorn. 
 
 Ye tell me of the young, the fair, 
 
 Who flitted round my path ; 
 I twine amid their clustering hair 
 
 A bright and beauteous wreath. 
 I listen to the warbled notes 
 
 That tremble on the tongue, 
 'Till through my soul the music floats 
 
 Like strains by angels sung. 
 
SWEET MEMORIES. 45 
 
 Oh ! stay, then, gentle memories, 
 
 Within my heart of hearts. 
 And softly hush its heaving sighs, 
 
 And wipe the tear that starts. 
 Oh ! hold, ye gentle memories, 
 
 Your empire in my breast, 
 'Till death shall close my weary eyes, 
 
 And take me to its resti 
 
TO A SOUTHERN POETESS. 
 
 Clouds are floating through the heaven, 
 
 Tinged with brightest gold, 
 And the gentle star of even — 
 
 From its azure fold — 
 Peeps into my open casement, 
 
 Like an eye of love, 
 And it whispers to my spirit — 
 
 Whispers from above. 
 
TO A SOUTHERN POETESS. 51 
 
 Now the evening winds are singing 
 
 Through the maple leaves, 
 And the drooping boughs are swinging 
 
 *Neath the cottage eaves. 
 And the birds have sought the shadows 
 
 With their folded wings, 
 While the night's low voices murmur 
 
 In sweet whisperings. 
 
 Mists are on the mountains lying — 
 
 Dew is on the flowers, 
 And a soft and gentle sighing 
 
 Fills the vales and bowers. 
 And the silver moonbeam glances 
 
 From the azure sea ; 
 As the silent night advances, 
 
 Dream I, now, of thee ! 
 
 Hear I now the gentle murmur 
 
 Of the limpid streams ; 
 See I now the flowers of Summer, 
 
 And its golden beams ; 
 And the mild and mellow moon-rays 
 
 That at evening come — 
 Weaving silvery wreaths of beauty 
 
 Round thy Southern home. 
 
52 TO A SOUTHERN POETESS. 
 
 Now I'm fondly dreaming, dearest, 
 
 Dreaming — I am there ! 
 Listen, sister, 'till thou hearest 
 
 On the silent air 
 Tones of love that I would breathe thee. 
 
 Soft, and sweetly spoken — 
 For I fold my hands, and tremble, 
 
 Lest the spell be broken. 
 
 I would weave a wreath of roses — 
 
 Weave them for thy brow. 
 While the evening dew reposes 
 
 In their buds, as now. 
 I would bind it in thy tresses. 
 
 With a murmured prayer 
 That the cloud of earthly sorrow 
 
 Ne'er may hover there. 
 
 Softly float across the heaven 
 
 Clouds of fleecy white. 
 Like some watchful spirits driven 
 
 In their robes of light ; 
 And the islands of the blessed, 
 
 Glittering and bright. 
 Gleam far up amid the stillness. 
 
 On the sea of night. 
 
TO A SOUTHERN POETESS. 53 
 
 Do our lost ones, 'mid tlie brightness 
 
 Of yon shining gems — 
 Forms of airy grace and lightness 
 
 With their diadems — 
 Wander now with harps all golden 
 
 Over radiant flowers, 
 Never withering, ne'er grown olden, 
 
 In those heavenly bowers ? 
 
 We will deem that it is even 
 
 As it seemeth now — 
 That we see the light of heaven 
 
 In the stars' mild glow ; 
 That they watch us — angel spirits 
 
 From their home above ; 
 That these solemn, thrilling voices 
 
 Are their tones of love. 
 
THE CAPTIVE EXILE'S DREAM. 
 
 'Tis gone ! Twas but a flash of light that broke 
 
 Across my darkened way — a whisper sweet 
 Within my crushed and bleeding heart that woke 
 
 A joy as pure and exquisite as fleet ! 
 I st»nd again within ray prison walls, 
 
 With folded hands and brow all cold and chill, ■ 
 Ko beam of light across my pathway falls, 
 
 And gloom and darkness are around me still. 
 
THE CAPTIVE EXILE's DREAM. 55 
 
 But could it be a dream — a mockery all ? 
 
 But now — I stood within the ancient dome 
 Across wliose marble steps the sunbeams fall, 
 
 And to whose garden flowers the Spring-winds come. 
 I was a child, a pure and guileless hoy, 
 
 With the soft tint of health upon my cheek ; 
 And my heart bounded with the pulse of joy — 
 
 A joy too deep for feeble words to speak. 
 A form of angel beauty bent above me, 
 
 Within a soft, fair hand my own was prest, 
 And oh ! I knew that my meek mother loved me, 
 
 As then she clasped me to her throbbing breast. 
 We wandered forth where the pure waters glide 
 
 In soothing murmurs over bending flowers. 
 And on the changing landscape, far and wide, 
 
 Were scattered drooping trees and shady bowers. 
 And there beneath the shadow of the trees 
 
 A fairy group had gathered. Sisters dear — 
 Their long curls floating in the Summer breeze — 
 
 And in their deep, blue eyes a happy tear — 
 Came bounding forward with their tones of glee. 
 
 To grasp my hand, and round my bending neck 
 Throw their white arms — their hearts as glad and free 
 
 As the soft winds that tones of music make. 
 
 Once more — childhood had passed, its smiles, its tears — 
 And my cheeks glowed in early manhood's pride ; 
 
56 THE CAPTIVE EXILE's DREAM. 
 
 My full heart knew no grief — no coward fears — 
 
 But beat in the full strength of youth's free tide. 
 The world was beautiful, and the pure light 
 
 Of heaven's o'erarching blue beamed on my way ; 
 And gazing on the spangled brow of Night, 
 
 Or musing in the radiance of Day, 
 I was most happy. Forms and faces bright 
 
 Seemed hovering round my path with violet eyes, 
 And foreheads, 'neath their golden curls, as white 
 
 As a pure iily's breast, and from the skies 
 Was wafted thrilling music. 
 
 There was one — 
 
 A pure and girlish one — with ligl;t brown hair 
 That parted from a pearly brow ; her tone 
 
 Whene'er she breathed my name was light as air, 
 And full of sweetest melody. Her eyes 
 
 Were heaven's own blue, — as calmly dark and deep 
 As the still bosom of a lake that lies 
 
 In shade, when the soft winds of Summer sleep. 
 Mary ! 'Twas thy meek gaze that woke my heart 
 
 From its long slumber, once again to thrill 
 With exquisite delight ; once more to start 
 
 And bound with holy rapture, but 'tis still, — 
 Throbless and icy cold within my breast ! 
 
 Ah ! doubly wretched is my lone life now, 
 Since the bright thoughts that soothed my soul to rest 
 
 Have sunk in darkness like the golden glow 
 That at the close of day goes down the West. 
 
THE CAPTIVE EXILE's DREAM. 57 
 
 Alone ! When the refulgent king of Day- 
 Throws his broad beams across the Western sky, 
 
 And the glad floweret, with the breeze at play, 
 Raises to heaven its dew-bespangled eye ; 
 
 When the calm hour of evening comes — the hour 
 That brings a holy peace, a grateful prayer, 
 
 And the heart gushes forth beneath the power 
 Of gentle love, and on the fragrant air 
 
 Are wafted sweetest sounds ; and when the hush 
 Of solemn midnight lies upon the earth. 
 
 And o'er the crushed and drooping spirit rush — 
 Like a fierce mockery — the tones of mirth 
 
 That haunted the bright past • — alone ! alone ! 
 I bend within my prison home and sigh 
 
 That I must wither thus, and droop and die. 
 
 They pass away — the long and tedious days — 
 
 But bring no hope. No lingering ray of light 
 Creeps through my heavy walls, and gently plays 
 
 With my long, unshorn hair. To bless my sight, 
 There comes no love-lit eye, and, to my ear. 
 
 No soft endearing word, to tell that one 
 Among the crowd that listened once to hear 
 
 My faintest tone, now that, unseen, alone 
 I weep, mourns with me. If I might but breathe 
 
 Heaven's free, pure air once more, and bend above, 
 And pluck the modest, meek-eyed flowers that wreathe 
 
 A garland for the earth — the flowers I love ; — 
 
58 THE CAPTIVE EXILE'S DREAM. 
 
 Oh ! if I might but bare my fevered brow 
 
 To the soft breeze of Summer, flinging back 
 These matted locks that droop so darkly now, 
 
 And feel the warm-and golden sunbeams track 
 Across my hqllow cheek — but no ! There comes 
 
 No hope of such a bliss. I must lie down 
 Within this narrow cell where darkness reigns, 
 
 Unshrouded and unmourned. I must alone 
 Tread the deep vale of death, and sink to sleep, 
 "With no fond eye above my grave to weep. 
 
 Hush ! — for a sound, a soft and soothing strain. 
 
 Hath reached my prison room ! It floats along — 
 Now tender, and now rich and clear ; again, 
 
 Trembling as sweetly as the winds upon 
 An untuned harp-string ! Hush, my fluttering heart ! 
 
 Is it some angel spirit, come to break 
 The chain that binds me here, and shall I start. 
 
 Free as the air from these dark walls, and take 
 My path to yonder heaven ? 
 
 Father ! forgive. 
 If I have murmured 'neath the heavy blow 
 That thus hath crushed my soul ! I would not live 
 
 And wander from the thorny path which Thou 
 Hast marked ; but, ere I close my weary eyes. 
 One heartfelt prayer ! E'en now the thought will rise 
 The thought of one whom more than aught on earth 
 
THE CAPTIVE EXILE'S DREAM. 59 
 
 I love. For many weary months, the hearth 
 Round which we gathered hath been dark and drear. 
 Oh ! Father ! Hush the sighs, and quench the tear 
 Of that meek, gentle one ! And when, at last, 
 Her years of bitterness shall all have passed, 
 Take her to dwell with Thee on that bright shore 
 Where we shall meet again, to part no more ! 
 
THE MOTHER'S GIFT. 
 
 Sister, I give to thee 
 With my last breath this precious trust ; 
 
 Ere my frail form shall be 
 Lifeless and cold beneath the dust, 
 
 I lay my yearning heart, 
 With all its weakness at thy feet ; 
 
 And tell thee, ere we part, 
 Its rising fears — its hopes all bright and sweet. 
 
THE mother's gift. 61 
 
 Sister, now lay thy hand 
 Upon my darling's youthful head ; 
 
 Angels from that far land 
 Are lingering near with noiseless tread ; 
 
 And meekly raise thy eyes — 
 Those soft, dark eyes whose gaze I love — 
 
 To the deep bending skies : 
 Then breathe the vow I ask to Heaven above ! 
 
 Sister, I give her now, 
 With her pure, loving heart, to thee. 
 
 1 ook on her girlish brow 
 Where genius sits all high and free, 
 
 And say that when shall rest 
 My weary form within the grave, 
 
 Thou'lt take her to thy breast, 
 And for thy charge Heaven's choicest blessings crave. 
 
 Sister, I break the tie — 
 The dearest tie that binds me here ; 
 
 Yet not without a sigh. 
 Nor can I check the falling tear. 
 
 I know that thou wilt be 
 Gentle and kind ; yet feelings wild 
 
 And deep come over me, 
 As now I give her up — my darling child, 
 6 
 
62 THE mother's gift. 
 
 Sister, I'm calmer now. 
 A holy spell is over me ; 
 
 I hear a whisper low, 
 Breathing in sweetest melody : 
 
 " Worn spirit hush thy fears — 
 Thou goest to a better land ; 
 
 Worn spirit, dry thy tears — 
 Thy child shall ever know my guiding hand." 
 
 Sister, I give her up 
 To Heaven's protecting care and thine ; 
 
 I've drained the bitter cup. 
 And now are peace and calmness mine. 
 
 Lead her young mind to God, 
 And bid her fix her love above the earth. 
 
 That she may kiss the rod 
 When gloom and sorrow hover round her path. 
 
 Sister, sometimes at close. 
 Of a bright Summer's day. 
 
 When o'er the bending rose 
 The spirit-breeze shall softly play, — 
 
 Oh take her by the hand. 
 And kneel above her mother's grave ; 
 
 Tell her o"* that bright lend 
 That lies beyond Time's ruthless wave. 
 
THE mother's gift. 63 
 
 And tell her, sister dear, 
 An angel waits on that blest shore 
 
 To guide her steps while here. 
 And take her when her life is o'er. 
 
 IS'ow sister mine, adieu ! 
 The storm is past — I go to reign 
 
 In heaven : O be thou true, 
 'Till in that blessed home we meet again ! 
 
KING DEATH AND THE MAIDEN. 
 
 On a fair summer day when the bright earth was clad 
 
 In her vesture of beautiful dyes, 
 When a burst of wild music that made the heart glad 
 
 Was heard on the soft winds to rise — 
 King Death took his quiver, and wandered alone 
 
 'Till he came to a garden of flowers ; 
 When he bent low his ear to list to a song 
 
 That stole softly from vine-hidden bowers. 
 
KING DEATH AND THE MAIDEN. 65 
 
 II. 
 
 On a soft, mossy seat reclined a young gii'l, 
 
 In the flush of her beauty and grace ; 
 On her forehead of snow lay a bright, golden curl, 
 
 And a smile wreathed her beautiful face. 
 Her soft eye of blue was bent laughingly down 
 
 To a garland her fairy hands wrought, 
 While a rich, mellow strain from her sweet lips that flowed 
 
 On the wings of the Zephyr was caught. 
 
 III. 
 
 King Death stood awhile, 'till the last liquid sound 
 
 Had melted in sweetness away, 
 Then he stealthily crept o'er the flower-sprinkled gi'ound. 
 
 To the bower where the fair maiden lay. 
 With his cold, icy fingers he parted the vine, 
 
 And gazed on his victim awhile — 
 Saw her fair dimpled hands the rich blossoms entwine, 
 
 And her dark eyes grow bright with a smile ; — 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then o'er her full lips and her rose tinted cheek 
 
 That sm.le in its radiance crept ; — 
 On her tongue a soft murmur which words might not speak 
 
 Told the tale in her bosom that slept. 
 *6 
 
QQ KING DEATH AND THE MAIDEN. 
 
 She raised with her white, fairy fingers the wreath, 
 And placed it upon her young head : 
 
 A low burst of gladness came with her full breath, 
 And King Death his arrow had sped ! 
 
 Sweet maiden I One sound — a low, quivering sigh 
 
 Came tremblingly forth from her breast ; 
 The dark lashes fell o'er the deep azure eye. 
 
 And the spirit arose to its rest. 
 King Death bent one moment above the fair head — 
 
 With its clustering ringlets of gold — 
 Then, smiling, he turned from her green, mossy bed. 
 
 And left the maid lifeless and cold. 
 
BY-GONE DAYS. 
 
 I will dream upon this shore : 
 As the soft light flashes o'er 
 Tiny waves that fall and rise, 
 Blue and golden like the skies — 
 As the low wind bears along 
 Incense sweet and breath of song, 
 And the willow branches bow 
 To the deepening shades below, 
 And the light spray bathes the flower! 
 I V, ill dream of by-o;one hours ! 
 
68 BY-GONE DAYS. 
 
 II. 
 
 Sunset hues are in the west, 
 And upon the azure breast 
 Of the peaceful heavens at rest, 
 Gorgeous clouds, in glory drest : 
 Gold and purple mingle there. 
 And The air, the very air 
 Seems a sea of blended dyes, 
 Waving 'neath the dark, deep skies, — 
 Bearing on its unseen wings 
 To the soul all beauteous things. 
 
 III. 
 
 Now the bright tints die away 
 Softly, as the glad beams play 
 On the river's joyous face 
 That has lain in their embrace ; 
 (For the waters pure and cold 
 Seem a sea of burnished gold ;) 
 Now a somber look, and grave, 
 Stealeth o'er the shining wave — 
 Now is hushed their music light 
 'Neath the shadows of the night. 
 
BY GONE-DAYS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 69 
 
 Up among the branches old 
 Of the dear elms, proud and bold, 
 Looketh down an eye of love 
 From the quiet realms above ! 
 Shedding silver beams afar, 
 Shineth out the evening star 
 Like a drop of pearly dew 
 From a violet deeply blue, 
 Or a tear within the eye 
 As a love tone creepeth by. 
 
 Now upon the river's breast 
 Seems the golden star to rest, 
 "While the shadows deeply lie 
 Round the azure of the sky, 
 And a voice is borne along 
 Like the joyous breath of song ! 
 Softly now that music tone 
 Telle ih of the bright hours gone — 
 Of the thornless flowers that lay 
 Round Life's fair and opening day. 
 
70 BY-GONE DATS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 By-gone hours ! Ye're with me now 
 Sun^hine sits upon my brow — 
 Deepest thoughts of rapture start 
 In my young and bounding heart ; 
 Now I pluck the violet blue, 
 Shaking off the pearly dew ; — 
 Now the rose-bud, pure and white, 
 Blesses my admiring sight, 
 And the lily's lip of snow 
 Flings its breath across my brow ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Now bright eyes and waving hair 
 Flash along the quiet air ; — 
 Now white fingers softly twine 
 Flowers upon this brow of mine. 
 And low words are sweetly said, 
 Trembling o'er my bending head - 
 Falling with a touch as light 
 On my throbbing heart to-night, 
 As in years long — long ago, 
 "When I felt their music flow ! 
 
BY-GONK DAYS. 71 
 
 VIII. 
 
 That pale star is gazing still 
 From the bosom of the rill, 
 And the little waves that dance 
 O'er its loving, trembling glance, 
 Whisper with a tone as free, 
 And as full of mirth and glee, 
 As the voices^ of the young 
 That across my path were flung — 
 Voices of the fair and brave 
 That are sleeping in the grave. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Now the spell is broken : now 
 Shadows creep upon my brow, 
 And the blue eyes' joyous light 
 Fades into the gloom of night. 
 Now the tones of mirth are hushed, 
 And a mourning voice hath gushed 
 On the night-breeze — solemn, low ; 
 Not the tone of " long ago " — 
 But it tells of graves that lie 
 Where the low winds murmur by. 
 
72 BY-GONE DAYS. 
 
 X. 
 
 And it tells of brows grown cold, 
 Gleaming up through curls of gold ; 
 And of hands that softly lie 
 On the breast that heaves no sigh ; 
 And of eyes whose joyous flash 
 Faded 'neath the drooping la-h. — 
 Of young hearts whose music-tone 
 From the earth for aye hath gone : 
 Oh ! of these the night-winds tell, 
 Bearing sadness in their swell. 
 
MORNING IN OCTOBER. 
 
 A mist is o'er the mountains hovering — 
 
 Curling about their lofty heads, 
 And gauzy clouds the heavens are covering, 
 
 While a soft vapor spreads 
 Across the slumbering earth — its hills 
 
 Crowned with their rich and gorgeous dyes ; 
 And from the bosom of the rills 
 
 Smile in new glory Autumn's azure skies. 
 7 
 
74 MORNING IN OCTOBER. 
 
 Tis early morn in gay October, 
 
 And we are out among the hills I 
 We try to look sedate and sober, 
 
 And fancy that the murmuring rills 
 Sing now a plaintive tune, but no ! 
 
 A gladder strain ne'er filled the soul 
 Than chant their bright waves as they go. 
 
 O'er fall and plain to their far distant goal. 
 
 The sun comes up the Orient slowly, 
 
 Arrayed in majesty serene, 
 Throwing upon the high and lowly 
 
 The splendor of his golden sheen. 
 And flinging many a radiant glance 
 
 Athwart the mist that shrouds the hills, 
 And on the waves that laugh and dance 
 
 Upon the bosom of the silver rills. 
 
 Now rolls away the misty curtain — 
 
 Melting beneath the Day-King's gaze, — 
 Now creeping back on breath uncertain, 
 
 And trembling in the golden haze. 
 The curtain lift ! And gorgeous now 
 
 The wreath of rainbow tints that lies 
 Entwined about the mountain's brow, 
 
 Beneath the azure drapery of the skies I 
 
MORNINa IN OCTOBER. 75 
 
 Blest Nature smiles ; her face is glowing 
 
 With a new beauty, and the fair, 
 Bright gems that deck her brow, are throwing 
 
 Their soft reflection everywhere. 
 Upon our hearts their rich light plays, 
 
 And unseen fingers touch their strings. 
 Making new melody, while strays 
 
 The peaceful spirit 'mid these glorious things. 
 
IDA'S GRAVE. 
 
 Where the first flowers of Sprmg, 
 Nature's own offering, 
 
 Modestly wave, 
 "Where incense rises up 
 From the pale lily's cup, 
 
 There make her grave. 
 
izba's grave. 77 
 
 II. 
 
 Where the sweet violet, 
 With the clear dew-drop wet, 
 
 Meekly looks forth, 
 Sending its breath of love, 
 To the deep skies above, 
 
 Bending o'er earth ; — 
 
 III. 
 
 Where the bright fountain plays 
 Through the long summer days, 
 
 Throwing its gems 
 Over the floweret's bed. 
 Crowning its modest head 
 
 With diadems ; — 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh ! make her deep grave there 1 
 There, on the fragi-ant air. 
 
 Softly shall rise 
 Music from stream and bird — 
 Notes from the dark leaves stirred 
 
 By the wind's sighs 1 
 
78 Ida's grave. 
 
 There make lier lowly grave, 
 Where the meek flowerets wave 
 
 In the soft air : 
 She was a bright bud riven 
 Only to shine in heaven, 
 
 Fadeless and fair ! 
 
MY PRAYER. 
 
 Not that the wreath of fame 
 May twine around my brow ; — 
 
 Not that my humble name 
 
 From haughty lips may flow — 
 
 Mingled with those as coldly proud as they 
 I daily, nightly pray. 
 
80 MY PRAYER. 
 
 Not that the rich and great 
 
 May crowd about my path — 
 Showering beneath my feet 
 
 The choicest flowers of earth — 
 Not in their smiles that my full heart may bask 
 
 I kneel, and humbly ask. 
 
 But Oh ! upon my head 
 
 Let Truth's pure sunlight shine, 
 And blessings warmly said 
 
 From grateful hearts be mine ! 
 Let noble love that will not brook control 
 
 Fall on my weary soul ! 
 
 I would not that my cheek 
 
 Should glow beneath the notes 
 Of praise ; but rather seek 
 
 The incense pure that floats, 
 All silently, from humble hearts, that prove 
 
 Their deep and changeless love. 
 
MY PRAYER. 81 
 
 I have a golden bird 
 
 With light and fragile wing : 
 Its gentle tone is heard, 
 
 Soft as the breath of Spring, 
 At morn and noon : its sweet and holy eyes 
 Beam on my path when stormy clouds arise. 
 Like sunlight from the skies. 
 
 And I have many a rose 
 
 Of blended pink and white. 
 Whose tender leaves unclose 
 
 And tremble in the light : 
 They breathe iheir fragrance out upon my heart, 
 And peace and joy impart. 
 
 And I would ever stay 
 
 Among the birds and flowers — 
 From the cold world away — 
 
 Listening for long, long hours, 
 To their sweet sounds that rise in gladness up, 
 On the rich fragrance, as the songsters sup 
 Sweets from the floweret's cup. 
 
82 MY PRAYER. 
 
 Give me no heartless tone 
 
 That breathes the world's cold praise ! 
 Its music soon is gone, 
 
 And disappointment preys 
 On the mistaken heart that fondly clung 
 Upon the notes it sung. 
 
 Not that Fame's wreath may twine 
 
 In coldness round my brow 
 I ask : not at her shrine 
 
 With eager heart I bow. 
 But may the sunshine and the smile of Heaven 
 Unto my soul be given ! 
 
THE FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS CHIL- 
 DREN. 
 
 Come close around me, darlings, for my heart 
 Is very sad to-night. I miss the fond 
 And loving eyes that used to shed their light 
 Like sunbeams from the skies about my path — 
 The tone of love that fell upon my soul — 
 My weary soul — like the soft, gentle dew 
 Upon a drooping flower. Come here, my own, 
 
84 THE FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. 
 
 My precious Mary, with thy dove-like eyes 
 
 And pure, meek brow — sit at my feet, and lay 
 
 Thy pale cheek on my knee, and raise thy glance 
 
 Of yearning tenderness to meet my own ! 
 
 There ! Pier sweet spirit gazes through those orbs, 
 
 And thrills my aching heart. Speak, love ! Thou hast 
 
 Her voice, deep in its thrilling melody, 
 
 And its low music moves my burdened soul 
 
 Like the faint murmur of a plaining lute. 
 
 And thou, my bird ! Alice, my joyous one, 
 With thy dark, brilliant eyes and curls of jet. 
 Here on my bosom lay thy head, and let 
 My cold lips press thy snowy brow ! Thou wast 
 Her pet, and thy clear, joyful tones have brought 
 Full many a ray of sunlight to her hours 
 Of pain and Aveariness. I see her now ! 
 Her beauteous head on yon white pillow laid. 
 Like some white lily crushed beneath the storm. 
 And thy pure arms about her neck — thy locks 
 Of glossy black mingling with her brown hair. 
 That had a beam of gold, in every curl — 
 In graceful folds — that parted from her brow. 
 She passed to heaven, leaving a kiss of love 
 On these fair foreheads, and a blessing fond. 
 And faintly murmured, on these youthful heads. 
 
THE FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. 85 
 
 For me — when the last look of tenderness 
 Faded from her mild eyes, and on my breast 
 Her cold form lay so heavily — I longed 
 To die, and leave this darksome world with her. 
 Yes ! bending o'er her marble face, I prayed 
 For death, and for a while forgot the ties 
 That bound me still to earth — forgot that ye, 
 My darling ones, were by with your young heads 
 Bowed down in sadness, and your pensive eyes 
 Like violets in the dew, humid with tears. 
 It shall be mine to guide your feet, my dears, 
 Along life's thorny track — to shield your heads 
 From the rude storms of earth, and on my heart 
 Bear you with all a mother's care ; and when 
 The Messenger shall call me hence, gladly 
 To join her angel form in paradise, 
 8 
 
TO ON HIS MARRIAGE. 
 
 Thou'st led her to the altar — 
 The white wreath gleaming on her snowy brow • 
 
 But did thy tongue not falter, 
 As in low tones was breathed that solemn vow ? 
 Did not the voice of her — the dead, the dear, 
 Linger like mournful music in thy ear ? 
 
TO ON HIS MARRIAGE. 87 
 
 Those words thy lips have spoken, 
 And thou hast pressed her fondly to thy breast: 
 
 The golden chain is broken 
 That gently bound thee to the lost — the blest : 
 But did not her meek form before thee come. 
 As when she dwelt within thy heart — thy home ? 
 
 Thy arms have fondly taken 
 A fair young creature to their warm embrace : 
 
 But O hast thou forsaken 
 The memory of that sweeter, lovelier face ? — 
 The eyes that looked so kindly into thine, 
 Whose gaze was treasured in thy heart's deep shrine ? 
 
 The lips thy own have prest — 
 The cheeks whose blushes kindled in thy gaze - 
 
 The fond and faithful breast 
 In which thy image had its dwelling place — 
 The heart that would have broken thee to save, 
 Are still and cold within the silent grave. 
 
88 TO ON HIS MARRIAGE. 
 
 But oh tliou canst not lightly 
 Think of the hours that flew so swiftly by, 
 
 When she was daily — nightly, 
 With her low tones and her beguiling eye. 
 Hovering a guardian angel by thy side, — 
 Thy joy, thy hope, thy full heart's noblest pride ! 
 
THE DYING STUDENT. 
 
 I feel the fever's hot breath flashing 
 
 In deep and deadly strife, 
 From my pale, parched lips madly dasfeng 
 
 The golden cup of life. 
 Disease with cold and icy fingers 
 
 Now creeps about my heart, 
 And death but for a moment lingers 
 
 To snap its chords apart. 
 
90 THE DYING STUDENT. 
 
 My heavy pulse is weaker growing ; 
 
 Life's lamp burns feebly now, 
 And the long locks are darkly flowing 
 
 Upon my damp, cold brow. 
 I hear a voice, low, faint and broken, 
 
 Falling upon my heart ; 
 Its tones in solemn awe have spoken 
 
 That I must soon depart. 
 
 And must my wild dreams coldly perish, 
 
 And wither in the dust — 
 The golden hopes I fondly cherish — 
 
 My earthly joy and trust ? — 
 The schemes my soul has long been forming. 
 
 Just bursting into light. 
 And tones of love my fond heart warming. 
 
 All — all be quenched in night ? 
 
 Full many a bud of hope was wreathing 
 
 About my thornless path, 
 In rflellow tones of music breathing 
 
 Of all but night and death ; 
 I had not thought to see them fading 
 
 And dying at their birth — 
 To view this cloud of darkness shading 
 
 The beautiful of earth. ^*i 
 
THE DYING STUDENT. 91 
 
 Oh ! there were sweetest whispers telling 
 
 Of greatness and of fame ; 
 Of rapture in the bosom swelling 
 
 And of an honored name ; 
 And how the knee of genius bending, 
 
 Should own a deeper sway, 
 And shouts of joy the blue sky rending 
 
 Bear higher deeds away. 
 
 And there were gentle voices finding 
 
 A way into my soul, — 
 Love's own sweet angel, softly binding 
 
 My heart to her control ; 
 And in my dreams of fame and glory 
 
 Beamed ever her meek eyes — 
 Telling a fond and pleasant story 
 
 Of mingled smiles and sighs. 
 
 That tone ! 'Twas music, ever hushing 
 
 My panting heart to rest — 
 And glorious dreams like sunlight gushing. 
 
 Thrilling my peaceful breast. 
 Those dreams like summer buds have faded — 
 
 That tone hath died away — 
 Death's cloud my beaming skies hath shaded. 
 
 And quenched the light of day. 
 
92 THE DYING STUDENT. 
 
 I lay me down faint, lone and weary 
 
 No hand upon my brow ; 
 In the dark valley cold and dreary, 
 
 No Toice to cheer me now. 
 My life has been a dream ; in vain 
 
 Have soft eyes shed their Hght ; 
 Frail phantoms of a fevered brain — 
 
 Their ray has sunk in night. 
 
 And thus when earthly trust hath perished, 
 
 And earthly joy hath fled — 
 "When hopes my fond heart loved and cherished 
 
 Are lying with the dead — 
 Oh may there not in yonder Heaven 
 
 Be for my brow a wreath, 
 Whose fadeless flowers shall ne'er be riven 
 
 By the rude hand of death ? 
 
 Father above ! Wilt Thou now hearken 
 
 Unto my feeble cry — 
 Dispel the mists that coldly darken, 
 
 And dim my failing eye ! 
 I bless Thee — for the cloud hath parted 
 
 That hid Tliy glorious face ; 
 Joyful and glad, yet humble hearted, 
 
 I sink in thy embrace ! 
 
SOFTLY THE MORNING LIGHT.— SONG. 
 
 Softly the morning light 
 
 Steals o'er the land, 
 Casting its beauty bright 
 
 On every hand ; 
 Gently the Summer breeze, 
 
 Cooling and clear, 
 Comes through the leafy trees, 
 
 Most welcome here. 
 
94 SOFTLY THE MORNING LIGHT. — SONG. 
 
 II. 
 
 Gaily the rippling stream 
 
 Dances along 
 'Neath the sun's golden beam, — 
 
 Joyous its song. 
 Gladly each happy heart 
 
 Welcomes the hour, 
 When Nights's deep shades depart 
 
 From shrub and flower. 
 
 III. 
 
 Sadly this morning ray 
 
 Falls on thy grave, 
 Thou who hast past away, 
 
 Noble and brave ! 
 Little thou heedest now 
 
 These tears that start — 
 Chilly and cold thy brow — 
 
 Throbless thy heart ! 
 
A DIRGE. 
 
 Gently blow the night-breeze 
 
 On thy grassy bed ! 
 Softly move the green trees 
 
 Over thy young head ! 
 Sweetly sing the glad birds 
 
 Tremblingly and low — 
 Murmur soft the bright rills, 
 
 Weeping as they go ! 
 
96 A DIRGE. 
 
 II. 
 
 Mournfully the tall grass 
 
 Nod above thy breast ! 
 Sighing may the winds pass 
 
 O'er thy place of rest ! 
 Each low breath a dirge be 
 
 For the young, the brave, 
 Slumbering thus quietly 
 
 In his early grave ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Spring's sweet flowers shall bloom, love, 
 
 Modestly and fair, 
 O'er thy early tomb, love, 
 
 Shedding perfume there. 
 One shall linger near, love. 
 
 While the strength be given. 
 To shed the silent tear, love. 
 
 And dream of thee and Heaven. 
 
THE SNOW. 
 
 Softly they fall — the tiny flakes of snow, 
 
 Upon the frozen ground, 
 Making as through the chilly air they go^ 
 
 Not e'en the faintest sound. 
 
 Say, noiseless children of a higher sphere, 
 
 Born in the far-off skies, 
 Why do ye come to wander meekly here, 
 
 Then melt before our eyes ? 
 9 
 
98 THE SNOW. 
 
 Why do ye leave your home far, far away^ 
 And come like pilgrims here, 
 
 Along the stormy vale awhile to stray, 
 Then fade and disappear ? 
 
 Methinks your home, far up in yonder sky, 
 
 Must be serene and bright ; 
 Then wherefore did ye wander — tell me why. 
 
 From those pure realms of light ? 
 
 Oh, did ye think to find upon this earth 
 
 A fair and thornless path ? 
 To listen to the song of joy and mirth, 
 
 And hear no groan of death ? 
 
 Or did ye think to nestle in the heart 
 
 Of flowers that never die — 
 To see no tears from Beauty's eyelids start 
 
 To list no heaving sigh ? 
 
THE SNOAY. 99 
 
 Oh tell me, ye so light, and fair, and free, 
 
 Thus dropping from above. 
 Why from those regions do ye madly flee, 
 
 And leave your home of love ? ^ 
 
 No voice, no sound, ye give unto my cry ; 
 
 But, by the light winds tost. 
 All mute upon the ground, awhile ye lie, 
 
 Then to my eyes are lost. 
 
 Thus vanish from the fond and trusting heart 
 
 The hopes that nestle there ; 
 Thus all the Heaven-born dreams of life depart, 
 
 And leave a load of care. 
 
THE EXILE'S LAMENT. 
 
 I pine for the light of my own blue skies, 
 
 For my own soft, murmuring rills ; 
 I miss the buds of a thousand dyes 
 
 That bloom on my native hills. 
 I long to hear, as I oft have heard, 
 
 At the quiet hour of Even, 
 The notes of that pensive, gentle bird 
 
 That came like a breath from Heaven. 
 
THE exile's lament. 101 
 
 I long for the voice, on my childhood's ear 
 
 That fell, in its melody, 
 When the mother that loved me knelt for prayer 
 
 In her angel purity. 
 Oh ! for one more look from those holy eyes — 
 
 One grasp from that mother's hand — 
 One breath 'neath the pure and sunny skies 
 
 That smile on my native land ! 
 
 In a strange, strange clime, with no kind ton^ 
 
 To soothe and bless my heart, 
 I dwell in my wildwood home alone — 
 
 From the race of mankind apart. 
 There is majesty here — for the giant trees 
 
 In their pride and glory stand ; 
 But I listen in vain for the murmuring breeze 
 
 Of my own dear native land. 
 
 Here is grandeur, too — for the mountains rise 
 
 In their bold and mighty hight, 
 'Till their dark brows meet the bending skies, 
 
 And are lost to the wondering sight. 
 And the streams bear down the cataract's foam 
 
 In motion and might sublime. 
 But give me the hills of my native home, 
 
 The streams of my own bright clime I 
 
 9* 
 
102 THE exile's lament. 
 
 Oh ! give me that cot with its cheerful hearth, 
 
 And the dear ones all about it : 
 For I wander a pilgrim over the earth. 
 
 Unloving, unblest, without it. 
 And give me the hills by the soft winds fanned, 
 
 The meadows in wild flowers drest — 
 The murmuring streams of my native land — 
 
 Thai my heart from its load may rest ! 
 
WE HAVE MET. 
 
 We have met — we have met — and he knew me not ; 
 We met in that beautiful, rural spot 
 Where we parted last ! I can never forget 
 The look he then gave me — it haunts me jet. 
 
 He was pale — so pale — and his noble brow 
 Was as calm as a bank of moonlit snow ; 
 While his eye — that deep and melting eye — 
 Spoke more — far more — than his stifled sigh. 
 
104 WE HAVE MET. 
 
 His voice was sad, and his words were few, 
 As he grasped my hand and breathed his adieu ; 
 Then he turned away, but he little thought 
 Of the grief that the parting word had wrought. 
 
 I watched his figure in mute despair. 
 
 As it passed away, and left me there ; 
 
 I knew he was gone, and that with him had flown 
 
 The peace from my bosom — that I was alone. 
 
 And years have passed by since that fearful night, 
 But no comfort has come with their rapid flight ; 
 I have smiled, and none knew how cold and drear 
 Was the heart that was beating in anguish here ! 
 
 Aye, he knows me not ! But once, as a sigh 
 Escaped from my bosom, I saw that his eye 
 Was gazing upon me. He started — came near — 
 But I turned from him blushing, to hide a tear. 
 
WE HAVE MET. 105 
 
 That look ! How it thrilled to my very soul, 
 
 And how thoughts of the past, all unheeding control, 
 
 Came to tell me of days and of years gone by, 
 
 Ere my eyes had wept thus, or my heart learned to sigh. 
 
 I know not but now, in his manhood and pride. 
 He clasps to his bosom a beautiful bride, — 
 That the past is forgotten — my memory fled — 
 Or only recalled with his thoughts of the dead. 
 
THE BRIDE'S ADIEU TO HER MOTHER. 
 
 Mother adieu, — strange thoughts are rushing 
 
 Wildly across my brain, 
 And my young cheek and brow are flushing 
 
 With mingled joy and pain ; 
 Joy, that his eyes in starry splendor, 
 
 With their deep g!ance of pride, 
 And their own look, thrilling and tender, 
 
 Are cast upon his bride. 
 
THE bride's adieu TO HER MOTHER. 107 
 
 Joy that I hear his low tones breathing 
 
 Of happiness to come — 
 Of the rich vines that will be wreathing 
 
 About our cottage home ; 
 And the dear birds with golden winglets 
 
 And song will linger there, 
 And the soft winds will lift the ringlets 
 
 Back from his forehead fair ? 
 
 And the low murmur of the river 
 
 Will come up to the door, 
 While the bright sunbeams gaily quiver 
 
 Its azure surface o'er ; 
 And mother, at the quiet even, 
 
 When stars are in the sky, 
 It will be sweet 'neath the blue heaven, 
 
 To dream of thy mild eye ! 
 
 But pain — dear mother, amid the gleaming 
 
 Of all this starry light ; 
 And 'mid the blessed visions teeming 
 
 Within my brain to-night, 
 A painful shadow lies enshrouding 
 
 The luster of their beams. 
 And with its coldness darkly clouding 
 
 My fond heart's warmest dreams ! 
 
108 THE bride's adieu TO HER MOTHER. 
 
 To leave thee in thy lonely sorrow, 
 
 With clouds upon thy brow — 
 'Tis this alone that makes me borrow 
 
 A thought of anguish now ; 
 As by the loved side of another 
 
 I pass along life's track, 
 To this dear home — to thee , sweet mother, 
 
 My soul will wander back ! 
 
 And often in the night's deep stillness. 
 
 When dreams are in my heart, 
 Amid their light all softly stealing 
 
 My mother's tones shall start ! 
 Her form shall rise among the visions 
 
 That sweep my spirit o'er, 
 And I shall gaze into the fullness 
 
 Of her blue eye once more ! 
 
 Mother, adieu, — one burning tear drop 
 
 I lave upon my cheek. 
 To tell the sorrow I am feeling. 
 
 Too deep for words to speak ; 
 Even his voice cannot beguile me 
 
 From thee so fond and true ; 
 I bear thine image, dearest mother, 
 
 Within my soul — adieu ! 
 
THE BLIND GIRL. 
 
 Sweet brother, lay your hand upon my brow, 
 
 And lead me gently forth ; 
 They say the gay Spring time is with us now, 
 
 And that the smUing earth 
 Awakes to life and beauty. I can feel 
 
 Its soft and fragrant sigh 
 Float over my pale cheek, and whispers steal 
 
 Down from the azure sky. 
 10 
 
110 THE BLIND GlEL. 
 
 Oh ! brother : are they angel voices, come 
 
 To breathe of hope and love, 
 And do their white wings o'er the glad earth roaniv 
 
 From the pure land above ? 
 Say, brother — do you see their gleaming eyes 
 
 Look out among the flowers ? 
 And are they like the stars, whose radiance lies 
 
 Far from this world of ours ? 
 
 Ah ! tell me, brother, what the flowers are like I 
 
 Are their bright lips all mute ? 
 I sometimes think they speak, as when you strike 
 
 The strings of your loved lute ! 
 A breath is borne along unto my soul. 
 
 In these calm, dreamy hours, 
 And oh, I fancy, as its sweet strains roll, 
 
 I hear the singing flowers ! 
 
 What is the tiny bird 
 That glances by on light and airy wing 'i 
 
 This morn m^ spirit heard 
 Its low, glad voice ; and almost worshiping, 
 
 My hand stretched forth to clasp 
 The fairy thing ; but softer came the strain, 
 
 And yet my heart could grasp 
 Each thrilling note, and hear it o'er again ! 
 
THE BLIND GIRL. Ill 
 
 Sometimes we gently sail 
 Upon the lake's fair bosom, and I bow 
 
 My forehead cold and pale. 
 To listen to its murmurs soft and low. 
 
 Its waters clear and bright — 
 "What are they like, and wherefore do they sing ? 
 
 You say the stars at night 
 Their glance of love across the blue wave fling ! 
 
 Is music everywhere ? 
 I hear it in the streamlet's laughing notes, 
 
 And in the summer air, 
 And round my soul its strain forever floats ! 
 
 And beauty — you have said 
 It dwells upon the earth and in the sky ; 
 
 And often you have led 
 My soul where Beauty's angel wanders by. 
 
 I feel its presence, though 
 No outward vision blesses my sealed eyes : 
 
 But deep, and still, and low 
 Within my soul, its form in glory lies ! 
 
 It is enough to know 
 The world is beautiful — to feel the breath 
 
 Of music on my brow, 
 And never see the flowei*s grow cold in death. 
 
112 THE BLIND GIRL. 
 
 There is a land, you say, 
 Where none are blind, — more lovely fiar than this ; 
 
 Each morn and night I pray 
 That we may one day reach that home of bliss. 
 
 And we shaU see each other, 
 And mingle our glad songs together there ; 
 
 Oh, I shall know my brother, 
 With the bright crown upon his forehead fair ! 
 
TO ALICE. 
 
 Tve sat me down within this pleasant shade, 
 
 Where the green ivy twines above my head, 
 And through its leaves I see the sunlight fade 
 
 From the far hill side, and the floweret's hed ; 
 And in the soft and azure depths of heaven 
 
 Gleams a pure star — the earliest and the best 
 A gem upon the beauteous brow of Even, 
 
 And lovely as an island of the blest. 
 10* 
 
114 TO ALICE. 
 
 In the far distance I can hear the murmur 
 
 Of a bright rill that creeps through beds of flowers, 
 And voices that are heard alone in Summer — 
 
 That bless alone its pleasant twilight hours ; 
 And they are telling, in a whisper winning 
 
 And gentle as thy own soft tones of yore, 
 Of thee, beloved and absent one, beginning 
 
 At thy bright youth, and breathing o'er and o'er 
 Thy virtues and thy loveliness. * * * 
 
 And thou art with me now ; Fancy can see 
 
 Thy gentle forehead's pure and spotless snow, 
 Adid the long curls that gracefully and free 
 
 Back from their shadows on the light winds flow ; 
 And thy soft eyes — not the deep vault above 
 
 Gleaming with diamonds — has a richer blue. 
 Or bends above us with a holier love, 
 
 Or beams more kindly, tenderly and true ! 
 
 Alice, my own, in the dear hours of childhood, 
 
 When not a cloud had darkened our bright skies, 
 We wandered thro' the green and blooming wild-wood, 
 
 And looked around with glad and tearless eyes : 
 Thy tone was unto me a melody, 
 
 Sweeter by far than voice of singing bird, 
 And when it sounded, laughingly and free, 
 
 My answering soul with gladness deep was stirred. 
 
TO ALICE. 115 
 
 I twined the orange blossoms 'mid thy curls, 
 
 And saw the flush that bounded to thy cheek, 
 And mingled with the lily, 'neath the pearls 
 
 That shone above thy brow. I heard thee speak 
 In low and faltering voice that little word 
 
 That bound thee to another, fond and brave. 
 And proud to bear the young and timid bird 
 
 In his own bosom, far across the wave. 
 
 Long years have passed — for thee the sunlight gleam 
 
 Hath ever been most warm, and bright, and fair ; 
 And thou hast never seen thy heart's fond dream — 
 
 Life's star of hope — go down in dark despair. 
 The flowers, that heaven has scattered light and free 
 
 Along thy sunny path, have ne'er been wet 
 With tears of bitterness, and joyously 
 
 Thy music-tones have ever sounded yet. 
 
 Long be the skies thus cloudless o'er thy head, 
 
 My own bright friend ! And distant be the day 
 When Life's fair wreath its fragrance shall have shed, 
 
 And all its freshness shall have passed away ! 
 For me — I gather from the withered flowers, 
 
 That lie within the far and shadowed past. 
 Enough of joy to make the peaceful hours 
 
 Full many a ray into the future cast. 
 
SONG OF SPRING. 
 
 " I come ! I come ! ye have called me long : 
 
 1 come o'er the mountains with light and song." 
 
 T come, I come to the sleeping earth, 
 
 With a wing of gold, and a balmy breath ; 
 I come with a tone of joyous mirth, 
 
 Piercing the regions of gloom and death ! 
 I have laid a finger on ice-bound streams, 
 
 And they smile to the smiling skies above. 
 While deep in their waters a blue eye gleams, 
 
 With a glance of joy and a look of love. 
 
SONG OF SPRING. 117 
 
 II. 
 
 I come, I come from a far-off land, 
 
 And my brow is beaming with rarest flowers 
 I hold a wreath in my out-stretched hand 
 
 To strew over hills, and dales, and bowers ! 
 I will breathe on the meadows, cold and bare, 
 
 ^nd the emerald tiu-f will spring to birth. 
 While amid the greenness blossoms fair 
 
 Will lie like a carpet over the earth. 
 
 III. 
 
 I come, I come ! and the young leaves start 
 
 On the proud old trees, and on shrub and hedge. 
 And the lilies with timid and folded heart 
 
 Lie dreamily over the streamlet's edge. 
 The violets hide their dewy eyes. 
 
 And fold in their blue leaves a golden beam, 
 And tones from the far-off, laughing skies 
 
 Seem borne on the light breath of bu'd and stream. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I come, I come with a fairy's tread — 
 Silent, yet musical in my mirth — 
 
 I have twined a wreath for the youthful head, 
 I have wakened a smile on the sober earth. 
 
118 SONO OF SPRING. 
 
 In my eye no trace of sorrow dwells ; 
 
 On my fair young brow no shadow falls ; 
 I throw a gleam into lonely cells, 
 
 And sunshine on lordly mansion walls. 
 
 V. 
 
 I know that since last I wandered here. 
 
 With my glad young face, and my smiling eye, 
 "With the heaving breast and scalding tear 
 
 Ye have seen full many a fair one die : 
 And I look in vain for the rosy cheek 
 
 That was wont to dimple beneath my breath, 
 And I know, though I hear no voices speak, 
 
 That they lie in the icy arms of death. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But I will not weep, for I come to sing 
 
 No tones of wo to the drooping heart : 
 In my glad, bright way only flowers will spring 
 
 Beneath my touch only joy will start. 
 I come, I come to the waiting earth. 
 
 With a golden dream and fragrant breath, 
 I come with a voice of joy and mirth — 
 
 Piercing the regions of gloom and death ! 
 
TO LIZZIE. 
 
 Thou art like a flower of Spring, 
 
 When it lifts its eye — 
 Humid with the shining dew — 
 
 Smiling to the sky. 
 Like a violet, with the love 
 
 Stealing from its heart. 
 In rich gushes of perfume, 
 
 Darling one, thou art. 
 
120 TO LIZZIE. 
 
 II. 
 
 Thou art like a golden dream, 
 
 Or a tone of love, 
 Or a soft and radiant gleam 
 
 Ti-embling from above ; — 
 Like some spirit-whisperings 
 
 From the distant skies — 
 Like all fair and blessed things 
 
 That we fondly prize. 
 
 III. 
 
 But thy heart, my love, thy heart, 
 
 With its trust and truth — 
 It is brighter than the flowers 
 
 That adorn thy youth. 
 'Tis a gem of priceless worth, 
 
 With it's lioly love. 
 Drinking gladness from the earth 
 
 Sunshine from above. 
 
TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 
 
 Sleep, child, for thy di-eams are sweet — 
 The dreams of thy life's bright dawn - 
 
 No evil has yet thy feet 
 
 From the paths of virtue drawn. 
 
 Sleep on ! for thy morning sky 
 Is clear and cloudlessly fair ; 
 
 No tear has come to thy eye — 
 To thy peaceful breast no care. 
 11 
 
122 TO A SI.EEPIN& eHIlL.I>, 
 
 Aye, sleep ! for the flowers that deck 
 Thy pathway are thornless now j 
 
 Their brightness is on thy cheek. 
 And their light upon thy brow^ 
 
 Oh sweet and pure the dream 
 That filleth thy infant hearty 
 
 And happy the smiling beam 
 That hath left thy lips apart I 
 
 It dimples thy velvet cheek, 
 And lingers around thy eyes ; 
 
 Hast though heard an angel speak, 
 Stooping from paradise ? 
 
 That sweet dream will soon be o'er, 
 And soon will the dark day come, 
 
 When thy feet shall nevermore 
 In a peaceful pathway roam ; — 
 
TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 1^3 
 
 When the sky above thy head 
 Shall be clouded, dark and drear, — 
 
 When thy dreams shall all have fled, 
 And thou be a mourner here. 
 
THE YOUNG WIFE. 
 
 Deceive her not ! 
 She has left a mother's yearning breast 
 Which has often been her place of rest ; 
 She has clasped full many a trembling hand 
 Among the happy and youthful band, 
 And turned from all her childhood knew, 
 With her heart of love and devotion true, 
 
 To share thy lot. 
 
THE YOUNG WIFE. 125 
 
 Speak gently now I 
 For a tear-drop dims her beaming eye. 
 And her bosom heaves with a struggling sigh ; 
 Yet, oh ! 'tis not that she loves thee less — 
 That thy low, fond tones have ceased to bless — 
 But her heart must yearn in its trust and truth, 
 For the dear, bright scenes of her early yowth, 
 
 And tears will flow. 
 
 She turns away ! 
 And her heart will fondly cling to thee, 
 Like the ivy about the forest tree ; 
 Should sorrow or sickness lay thee low, 
 She will kindly soothe thy aching brow ; 
 She will linger with patient, noiseless tread. 
 And a whisper of hope about thy bed, 
 
 By night and day- 
 
 Ob, love her well 1 
 Thou canst not know in her trembling heart, 
 The hopes and fears that unbidden start ; 
 Thou canst not know how her every thought 
 And feeling with thee and thy love are fraught 
 And how she would even die to save 
 Thy form from the cold and silent grave. 
 
 Thou canst not tell. 
 
 *11 
 
WALOLULA. — A TALE. 
 
 A Summer morn ! Oh never shone 
 
 The sun upon a fairer scene ! 
 He comes with beauty all his own, 
 
 Piercing the thin and gauzy screen 
 That lies upon the mountain's hight, 
 
 And giving to the snowy cloud 
 That floats along, a golden light — 
 
 The fleecy thing a robe to shroud 
 The glory of the rising king — 
 And o'er his face a softening shade to fling. 
 
WALOLULA. — A TALE. 1^7 
 
 ir. 
 
 The sky above is darkly blue — 
 
 A tlii'one of azure — vdih a star, 
 A single star, of silver hue, 
 
 Burning in brilliancy afar — 
 And looking, in the dewy light, 
 
 A ray from other world than this — 
 An isle of beauty fair and bright — 
 
 A radiant seat of peaceful bliss — 
 A beam from Heaven's own glory hurled — 
 An index to that higher, brighter world. 
 
 III. 
 
 The flowers look up with tearful eye, 
 
 From the low bed where they have slept 
 Through the dark hours, and silently 
 
 Breathe out the fragrance they have kept ; 
 And like to incense pure and sweet, 
 
 It floats upon the dewy air — 
 An offering of praise most meet 
 
 For Heaven's benignant keep and care. 
 The flowers — the frail and gentle flowers — 
 In beauty smile through groves, and fields, and bowers. 
 
128 WALOLULA. A TALE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I sit within a light canoe, 
 
 With dripping oars laid side by side, 
 While o'er the river, calm and blue, 
 
 I let the slight boat gently glide. 
 My thoughts are of that distant isle — 
 
 That little speck of golden green — 
 Whose wave-washed borders glance and smile 
 
 Beneath the morning's pleasant sheen ; 
 And of a cot among the trees — 
 A grave, whose grass is swept by this low breeze. 
 
 V. 
 
 Fair buds are bursting in the light. 
 
 Flower-wreaths are twining o'er the cot 
 That crumbles daily from the sight — 
 
 Its mouldering walls by all forgot ; 
 And on that lonely, humble grave, 
 
 The ground-bird builds her sheltered nest, 
 While rank-grown grass and wild flowers wave 
 
 Unnoticed o'er a throbless breast. 
 A child ! I wept to hear the tale 
 About the isle, from one who knew it well. 
 
TTALOLULA. A TALE. 120 
 
 VI. 
 
 An Indian chief with lordly brow, 
 
 With eagle eye and fearless heart, 
 Dwelt there, and moored his light canoe 
 
 'Neath those tall elms that stand apart. 
 And thi'ow their long, deep shadows o'er 
 
 The waters, shading the low grave 
 That rises from the verdant shore. 
 
 He had no friend, no comrade, save 
 A dark-eyed girl that to his heart 
 
 Was bound by ties that death alone could part. 
 
 VII. 
 
 She was a brave and noble child, 
 
 With lofty brow and velvet cheek. 
 And black hair, hung in masses wild 
 
 Upon her tawny breast and neck ; 
 And in her large and brilliant eye, 
 
 Half shadowed by its lash of jet, 
 A world of thought lay dreamily — 
 
 A soul of tenderness was set : 
 Sweet Walolula loved to gi-eet, 
 At close of day, her father's homeward feet. 
 
130 WALOLULA. A TALE. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Before the sun had kissed the dew 
 
 From bending leaf and drooping flower, 
 And the bright dawn looked through the blue 
 
 On shrub and tree, and silent bower. 
 The chieftain would unmoor the boat 
 
 Beneath the shade, and with a smile 
 For darling Walolula, float 
 
 In silence from his beauteous isle ; 
 Nor come again, with words of love 
 
 To bless his child, 'till stars were bright above. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Sweet Walolula ! She would roam 
 
 All day beneath the tall old trees 
 That stood about her lowly home — 
 
 Their rude boughs bending in the breeze — 
 And pluck the bright-eyed flowers that grew 
 
 Within their shadows fresh and fair, — 
 Dripping with wealth of morning dew 
 
 Or breathing sweetly on the air — 
 The soft, the balmy Summer air. 
 That swayed with weight of music rich and rare. 
 
WALOLULA. A TALE. 131 
 
 At night, when in the gaudy West, 
 The Sun had left his smile of light, 
 
 And on the river's calm, blue breast 
 His last rays lingered, fair and bright, 
 
 The maiden with her long, black hair, 
 Streaming beneath a crown of flowers, 
 
 Would hasten to the green shore, where 
 The wild vines wove their leafy bowers, 
 
 And with hushed heart and bending ear, 
 
 Listen, her sire's returning oar to hear. 
 
 And like a bird on swift, light wing, 
 
 The chieftain's slight canoe would skim 
 The golden waves — a fairy thing — 
 
 That danced and sparkled to its brim. 
 Then from his dark eyes, deep and wild. 
 
 The furious light would disappear, 
 And he would turn to clasp his child. 
 
 And leave upon her cheek a tear. 
 Then, with his fierce thoughts all forgot, 
 Seek with his worshiped dove the lonely cot. 
 
132 WALOLULA. — A TAL 
 
 XII. 
 
 It was a fair, still eve in June — 
 
 The roses bent beneath the dew, 
 The night-bird sang a plaintive tune, 
 
 The moon was on its path of blue, 
 And softly o'er the slee^mig stream 
 
 Her soft and quivering radiance swept, 
 And flowers, beneath the silver beam. 
 
 Upon its smooth breast sweetly slept. 
 No murmur broke the stillness there. 
 Save, on the shore, the plash of waters fair. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Upon the green and dewy shore. 
 
 With garland crushed beneath her feet. 
 And her long tresses streaming o'er 
 
 The wave, — her wild eyes strained to greet 
 The chieftain's boat — the maiden stood. 
 
 Her cheek was pale, her brow was chilled, 
 And through that deep and lonely wood 
 
 Her clear voice rang in anguish wild : 
 " My father ! Oh my father ! Come ! 
 For Walolula waits to lead thee home ! " 
 
WALOLULA. -^ A TALE. 133 
 
 xrv. 
 
 At last, on the deep and distant blue 
 
 A speck of black came floating o'er, 
 And faster sped the light canoe, 
 
 And neared the darkly shaded shore. 
 But oh ! upon that narrow seat 
 
 No chieftain sat, with beaming eye 
 And waiting arms out-stretched to greet 
 
 The child, who, with a piercing cry, 
 Fell forward with her small hands prest 
 In agony upon her pulseless breast. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The morning threw its golden light 
 
 Upon the maiden's raven hair. 
 That, heavy with the dews of night. 
 
 Hung like a shroud about her there. 
 The soft winds kissed her death-pale cheek. 
 
 And breathed upon her chilly brow. 
 But oh ! no words of love^might speak 
 
 To her crushed heart their accents now. 
 Her noble sire had found a grave • — 
 A dreamless sleep beneath the heaving wave. 
 12 
 
134 WALOLULA. — A TALE- 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Poor Walolula I When at last^ 
 
 The bright birds sang above her heady 
 And the deep lethargy had passed 
 
 That bound her to her roofless bedy 
 She gazed about her, with a wild 
 
 And vacant stare in her dark eyes, — 
 Then laid her forehead — as a child 
 
 Upon its mother's bosom lies — 
 On the green moss, and strove to deem 
 The horror of that night an idle dream- 
 
 XVII. 
 
 But no ! It must be so ! 'Twas there — 
 
 That empty boat : no father's tone 
 Was by to hush her wild despair : 
 
 She felt — she knew she was alone ; 
 And, with a shrill and frenzied shriek, 
 
 She started to her tottering feet, 
 Then dashed the wet hair from her cheek. 
 
 And in the light boat took her seat. 
 Then, with a strange and hollow smile 
 Upon her lips, she floated from the isle. 
 
WALOLULA. — A TALE, 135 
 
 xviir. 
 
 All day the Indian maiden sped 
 
 Across the waves her light canoe ; 
 The sun on her uncovered head 
 
 Its burning beams relentless threw ; 
 And back upon the roving breeze 
 
 Streamed like a cloud her raven hair. 
 Still, still, by shadowy banks and trees, 
 
 With that strange smile of wild despair. 
 She floated onward, her dark eyes 
 Fixed with their maniac gaze upon the skies 
 
 XIX. 
 
 At even, when the gentle dew 
 
 Was falling, and the day was o'er. 
 With trembling hands her light canoe 
 
 She drew upon the silent shore ; 
 And laid her down beneath the light 
 
 That showered in glory through the grove. 
 And o'er the solemn shade of night 
 
 Its wreaths of silver softly wove. 
 She laid her down, and on her breast, 
 Folding her weary fingers, sank to rest. 
 
136 WALOLULA. A TALE. 
 
 XX. 
 
 At early dawn, the lonely girl 
 
 Launclied forth again from the green shore 
 The water in festoons of pearl 
 
 Dripping as rose her fairy oar : 
 And onward through the long, long day 
 
 She floated like a thing of air, — 
 Thfe soft and wanton breeze at play 
 
 With the dark tresses of her hair, 
 And in her large and tearless eye 
 That world of bitter thought and misery. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 The days — the months — went swiftly on, 
 
 And Autumn with its blight was nigh ; 
 But Walolula's hope was gone — 
 
 The brightness from her drooping eye. 
 Each day had seen upon the breast 
 
 Of this calm stream her light canoe — 
 Each night had seen her quiet rest 
 
 Upon the green bank, wet with dew. 
 But she had faded, and a change 
 Had come upon the maiden, sad, and strange. 
 
WALOLULA. — A TALE. 137 
 
 XXII. 
 
 No more her thrilling song was heard, 
 
 In tones that made the hstener start, 
 As if the voice of some strange bird 
 
 Had touched, and thi-illed his inmost heart. 
 From her j^ale lip the smile had fled. 
 
 Like sunlight from a cloud in heaven. 
 And slow and heavy was her tread. 
 
 Poor child ! The only tie was riven 
 That bound her guiltless soul belo^^', 
 And wildly had she prayed that she might go. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 It was a quiet, Autumn night. 
 
 Warm and serene, and sweetly fair ; 
 The moon was up, and her mild light 
 
 Trembled upon the balmy air. 
 The soft wind sighed among the trees 
 
 A dirge o'er Beauty's withered brow, 
 For sad and plaintive was the breeze 
 
 That stirred the changing foliage now ; 
 And flowers bent low with tearful eye. 
 And breathed upon the air then- dying sigh. 
 *12 
 
1B8 WALOLULA, — A TALE. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 A white-haired man beneath the light 
 
 Of that soft moon had floated far, 
 And gazing on the mirrored light 
 
 Of silver cloud and shining star, ^ 
 The forms of youth had come again 
 
 To bless his old and fading eyes, 
 And, to his heart, a soothing strain, 
 
 Like music from the far-off skies. 
 And he had let his wayward boat 
 Long miles upon the river's bosom float. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 His hands were folded, and a smile 
 
 Upon his noble features played, 
 When, suddenly, he saw that isle, 
 
 And passed within its somber shade. 
 He paused to gaze around. Before 
 
 That quiet eve, he had not known 
 Of such a calm and peaceful shore — 
 
 Of that sweet island all alone — 
 Of the old trees that lifted there 
 Their giant limbs above a scene so fair. 
 
WALOLULA. A TALE. 139 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And there, within the deepening shade ; 
 
 Was moored a bark, as frail and light 
 As if some fairy hand had made, 
 
 And placed it in those waters bright. 
 The old man sat beneath the dream 
 
 That thus had bound him, gazing throng} 
 The dim groves where a silver gleam 
 
 Shot momently across the dew 
 That lay upon the grass, when near, 
 A voice, all sweetness, fell upon his ear : 
 
 1. 
 
 " Thou callest from thy radiant home • 
 
 Far up in yon blue heaven ! 
 Thou callest, father, and I come, 
 
 This sweet and quiet even. 
 I plume my weary wings for flight 
 
 To join thee, father dear, 
 For since that dark and awful night 
 
 I Jjave been cheerless here. 
 
140 WALOLULA. — A TALE. 
 
 2. 
 
 '' Oh ! long and drear have been the hours, 
 
 And sad and lone my soul ; 
 I've watched for thee among the flowers^ 
 
 And where the waters roll. 
 As to my wild and anxious cry 
 
 Thou gavest back no tone, 
 Oh ! father, how I longed to die — 
 
 So weary, sad and lone ! 
 
 " But I have seen thee, father dear, 
 
 I've often heard thee speak, — 
 In my fond dreams thou hast been here, 
 
 And bent above my cheek. 
 And I have heard thy words of love — 
 
 Gentle, and soft, and true — 
 And seen thy dear eyes far above — 
 
 Far in the depths of blue. ^ 
 
WALOLULA. —A TALE. 141 
 
 " And she was with thee, she who blest 
 
 My infant years : she smiled 
 So sweetly from her far-off rest 
 
 Upon her weary child ! 
 She told me that I soon should be 
 
 With the Great Spiiit, where 
 My soul might wander glad and free, 
 
 'Mid fadeless flowers and fair. 
 
 " And now I hear her voice with thine, 
 
 Bidding my soul arise : 
 Amid those glittering stars that shine, 
 
 I see your angel eyes ! 
 I hear your whisper in the sigh 
 
 That lingers on my brow, 
 Oh ! father ! mother ! in the sky 
 
 I go to meet you now ! " 
 
142 WALOLULA. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The faint notes died upon the air, 
 
 But still within that old man's heart 
 They lingered, in their music rare, 
 
 Beyond the weaker power of art. 
 He held his breath in vain to hear 
 
 The melting, thrilling strain once more ; 
 In vain he bowed with listening ear — 
 
 The music of that voice was o'er ; 
 And she had laid her aching head 
 To sleep in death upon her mossy bed. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 He found the lonely Indian girl 
 
 With one thin hand beneath her head, 
 While in her dark hair gleamed like pearl 
 
 The dew-drops that the night had shed. 
 And flowers lay withered at her feet, 
 
 And tall grass swayed and sighed around. 
 And moaningly, and sadly sweet, 
 
 The low winds breathed their dirge-like sound. 
 And on her brow a heavenly beam 
 Fell through the trees, a soft and silver stream. 
 
WALOLULA. A TALE. 143 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 A tear was in the old man's eye 
 
 As, bending o'er that youthful head, 
 He vainly listened for one sigh 
 
 To tell the spirit had not fled. 
 Poor Walolula! She had gone 
 
 From her fail' island-home away — 
 No more in wretchedness alone 
 
 Amid its fading flowers to stray. 
 And she had met the loved — the dear — 
 Whom she had mourned, and pined to death for here. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The morning dawned, and still above 
 
 Her damp, cold brow that old man bent- 
 Upon his face a look of love 
 
 With reverence and pity blent. 
 She was so lovely, with the light — 
 
 That silver light amid her hair — 
 And on her lips a smile so bright, 
 
 It seemed that life still lingered there. 
 And thus he watched, the long night hours, 
 A faded flower among the faded flowers. 
 
144 WALOLULA. -i— A TALE. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And when the sun with golden beams 
 
 Flooded that calm, deep place of rest, 
 Sporting in light and changing gleams 
 
 Upon the river's tranquil breast, 
 The old man made her quiet grave — 
 
 There, just beneath that clump of trees. 
 Where the low murmur of the wave, 
 
 And the deep sighing of the breeze 
 Might be her dirge. Then, o'er her breast, 
 He placed the flowers she loved, and left her to her rest. 
 
THE DESERTED WIFE TO HER MOTHER, 
 
 As the dove returns to its sheltered nest 
 
 With a th'ed and drooping wing, 
 So, mother, I come to thy faithful breast, 
 
 Though a broken heart I bring. 
 Oh, long and weary have been the years 
 
 Since I crossed this threshold last, 
 And a veil of woven sighs and tears 
 
 Is shrouding the bitter past. 
 13 
 
14G THE BESERTED WIFE TO HER MOTHER* 
 
 Oh, mother, we little dreamed that morn. 
 
 When the wreath was on my brow. 
 That among the roses lurked a thorn 
 
 That would tear my heart 'till now. 
 The flowers have faded, and with their bloom 
 
 Went out the light from my eye. 
 My thoughts have been only of the tomb — 
 
 I have only wished to die. 
 
 To die, sweet mother, for cold neglect 
 
 Was turning my heart to stone, 
 And the hopes that life's long day had decked 
 
 Were withering, one by one. 
 I folded my hands upon my breast. 
 
 And with hopeless, tearless eye. 
 Looked forward alone to the grave's deep rest. 
 
 With a longing wish to die. 
 
 Oh, mother, I left thy warm, warm heart 
 
 That had ever been my rest, 
 I did not even weep to depart. 
 
 For I leaned upon Ms breast. 
 'Twas a broken reed, and I found too late. 
 
 On a false and earth-stained shrine 
 My hopes were wreathed — that the bitter fate 
 
 Of a broken heart was mine. 
 
THE DESERTED WIFE TO HER MOTHER- 147 
 
 You are weeping, mother : it must seem strange 
 
 To look on your worshiped child — 
 To witness this sad and fearful change, 
 
 And list to her ravings wild ! 
 But my heart is breaking — the cold, cold weight 
 
 Has pressed on its strings too long ; 
 The burden it carried has been too great 
 
 For a soul more deep and strong. 
 
 I have come, dear mother, to die with thee — 
 
 To sleep on thy gentle breast. 
 And, blest by thy tones of sympathy. 
 
 Go cheerfully to my rest. 
 To list to thy sweet and truthful prayer. 
 
 As it rises up to Heaven, 
 For its erring love and its deep despair 
 
 That my soul may be forgiven. 
 
TO DICK, MY CANAEY BIRD. 
 
 I never hear thy liquid notes — 
 
 Thou bird of golden wing — 
 But o'er my drooping spirit floats 
 
 The balmy breath of Spring. 
 Its flowers are blooming round my path, 
 
 Its skies are o'er my head, 
 And on the fair, rejoicing earth 
 
 Its velvet moss is spread. 
 
TO DICK, MY CANARY BIRD. 14,9 
 
 II. 
 
 'Tis true, a snowy robe doth fold 
 
 The land in its embrace — 
 That strangely desolate and cold 
 
 Is Nature's cheerless face. 
 The murmur of the creeping streams 
 
 Falls harshly on the ear : 
 Through leafless boughs the pale light gleams, 
 
 Without a ray to cheer. 
 
 III. 
 
 And yet, when listening to thy tone 
 
 Thou precious, fairy bird — 
 Unheeded is the fierce wind's moan. 
 
 The raging storm unheard ; — 
 So like the voices of the Spring 
 
 Is thy clear, tuneful strain, — 
 So like the joyous caroling 
 
 Of loved ones come again. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thy wing, my bird, is like a beam 
 Of sunlight from the sky. 
 
 And brighter than the starry gleam 
 Of costly gems, thy eye. 
 13* 
 
150 
 
 TO DICKj MY CANARY BIRD. 
 
 Through the long Winter months, thy voice 
 Hath cheered my weary heart, 
 
 And added to my daily joys 
 More than thy little part. 
 
 Thy tone, dear bird, is e'er the same 
 
 'Mid clouds and sunlight fair — 
 Like gayest flute-notes breathing out 
 
 Upon the Summer air ; 
 Or the sweet murmur of a stream, 
 
 In distance faintly heard, 
 "When stirred by wings of wandering winds 
 
 As light as thine, my bird. 
 
THE BANISHED WIFE'S APPEAL. 
 
 My heart will wander back 
 To tliy lone pathway, through the cold, cold world, 
 
 And long to find the track 
 By which from its proud station it was hurled. 
 
 My yearning soul will droop 
 Beneath the chill, harsh gaze of curious eyes, 
 
 And Hope's tired wing will stoop 
 No more within her starry realm to rise. 
 
152 THE BANISHED WIFE's APPEAL. 
 
 Oh ! it is hard to take 
 My drear and lonely way far from thy side 
 
 The golden chain to break 
 That bound my fate to thine, a happy bride. 
 
 Dost thou remember now 
 The shadowy elm close by that lowly cot, 
 
 Where to thy love's deep vow 
 I listened tremblingly, and doubted not ? 
 
 Thou dost remember ! Years 
 Have passed away since then, and eyes of love, 
 
 Bedewed with anxious tears, 
 My blooming youth that fondly watched above, 
 
 Are closed in death. The breast 
 Whose painful throbbings were for me alone 
 
 Is hushed to peaceful rest — 
 The freed soul to its heavenly home hath gone. 
 
 And I am left to look 
 My last upon thy loved and cherished face ! 
 
 Oh ! can T ever brook 
 The world's cold sneer, or from my heart erase 
 
 The bright and happy past ? 
 Kind death ! My breaking heart invokes thy gloom ! 
 
 Around it gently cast 
 The silent, grateful shadow of the tomb ! 
 
LINES 
 
 Not on my lie art would I too brightly trace 
 The features of thy calm and truthful face ; 
 Nor fold too closely in its deepest cell 
 The holy gush of Love's own music-swell. 
 The past hath taught a lesson — that the flowers 
 Whose bloom is fairest in the earth's fair bowers 
 Oft fade the soonest ; that the sky whose beam 
 Flings o'er our path the radiance of a dream 
 May ere long wear a shade of deepest gloom, 
 Whose blackness whispers of the ray less tomb. 
 
154 
 
 LINES. 
 
 And yet a shadow sleeps upon the years 
 
 Of past experience, with their sighs and tears, 
 
 And reaching to the present, only lies 
 
 Like ganzy clouds across the azure skies, — 
 
 Subduing but, not lessening the pure light 
 
 That throws across my way its radiance bright. 
 
 ir. 
 
 There was a murmur in the days by-gone, 
 
 Cheering my spirit in its journey on ; 
 
 There was a hand that gently led along. 
 
 Through thornless paths, beneath the breath of song. 
 
 But music melted into night away, 
 
 On which it seemed would never dawri the day. 
 
 Time hath a healing power. The light came back 
 
 To gleam in glory o'er my darkened track, 
 
 And flowers sprung up with softly beaming eyes, 
 
 Whispering like spirits from the far-off skies, 
 
 And through the forest, on the balmy air. 
 
 Flitted the wild birds, musical and fair ; 
 
 And a low voice upon the breezes swept, 
 
 And gentle music to my heart-strings crept, 
 
 And o'er my brow a soft breath passed along 
 
 With the sweet murmurs of the olden song. 
 
 There may be clouds in distance, but my soul, 
 
 Fearing no danger, yields to thy control ; 
 
 Should darkness shroud again this heart of mine, 
 
 'Twill borrow light and sunshine but from thine. 
 
THE BREATH OF SPRING. 
 
 Breath of the Spring-wind, come ! 
 
 Many a heart is pining ; 
 And many a darkened home — 
 
 Whose star has been declining — 
 Longs for thy tuneful voice, 
 
 To breathe of hoj^e and gladness, 
 To bid the soul rejoice 
 
 That hath known but grief and sadness. 
 
156 THE BREATH OF SPRlKa. 
 
 Come with tliy viewless wings, 
 
 Sweeping across the hills, 
 Loosing the ice-bound springs, 
 
 Waking the sleeping rills, 
 Rippling the lake's calm breast 
 
 TV here the blue heavens repose, 
 And from its quiet rest 
 
 Starting the sweet-briar rose. 
 
 Come to our home and hearts ! 
 
 For in thy warm, bright train. 
 Sunlight in beauty starts. 
 
 Flooding the earth again. 
 Breathe out upon the vale ! 
 
 Breathe upon hill and stream! 
 And the earth, now cold and pale. 
 
 In a new birth shall beam. 
 
THE HOPES OF EARTH. 
 
 How soon the dreams of earth depart ! 
 
 Its hopes — oh ! what are they ! 
 How sadly from the doting heart 
 
 They melt and fade away ! 
 Like the soft cloud that swiftly floats 
 
 Across the Summer sky, 
 Like dew departing in the sun, 
 
 Earth's fairest visions die. 
 14 
 
158 THE HOPES^ OP EARTH. 
 
 The heart — 'tis strange what feelings move 
 
 Its tender, hidden strings — 
 How strong the cord that earthly love 
 
 Around its weakness flings. 
 'Tis well, perhaps, that all its hope& 
 
 Thus rudely should be riven, 
 That we may seek a purer clime^ 
 
 A brighter home in heaven. 
 
 Tis well ! But oh, how hard to bow 
 
 In meek and holy trust, 
 When pallid cheek and marble brow 
 
 Are laid beneath the dust ! — 
 When from the fond and yearning breast 
 
 Is coldly borne away 
 The worshiped one — too good and pure 
 
 In this dark world to stay. 
 
 I 
 
THE WOODS 
 
 The woods — who does not love the woods, 
 
 With their deep, quiet shade, — 
 The'gentle flowers that nod and smile 
 
 Through every mossy glade ? — 
 The stream that winds among the trees, 
 
 With sunbeams on its breast, — 
 The dripping rocks, the emerald banks, 
 
 The deep and shadowy rest. 
 
160 
 
 THE WOODS. 
 
 The woods — who does not love to dream 
 
 The bright Spring hours away 
 Among their shades, while perfume comes 
 
 Upon the wings of May ? — 
 With cheek upon the mossy bed, 
 
 Bedecked with flowerets bright. 
 And through the curtain overhead, 
 
 Creeping the golden light ! 
 
 The forest trees — how proudly reach 
 
 Their tall boughs toward the sky, 
 While in their shadows, half asleep, 
 
 The modest wild flowers lie ! 
 The music of the sighing winds 
 
 Their clustering leaves among. 
 Is like the voices of the loved — 
 
 Sweet, and remembered long. 
 
 The woods — the dim, old, shady woods — 
 
 Through the long Summer hours 
 How sweet to tread their quiet paths. 
 
 To pluck their bright-eyed flowers ! — 
 To catch the gleam of golden wings — 
 
 Of timid, starry eyes — 
 And listen, on the balmy air, 
 
 The liquid notes that rise ! 
 
THK WOODS* 161 
 
 The beautiful — the verdant woods ! 
 
 Oh ! what a dreamy spell 
 Around the soul their beauty throws, 
 
 And how the heart will swell 
 With love, and joy, and gratitude, 
 
 As voices mingle there — 
 Tuning its strings to melody, 
 
 And hushing every care. 
 
 14* 
 
TO A LOCK OF HAIE. 
 
 Sweet lock of hair I Thou call'st to Memory's eje 
 
 A form — a face — that long since passed away ; 
 Thou breathe st with a whisper and a sigh, 
 
 Like Summer breezes 'mid the flowers at play. 
 The tale thou tellest is so full of sadness — 
 
 So fraught with sorrow — yet so mild and meek - 
 Oh, it is dearer far than tones of gladness, — 
 
 Its tremblmg words a sweeter music speak. 
 
TO A LOCK OF HAIR. 163 
 
 IT. 
 
 Bright lock of haii* ! Thou com'st before me now. 
 
 Like the fond smile that beamed within her eye — 
 The pure, clear light that lay upon her brow, 
 
 And her own voice that trembled softly by« 
 I clasp again that fair and gentle hand : 
 
 Around my neck those arms again entwine, 
 And, oh ! in deepest joy, again I stand 
 
 By thy blest side, my sainted Caroline ! 
 
 III. 
 A brief, a happy day was thine, my friend, 
 
 The flowers were thornless in thy sunny path, 
 And oh ! we dreamed not that thy course would end 
 
 So soon, among the gloomy shades of death ; — 
 That thus in Youth's bright morn, and Hope's glad day, 
 
 When mirth and pleasure filled each passing hour. 
 Thou from our midst would fade, and pass away, 
 
 And to its rest thy blissful spirit soar. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In lovely June, they made thy lowly bed 
 
 Within the green and blooming earth's cold breast, 
 And roses blossomed o'er thy gentle head. 
 
 And bright bii'ds sang above thy place of rest. 
 'Twere meet that such thy requiem should be — 
 
 That skies all cloudless o'er thy grave should shine, 
 And flowerets beautiful bloom fresh and free. 
 
 For thou wert pure like them, my Caroline ! 
 
FLOWERS ON THE GRAVE, 
 
 'Tis well to lay them here — 
 
 The beautiful, fair flowers ; 
 To cull with sigh and tear 
 
 From Nature's sweetest bowers, 
 The buds that droop and die 
 
 Beneath the softest breath ; 
 'Tis well that they should lie, 
 
 A gentle type of death. 
 
FLOWERS ON THE GRAVE. 
 
 How like the bright, fair one 
 
 Who lies in dreamless rest — 
 Ere to her meek, pure brow 
 
 The thorns were rudely prest ! 
 Ere to her loving eye 
 
 The dim, deep shadow crept ; 
 And the fond, yearning heart. 
 
 In darkness coldly slept. 
 
 How peaceful is her sleep 
 
 Beneath these drooping flowers, 
 Where softest whispers creep 
 
 Through Summer's dreamy hours ! 
 Where lulling music steals 
 
 On Love's own quiet breath, 
 And naught but Beauty haunts 
 
 The gentle scene of death ! 
 
 Speak softly as ye bow 
 
 To press the turf that lies 
 Above her icy brow — 
 
 Her dim and shrouded eyes : 
 And softly lay the buds 
 
 Of beauty o'er her head — 
 As fair, as frail as she, 
 
 The young, the lovely dead. 
 
 165 
 
DIRGE FOR THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 Softly, peacefully, 
 
 Lay her to rest ! 
 Place tlie turf lightly 
 
 On her young breast ! 
 Gently, solemnly, 
 
 Bend o'er the bed 
 Where ye have pillowed 
 
 Thus early her head I 
 
DIRGE FOR THE BEAUTIFUL. 167 
 
 II. 
 
 Plant a young willow 
 
 Close by her grave ; 
 Let its long branches 
 
 Soothingly wave ! 
 Twine a sweet rose-tree 
 
 Over the tomb, 
 Sprinkle fresh buds there 
 
 Beauty and bloom ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Let a bright fountain, 
 
 Limpid and clear, 
 Murmur its music 
 
 Ceaselessly near ; — 
 Scatter the diamonds 
 
 Where the loved lies, 
 Brilliant and starry 
 
 Like angels' eyes ! 
 
 There shall the bright birds 
 On golden wing — 
 
 Lingering ever — - 
 
 Their sweet notes sing. 
 
163 DIRGE FOR THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 There shall the soft breeze 
 Pensively sigh, 
 
 Bearing rich fragrance 
 And melody by. 
 
 Lay the sod lightly 
 
 Over her breast ! 
 Calm be her slumbers, 
 
 Peaceful her rest ! 
 Beautiful, lovely, 
 
 She was but given, 
 A fair bud to earth, 
 
 To blossom in Heaven !