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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSre 
 
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Poems 
 
 By 
 Andrew Sterett Ridgely 
 
 1826-1877 
 
 PRESS OF- 
 LUCAS BROS 
 BALTIMORE 
 MARYLAND 
 

 Copyright 1913 
 
 by 
 
 Camilla Sidgely Simpson. 
 
 DEC 27 1913 
 
 ©CI.A3615,'.0 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Some Lines on Poetry 1 
 
 Fear 5 
 
 Lines on Witnessing the Confirmation of Some 
 
 Young Friends 9 
 
 Winter. An Ode 10 
 
 Sonnet to 13 
 
 Epistle to 14 
 
 Passing Away 20 
 
 Love and Friendship 21 
 
 The Fairy's Pledge 23 
 
 Something Is Wanting Still 24 
 
 There Are Moments of Sweetness 25 
 
 Lines Written at the Close of the Tear 26 
 
 lanthe 28 
 
 From a Gentleman to His Sister in England on the 
 Receipt of a Violet Gathered Near Their Former 
 
 Home 30 
 
 To Mrs. Randolph Ridgely 32 
 
 "Oh, Pardon if Around My Brow" 36 
 
 Childhood and Age 38 
 
 The Mother's Grave 40 
 
 Epistle to 43 
 
 To C la 49 
 
 A Nautical Song 51 
 
 Farewell 53 
 
 Song 54 
 
 Song 55 
 
 Lines Accompanying a Bouquet of Flowers 56 
 
 I Never Told Thee 57 
 
 "I Ask Thee Not to Love Me" 58 
 
 I Only Ask a Tear 60 
 
 "He Knows Not Love Whose Pliant Knee" 61 
 
Page 
 
 "I'm Very Sad at Heart, Love" 62 
 
 Hints to Lovers 63 
 
 Out of Season 64 
 
 Modesty 65 
 
 Niagara 66 
 
 On the Sudden Death of the Author 69 
 
 Lines Sent to a Lady with the Preceding Poem .... 76 
 
 Athenai's 77 
 
 To the Same 79 
 
 Song 80 
 
 Forgive 81 
 
 A Ballad 83 
 
 Twilight 86 
 
 "Streams That Have Parted" 87 
 
 The Old Story 89 
 
 "They Tell Me That Thy Heart Is Won" 97 
 
 The Maid and the Lily 99 
 
 Cloe 100 
 
 Song 102 
 
 The St. Lawrence River 103 
 
 New-Year Rhymes to an Old Friend 106 
 
 "If in That World, Which Lies Above" 109 
 
 "The False Accusation" 110 
 
 "Along the Sands" 112 
 
 March to the Crimean Fight 113 
 
 The Crimean War 115 
 
 Night 118 
 
 Ave Maria 119 
 
 Another Year 122 
 
 Footprints in the Snow 123 
 
 On the Loss of the S. S. "Arctic" 126 
 
 To 130 
 
 My Only Skill in Wooing 131 
 
 "No Jewels on Thy Fingers" 132 
 
 The Ebbing Tide 133 
 
 Sonnet 135 
 
 An Epitaph 136 
 
 To 137 
 
 Lines to 139 
 
 Her Voice 142 
 
 Lines (Composed at Midnight in the City) 143 
 
Page 
 
 On My Little Daughter's Birthday, June 19th 145 
 
 Eternity 146 
 
 The Sea 147 
 
 To My Sister 148 
 
 The Tresses for Me 154 
 
 To 156 
 
 Written in a Lady's Album 157 
 
 Youth 158 
 
 To 160 
 
 Autumn 162 
 
 On a Lady's Portrait 163 
 
 Lines to 164 
 
 T'were Better Far to Bid Farewell 165 
 
 The Wizard's Curse 167 
 
 "Farewell" 169 
 
 Love 170 
 
 Lines to 171 
 
 Lines to Mrs. J. P. Kennedy on Seeing Her Kill a 
 
 Snake 172 
 
 My Childhood's Home 173 
 
 Change 174 
 
 Napoleon 177 
 
 To 179 
 
 The Cascade. (A Rambler) 180 
 
 Song 187 
 
 To 188 
 
 Epigram on Mrs. V 189 
 
 Time 190 
 
 The Ruby 192 
 
 Lines Written on the Third Night of the New Moon 
 
 and Inscribed to That Fair Lady Emeline 193 
 
 Woman 194 
 
 A Portrait 195 
 
 Lines 196 
 
 To 198 
 
 To Miss Ellen Key on Her Copying for Me the Star- 
 
 Spangled Banner 200 
 
TO MY SON 
 
 I dedicate 
 
 this collection of His Grandfather's Verses, 
 
 written between 1835-1870, 
 
 and collected from garret and library 
 
 book-cases, on parting from our 
 
 old Home. 
 
 In loving memory of my 
 
 Father. 
 
 — Camilla Ridgely Simpson 
 
 Baltimore. Nov. 1913 
 
SOME LINES ON POETRY 
 
 THE days of chivalr)'," I quote from Burke, 
 "Are over!" Loom and anvil are at work 
 By arts, not arms! The man who rises now 
 Shows not the blood, but sweat upon his brow! 
 The moated castle and its knights are dust, 
 Orlando's sword is scarce a curve of rust; 
 The gentle courtesies of Love, and War, 
 Have paled before life's more effectual star; 
 Our fields of gold are where the harvests wave. 
 Toil marks the strong, and industry, the brave. 
 
 And Poesy! No longer as of yore 
 
 Rings the gay harp! The modern troubadour 
 
 Is robed in broadcloth like an honest cit, 
 
 By stealth is minstrel, and scarce airs his wit 
 
 Lest knaves should sneer! Our modern stoics think 
 
 When clerks turn poets they are mad, or drink, 
 
 Or something worse. Who goes to him for law 
 
 That draws a sigh when he should pleadings draw? 
 
 Powers they think of as a man, who sold 
 
 A piece of marble for some pounds of gold ; 
 
 Unconscious that the stone so deftly wrought, 
 
Holds in its chiseled beauty God's own thought. 
 
 Rogers they only as a banker know, 
 
 And Scott's, and Byron's works are kept for show. 
 
 In this hard age, the Bard must think, not dream, 
 
 Dismount from Pegasus, and take to steam; 
 
 Art sees its magic hues dissolve in air, 
 
 And Raphael is neglected for Daguerre! 
 
 Yet, murmur not, oh. Muse ! 'tis wise, 'tis well ! 
 Mankind should be in earnest! Aye to dwell 
 In ease, and indolence, doth not become 
 The soul whose gaze turns skyward for its home ! 
 Work is the edict God pronounc'd to man; 
 We must obey it, humbly, if we can. 
 Yet, howe'er proudly, still, we must obey, 
 If we would raise the soul above the clay; 
 For idleness, whatever state be ours, 
 Disgraces manhood, and obscures its powers! 
 
 But men are prone too often to condemn 
 Those lights in others that burn dim in them ! 
 Nought worth his care, the sordid tradesman finds, 
 Save what the calf of yonder ledger binds ; 
 The subtle lawyer, Shakespeare doth disown, 
 And underrates all learning but his own. 
 Fair culture smiles the narrow mind to see 
 Bound in the trammels of a special plea: 
 Unmindful of the lofty thought, that glows 
 Through Spencer's verse, or Ta3dor's noble prose! 
 2 
 
Oh ! shade of Talfourd ! Doth he think because 
 Murray read Pope he did not read the laws? 
 In court a Johnson, out of court a bore, 
 I touch my hat, and let him pass before, 
 Not sorrowing that to me doth still belong 
 Some taste for beauty and some love of song. 
 
 How oft, when labor hath the brain oppress'd. 
 When thought is darken'd, and the mind seeks rest: 
 When on the heart, that cannot well withstand. 
 Some shrouded trouble lays its leaden hand; 
 When eyes refuse their aching lids to close. 
 And very weariness forbids repose ; 
 Hath the sweet song, by nature's minstrels sung, 
 Renew'd the energy of nerves unstrung, 
 Within the breast return'd the smould'ring fires. 
 Rekindled hope, or waken'd high desires; 
 And as more full the wild enjoyment rose, 
 Breath'd sweet oblivion o'er our cares and woes. 
 
 Brave Wolfe forebodeful of impending fate. 
 Great Webster, sinking 'neath the toils of State, 
 In their last hour of glorj'^ and of time. 
 Found joy and solace in the poet's rhyme: 
 And happier Rene by his minstrels crown'd, 
 Than when his brow the triple circlet bound! 
 
 Mock not, ye sons of Mammon ! mock not those 
 For whose delight the stream of poesy flows : 
 3 
 
Not much he kens, I ween, the art of song, 
 Who to mere Idlesse thinks its lays belong. 
 Know, while your tasks ye 'mid the dust pursue, 
 That to conceive is mightier than to do ; 
 The act is aye the offspring of the thought, 
 While Cromwell toiled, sublimer Milton taught. 
 Nor scorn the humblest, unto whom is given 
 The smallest sparkle of that fire from heaven; 
 Ye may not know how oft it hath the power 
 To steal from penury a wretched hour; 
 Ye may not know how on the darksome way 
 Of weary loneliness it sheds a ray ; 
 How many a hope, that hath been cherish'd long, 
 How many a memory, is embalm'd in song! 
 
o 
 
 FEAR 
 
 H! man! the strong — the God-like — 
 What noble gifts are thine! 
 But, born to scale the mountain-tops, 
 What chains thee to the mine? 
 
 Why is thy gaze still earthward, 
 
 Above the lightning storm. 
 When thou might'st with the eagle soar, 
 
 Why grovel with the worm? 
 
 'Tis fear! The fear that dreadeth 
 
 A thousand unseen things; 
 And cowers alike the beggar's heart, 
 
 And haughty heart of kings! 
 
 'Tis fear ! The fear that chilleth, 
 
 Alike the hearts that hate, 
 And the hearts, that Love's sweet April fruits 
 
 Have laden with their weight ! 
 5 
 
3 
 
 See, where yon despot swayeth 
 
 A nation with his breath ; 
 The arbiter of million lives, 
 
 Yet pales at thought of death! 
 
 4 
 Behold the stalwart warrior; 
 
 He surely must be brave, 
 Whose lips defies both man and God, 
 
 And laughs above the grave! 
 
 Go ask him in the midnight, 
 When watch-fires burn around, 
 
 And his bands repose in dreamless sleep, 
 Why is not his as sound ? 
 
 And if he answers truly. 
 
 He will tell ye, to his scorn, 
 That he dreads mankind's forgetfulness 
 
 In ages yet unborn. 
 
 5 
 Confiding leans the maiden 
 
 On the bosom of her youth, 
 And surely she may trust the lips, 
 
 That never spoke but truth; 
 
 Yet strange fear chills the passion, 
 That like lava floods her heart : 
 
 As she thinketh of the after time. 
 The hour when they must part. 
 
6 
 Asleep, in angel sleeping, 
 
 Lies the offspring of her love; 
 And like a watching spirit bends 
 
 The mother's form above: 
 
 Along the silken lashes 
 
 Of her soft, and loving eyes, 
 The tear falls dewy on her cheek, 
 
 Her snowy bosom sighs ; 
 
 Tho' tenderly beside her, 
 
 Doth the husband lover lean; 
 
 And breathe his whispers pure and warni 
 As they have ever been; 
 
 His gentle words arrest not 
 
 The falling of her tears. 
 For o'er her slumbering babe awakes 
 
 The mother's thousand fears. 
 
 7 
 Oh! ever is it with us. 
 
 This coward, hectic fear, 
 It comes to us in pleasure's hour. 
 
 In hours of gloom 'tis near; 
 
 The monarch feels it on his throne. 
 
 The beggar in his shed ; 
 No state there is of mortal man 
 
 That is exempt from dread. 
 
 7 
 
Oh! teach us then, Great Spirit, 
 Whom ej'es may not behold, 
 
 To learn the truth, and love the truth, 
 By thine old prophets told; 
 
 And teach our wayward being, 
 
 How fear may be defied, 
 In following in the footsteps meek 
 
 Of Christ, the Crucified! 
 
LINES ON WITNESSING THE CON- 
 FIRMATION OF SOME YOUNG 
 FRIENDS 
 
 T SAW them round the altar stand — the chosen 
 
 -*- of the Lord — 
 
 Firm in the holy faith they bore unto His saving 
 
 word: 
 And call'd by Him who sufJer'd here for them the 
 
 cross and rod, 
 In purity and strength of heart they gave themselves 
 
 to God. 
 
 They have girded on the armour and the livery of 
 
 life, 
 And valiantly, and bravely, they have nerv'd them 
 
 for the strife: 
 And joining there, in heart and hand, they've ta'en 
 
 a solemn oath, 
 And pledg'd unto their Sovereign Liege their 
 
 homage and their troth. 
 9 
 
Go forth! and go ye fearlessly, the weakest of the 
 
 throng ! 
 It matters not the feeble arm, if ye at heart be 
 
 strong : 
 The sinewy limb, and giant frame, are now of slight 
 
 avail ; 
 Your strength is in an humble mind, and faith that 
 
 may not fail. 
 
 Go forth! and be ye vigilant, yours is no common 
 
 strife, 
 Ye're summoned in your Master's name to wage the 
 
 war of life; 
 And tho' your path be set with foes, yet, be it firmly 
 
 trod. 
 And watch ye that no stains defile the panoply of 
 
 God. 
 
 10 
 
WINTER— AN ODE 
 
 (Written on the 3d of March, 1846, 
 after a fall of snow.) 
 
 A T the gentle feet of spring, 
 ■^ ^ Lo! the monarch winter — dying! 
 Dies he every inch a king — 
 By his side his sceptre lying! 
 
 A spar of shining crystal quarried 
 From the ice-bergs round the Pole, 
 
 Which from frigid zone to torrid 
 Was his symbol of control. 
 
 From the blackness of the cloud, 
 Genii of the storms have wove him, 
 
 With their icy hands, a shroud, 
 
 Which they softly spread above him ! 
 
 How sublime and stern his fall ! 
 
 No coward fears in death have found him: 
 Cesar in the capitol,, 
 
 With his mantle wrapt around him! 
 11 
 
See! he lies all stark and bare! 
 
 No servile hand his brow caressing; 
 No driv'ling priest, or dotard there, 
 
 To pronounce his ban or blessing. 
 
 Yet, are there friends who mourn for him. 
 Through forests wail the winds sonorous; 
 
 Tempests sound his requiem, 
 
 And ocean joins the mightj^ chorus. 
 
SONNET TO 
 
 4 S to a bridal, see approach, sweet May! 
 ^ -*■ The breeze, late dallying with the April 
 showers, 
 
 And laden with the fragrant theft of flowers. 
 Stirring the light leaves, cools the eager day, 
 That woos thy presence with too fierce a ray; 
 
 And stealing o'er my harp's responsive string, 
 Suggests the tribute that I fain would pay! 
 
 And pardon thou if little skill I bring 
 To aid the grateful task! Unto the heart, 
 In thy most sweet abandonment of art, 
 
 Thy beauty is, as to the earth the Spring, 
 Lovely, and causing love! The feelings start 
 
 From their cold torpor, like a stream set free, 
 
 Bearing upon their tide each thought to thee! 
 
 13 
 
EPISTLE TO 
 
 "Remembrance sheds around its genial power, 
 Calls up the vanish'd daj^s to rapture given, 
 Or dear to youth portraj^s each childish scene." 
 
 — Byi-on. 
 
 I^T" O more the winter's sleet impelling blast 
 
 -^ ^ In icy fetters binds the rivers fast ; 
 
 But, mid the influence of a genial sun, 
 
 The liberated streams rejoicing run, 
 
 The whistling blue-bird in the grove is seen, 
 
 And the brown meadows reassume their green. 
 
 The Queen of Smiles, the beauteous Spring appears, 
 "Etherial mildness" her return endears; 
 On odorous wings, around her presence move 
 The social pair, the powers of Mirth and Love: 
 The Graces, too, with wreaths of flowerets fair, 
 And flowing robes, with zoneless waists, are there! 
 Oh! gentle Spring! why turn my thoughts to thee? 
 Another name demands my minstrelsy! 
 But, who can gaze upon thy face divine, 
 Nor weave an offering for thy roseate shrine? 
 For thou, when sterner thoughts awaken pain. 
 With thy sweet breath canst soothe the poet's brain ; 
 Wooing him forth into the woodlands wild. 
 Taking him to thy bosom, like a child. 
 14 
 
Nor, lovely Lady, in this pleasant dream, 
 Think I am wandering from my proper theme; 
 For when I sing of Spring, of thee I sing, 
 Thy smile was stolen from the lips of Spring. 
 
 How fair — beyond the intervening years — 
 The sunny landscape of our Youth appears! 
 When hope was buoyant, and when life was new, 
 Each thought, and feeling, pure as they were true! 
 Then all was light and glory, and the eyes 
 Saw naught but beauty in the earth and skies! 
 If tears were there — they were as April rain 
 Whence the hearts verdure bloom'd more bright 
 
 again. 
 Mere boy, and girl — a joyous prime was ours, 
 Youth fill'd the heart, as May the vale, with flowers ! 
 Old age may come, the light of youth depart, 
 And sorrow's clouds may gather o'er the heart ; 
 But still around us, to life's latest scene. 
 Such memories cling, a living evergreen 1 
 And when storms thicken, and the tempests blow, 
 They shield our bosoms from the blasts of woe. 
 Oh! happy hours! when joy was in its prime! 
 Oh ! glorious days ! but since that happy time. 
 How oft has earth its annual circle run 
 In silent course revolving round the sun! 
 And many a change the passing j^ears have brought, 
 Sad change! unimaged on the casual thought! 
 15 
 
Death, coldness, sorrow ! ah ! a few short years, 
 Make wondrous havoc with all love endears! 
 Behold yon portrait of a friend of yore — 
 Gone — ever gone — to that returnless shore! 
 That form reposes in the cold tomb now, 
 Corruption wastes the angel from that brow; 
 Yon simple canvas all the heart could save 
 From chill oblivion, darkness, and the grave. 
 
 The eyes of childhood all things magnify, 
 
 Yon lake looks broader, and yon tree more high : 
 
 And oh! how fair the landscape then doth seem. 
 
 And hear the music of the rippling stream ! 
 
 Age comes apace, and it contracts the sight, 
 
 The earth seems darker, and the heavens less bright. 
 
 The heart, more circumscribed, more selfish grown, 
 
 Feels naught beyond its barrier of stone. 
 
 There's not a tree that gave its grateful shade 
 To cool the valley where our childhood play'd, 
 But I remember every branch, and how 
 The graceful foliage cluster 'd on each bough : 
 And Time's oblivious hand shall ne'er efface 
 The sacred memories that endear that place. 
 
 Canst thou forget the hill-side in the wood, 
 Where the log schoolhouse by the roadway stood ? 
 The beachen grove, where, on the smooth, grey rind, 
 Each young Orlando carv'd his Rosalind? 
 16 
 
The wizard brook, that, as it leap'd and fell. 
 Sang its weird music down the tangled dell? 
 The little master of our little school. 
 The oaken ferule, emblem of his rule ? 
 E'en now, methinks, mj^ blotted desk I see, 
 Inlaid and letter'd with the name of thee ! 
 E'en now, behold the pedagogue's fierce look, 
 As my eyes dar'd to wander from my book, 
 In side-long glances, stolen cautiously. 
 In hopes of meeting a sweet smile from thee. 
 And, still doth fancy linger, to retrace 
 That all expressive, ever lovely face, 
 Where every feeling seem'd distinctly wrought, 
 As tho' each feature were endued with thought. 
 A wild, strange girl ! The bird upon the bough 
 Was not more wild, its song more blithe, than thou ! 
 Earth's wilding flov/ers gave beauty to thy looks. 
 Thy heart caught music list'nlng to the brooks: 
 And tho' mere boys — our boyish bosoms then. 
 Beat in thy presence with the hearts of men! 
 
 Those days have pass'd, as fades the midnight dream- 
 ing 
 That cheats the fancy with its heavenly seeming; 
 A bright remembrance, a regretful tear. 
 The only tokens that they have been here. 
 
 But Hope still casts a radiant beam before — 
 Bright glow the waters, tho' we leave the shore — 
 And Fancy points, far bosom'd in the sea, 
 Some islet home, to which the heart mav flee. 
 
But gentle Hope, thine own sweet bard hath sung 
 Thy native pleasures, with a honied tongue! 
 And not for me, oh! not for me, to tell 
 The heaven-born raptures he has sung so well ! 
 Oft hath my truant boyhood stolen a part 
 Of school-time hours to learn that lay by heart, 
 And as the rythmic streamlet flow'd along, 
 How hath my spirit drank the tide of Song! 
 Joy whispering hope ! to these belongs, alone, 
 The suasive softness of thy poet's tone ! 
 
 And Fancy still, by gentle Hope caress'd, 
 With pictur'd scenes allures my dreaming breast. 
 A home of love, remote from pomp and pride, 
 Replete with peace, one gentle hand to guide. 
 One soul, of which mine own might be a part, 
 And one fair face to shine upon my heart. 
 
 There be, whose anxious eyes have seen afar. 
 Their hopes high summit shining like a star ; 
 But, worn with travel from the vale below. 
 Have wept to find the glittering sheen but snow. 
 
 Should such, too, prove the fate reserv'd for me. 
 Still I can muse on by-gone days, and thee! 
 Tho' not a flower of early Youth be there. 
 To lend its fragrance to the chilly air ; 
 And all the hills be strew'd with hoary rime, 
 Scatter'd, like snow-drifts, by the hand of Time ; 
 18 
 
Still, still, shall memory to my bosom bring 
 Some touch of comfort, and some beam of spring 
 As o'er the waste of years that intervenes, 
 My mind revisits childhood's cherish'd scenes, 
 The while each other love is fading fast 
 A holy tryst still keeping with the past. 
 
PASSING AWAY 
 
 LIKE the joyous dawn of a spring-time day, 
 ' When the rose blooms bright in the clieck of 
 May, 
 When the dew hangs fresh upon flower and tree, 
 And the wild birds waken their songs of glee. 
 
 Like the sparkling gush of a mountain stream, 
 As it scatters its spray to the morning's beam, 
 Winding its way amid blossoming flowers. 
 And laughing in scorn of the noon-tide hours. 
 
 The shell-tinted cheek of yon maiden bright, 
 All lit from within by the spirit's light, 
 And the flash of wit and the glow of feeling 
 And love and mirth thro' her eyes are stealing. 
 
 But the spring-time day it departeth soon. 
 The rose hues fade in the breath of June, 
 And the diamond dew and the wildbirds song 
 From tree and from bower depart ere long. 
 
 And the stream of the mountain gushing free 
 Too soon is it lost in the wide salt sea. 
 And all bright things, whatever they be. 
 Are passing away to Eternity. 
 
 20 
 
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP 
 
 'Name not 3'ourself her lover, but her friend." 
 
 —Ovid. 
 
 TOVE once to Beauty attentive 
 -■— ' Tried every wile and each art, 
 Exhausted his talent inventive 
 
 To win from the sweet nymph her heart. 
 
 Said Love then to Friendship, oh lend me 
 Your garment so spotless and white; 
 
 And may fortune never befriend me 
 If I win not the maiden tonight. 
 
 Sweet Friendship, so kind is she ever, 
 Surrender'd it him on the minute ; 
 
 "This ruse is decidedly clever," 
 
 Thought Love as he hid himself in it. 
 
 Then call'd he on Beauty delighted, 
 Sure was he his trials were o'er, 
 
 She thinking 'twas Friendship benighted 
 Unbarred and unbolted the door. 
 
 21 
 
Now only but look at those two, 
 
 And only but list to Love's tone, 
 The language is Friendship's, 'tis true, 
 
 But the manner and looks are his own. 
 
 Thus time pass'd along in disguise, 
 
 While Beauty thought Friendship most charming, 
 With Love's magic dust in her eyes 
 
 She saw not the least thing alarming. 
 
 And nearly a year pass'd away. 
 
 Each week their sweet raptures renew did, 
 When they went a walking one day 
 
 And call'd upon Hymen these two did. 
 
 I will not say what happen'd there. 
 
 But sure am I there was no harm meant, 
 
 Nor will I bid Beauty beware 
 
 Of Love in a masquerade garment. 
 
 This simple tale only doth prove 
 
 What time has prov'd over and over. 
 
 No bosom is closed against Love, 
 
 No night-latch can keep out the lover. 
 
 22 
 
THE FAIRY'S PLEDGE 
 
 FAIRY, oh fairy! I claim it now, 
 By thy wand of moss, and thy plighted vow : 
 By this mystic sign bestow'd on me, 
 Fairy, oh, fairy ! a boon from thee ! 
 
 Speak, Mortal, speak! I admit the sign, 
 Speak ! and the wish of thy heart be thine ! 
 If in the pale of my spells it be. 
 Freely and quickly I'll give it to thee! 
 
 Gold and jewels, from mine and cave, 
 
 Are worthless, all, to the boon I crave ! 
 
 Fairy, oh, fairy! I ask of thee. 
 
 Her heart who hath stolen my heart from me ! 
 
 It may not be. Mortal, vain is thy prayer. 
 Choose thee again, I have no power there ; 
 What gift in the reach of my spells there be, 
 Mortal, speak ! I bestow it on thee ! 
 
 No, ah, no ! other wish have I none, 
 They all are lost in that ruling one; 
 And if beyond thy power it be. 
 Fairy, oh, fairy! I claim naught of thee! 
 23 
 
"SOMETHING IS WANTED STILL' 
 
 HEARTS cannot live alone, 
 But they will pine, 
 Having nought to lean on 
 
 Like the frail vine! 
 Riches and rank are vain, 
 
 They cannot bring 
 Aught to revive again 
 Hearts withering! 
 
 Ah, no ! They never will 
 
 Sadness remove — 
 Something is wanted still, 
 
 Something to love! 
 Then hearts have not their fill. 
 
 As you may learn, 
 Something is wanted still. 
 
 Love in return. 
 
 24 
 
"THERE ARE MOMENTS OF 
 
 SWEETNESS" 
 
 'Tp^HERE are moments of sweetness in this world 
 
 -*- of strife, 
 That are caught up like pearls from the river of life ; 
 Thro' its waters of darkness and sorrow they beam, 
 Illuming the depths of that turbulent stream. 
 
 Such moments come o'er us when fond bosoms greet, 
 When those who have lov'd in one golden link meet ; 
 While joys, like the sunshine, the present adorning, 
 Shed over life's noontide the freshness of morning. 
 
 Such, such were the moments, too brief, and too 
 
 bright. 
 That I shar'd with the friends of my boyhood last 
 
 night ! 
 Tho' the songs that they sung have died out in mine 
 
 ear, 
 Tho' their voices are hushed, their remembrance is 
 
 dear! 
 
 Like the sound of the bugle-horn wound 'mid the 
 
 hills, 
 When the grottos and caves the sweet melody fills; 
 Tho' the horn may be silenc'd, yet still on the air, 
 Every grotto and cavern re-echoes it there! 
 25 
 
LINES WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF 
 THE YEAR 
 
 TIME is gliding swiftly from us, 
 Seize the moments whilst ye may; 
 Trust not to the morrow's promise, 
 
 It is falser than today! 
 Let thy march be onward ever, 
 And thy footsteps rooted never ! 
 
 Life is short! Be brave and earnest! 
 
 There is ever work to do : 
 Wheresoe'er thy glance thou turnest, 
 
 Still it findeth something new! 
 Back, or on, where all's transition, 
 Man can keep no fix'd position ! 
 
 Toil is wholesome — sloth is ruin — 
 
 Rest inviteth moth and rust; 
 Ours be knowledge, self-renewing. 
 
 And a still increasing trust ! 
 Man's horizon is not here, 
 Bounded by this narrow sphere! 
 
Finite joys, can thej'- delight tliec, 
 
 When eternity is given? 
 Can a lease of years requite thee 
 
 For a heritage in heaven ? 
 Up! and make thy birth-right known, 
 Up ! and boldly claim thine own ! 
 
 Nay, sell it for a mess of pottage — 
 
 Be an Esau in thy heart! 
 Weaker than an idiot's dotage 
 
 With thy noble birth-right part! 
 Scarce above the wild brute's level, 
 In the lustful present revel ! 
 
lANTHE 
 
 "A wild rose tree 
 Pavilions him in bloom, and he doth see 
 A bird that snares his fancy." 
 
 — Keats, 39. 
 
 T LOVE the bright, the beautiful, in earth, and air, 
 
 ■*■ and sky. 
 
 The flower, the rainbow, and the star, are lovely in 
 
 mine eye! 
 But, oh! there lurks a mightier spell, o'er passion, 
 
 hope or dread. 
 In the mysterious witchery round woman's presence 
 
 shed. 
 
 A spirit-shape of lovliness — veil'd in a human form. 
 And not all free from earthliness, pure, passionate 
 
 and warm: 
 And angel's holier nature blent with yielding 
 
 woman's charms, 
 A creature that ye'd yearn to clasp, yet- — ^worship in 
 
 your arms 
 
 28 
 
In the dark tangles of her hair a shadowy beauty lies, 
 The night-cloud and the star have met, and wedded 
 
 in her eyes; 
 The fine emotions of her soul have pass'd into her 
 
 face. 
 Where sweetness tempers dignity and softens it to 
 
 grace ! 
 
 Upon her human nature rests the impress of the 
 skies, 
 
 And gazing on her, from the heart, love-thoughts, 
 like prayers, arise! 
 
 She seems of those creations bright that on our slum- 
 bers beam, 
 
 A form that one has seen by night, and knelt to in a 
 dream ! 
 
 29 
 
FROM A GENTLEMAN TO HIS SISTER IN 
 ENGLAND ON THE RECEIPT OF A 
 VIOLET GATHERED NEAR THEIR 
 FORMER HOME. 
 
 T\ /T Y gentle sister ! 'Tis with a delight 
 -^ ' -'' Sweetly commingled with a tender grief 
 That I would woo the muse from thought more 
 bright, 
 To contemplate this floweret's wither'd leaf, 
 Cull'd by thy hands beside my home afar, 
 Where dwell the lov'd, and, where the loving are! 
 
 And therefore turn I, gladly, from the smiles, 
 And rosy lips, and maidens of this land ; 
 
 This happy land, which aye the sense beguiles 
 With something ever beautiful and grand ; 
 
 To welcome this sweet offering of thine, 
 
 A lone-flower fall'n from thy heart on mine! 
 
 There let it rest — where — oh ! that thou wert resting 
 Beloved sister! Hast thou chang'd in aught? 
 
 I clasp thy gift ; and, fancy thee investing 
 In the sweet memories of my boyish thought, 
 
 I gaze upon thee, as I gaz'd of old. 
 
 And seem to mine, once more, thy heart to fold ! 
 30 
 
Ocean, and ocean's tempests are between 
 
 Me, and the hearts, and home, I lov'd so well ! 
 
 Yet, I remember each romantic scene, 
 
 And where the violets sweetest grow can tell! 
 
 Years have pass'd o'er me — but, in passing, press'd 
 
 Their cherish'd memories deeper in my breast ! 
 
 My native land ! my England ! From thy shore 
 Came this fond offering of a sister's love: 
 
 Tho' many a weary round I've journey'd o'er, 
 My faith to thee, nor time, nor toil can move! 
 
 Land of my fathers' fame, my childhood's birth, 
 
 Reserve for me a grave beneath thy earth! 
 
 31 
 
TO MRS. RANDOLPH RIDGELY 
 
 LADY and sister ! Unto thy command, 
 J Ever obedient is my heart and hand! 
 Through time and absence always must thou prove 
 To my remembrance dear, as to my love ! 
 While thy lov'd soldier heeds his country's call, 
 Let not my harp hang tuneless on the wall ; 
 To twine thy brow let him the laurel choose, 
 I weave for thee a chaplet of the muse ; 
 Whate'er the summons, love still lights the way, 
 Soldier and minstrel, lyre and sword, obey! 
 
 I miss thee, sister ! Slowly trail the hours. 
 Since thou departed'st from our home's wild bowers ! 
 Still tune the bird's sweet songs among the trees. 
 Still floats the fragrance on the passing breeze; 
 As pure, as blue a heaven, still spans above, 
 I see around me, still fond looks of love, 
 Along the board dear faces beam — but, now, 
 One seat is vacant — sister — ^where art thou? 
 Musing, perchance, there vanish'd pleasures o'er, 
 Where dash the waves on Moultrie's guarded shore ! 
 32 
 
A soldier's bride ! Ah ! words of love and woe ! 
 What toils must she who bears them undergo ! 
 Loneness and vigil! sister mine, for thee, 
 Life opens roughly as yon surging sea; 
 Hush'd is the lute's soft tone — thy ear must feel 
 The drum's loud tocsin and the clarion peal ; 
 Far are the love-lit smiles — ^while glitter near. 
 The bristling bayonet, and the burnish'd spear ; 
 The fierce and frowning panoply of war 
 Surrounds thy presence as the clouds a star! 
 
 And shinest thou not thy warrior's path above, 
 With the sweet influence of some star of love; 
 Gilding the tempest 'till its tumult cease, 
 Lighting to glory while it woos to peace ? 
 
 Nor, yet, is he war's votary, alone, 
 A softer passion claims hira for its own: 
 'Tis his to blend in kindred homage now, 
 The soldier's promise, and the lover's vow; 
 His is the tented field, the stripe's alarms^ 
 And his the paradise of those dear arms! 
 
 Time was, e'er science did our race enslave. 
 And teach as madness what was only brave ; 
 When high-born chivalry the soul inspired. 
 And valor nerv'd the heart that fame had fir'd ; 
 When woman's gentle hand essayed the lance, 
 And wrought in deed what lives but in romance ; 
 33 
 
Then sung the minstrel — then the troubadour 
 
 His lay of love in lady's ear did pour ! 
 
 But modern wisdom schools a tamer part, 
 
 And Idlesse follows in the train of art: 
 
 No romance stirs — no bold achievements please 
 
 The silken slaves of luxury and ease! 
 
 Oh ! Fancy now, as in the olden day. 
 
 The gilded tournament's superb array, 
 
 Knights throng the barrier, dazzling eyes look down. 
 
 And beauty stoops the victor's brow to crown ; 
 
 The clarion sounds — they meet in mad career — 
 
 Backward recoil — in splinters flees the spear — 
 
 But stun'd and bending to that stalwart blow, 
 
 The opposing champion reels before his foe ! 
 
 All eyes are turn'd, the victor's choice to see, 
 
 All eyes are turn'd — and all are fix'd on thee ! 
 
 Now pass we, love, from this romantic dream, 
 To where Patapsco spreads its silver stream ; 
 Whose sparkling waters, in their bosom fold 
 The fort where wav'd the star-lit flag of old, 
 Thro' that long night of conflict and of toil, 
 When foemen feet profaned Columbian soil; 
 Streaming triumphant o'er the battle there, 
 'Mid scatter'd shell, and lurid rockets glare; 
 'Till by the "early dawn's" returning light. 
 Once more its bright stars blest the captive's sight; 
 34 
 
And bursting free from chains that would control, 
 Forth gush'd in song the patriot-poet's soul ! 
 Still floating high, that starry banner — see ! 
 It seems to waft a summons unto thee ! 
 Haste — haste — my sister! For already there 
 Fond hope for thee a welcome doth prepare ! 
 A few short weeks — and we again shall meet — 
 Oh ! haste thee, Love, our yearning hearts to greet. 
 
 35 
 
'OH! PARDON IF AROUND MY BROW 
 
 OH ! Pardon, if around my brow 
 There seems a lingering shade to lower ; 
 If 'mid this scene of joyance now 
 
 My heart recoil from pleasure's power. 
 
 Tho' rosy mirth may crown the bowl 
 With all her wines' delicious savour ; 
 
 Yet, thoughts will steal upon the soul, 
 That rob the draft of half its flavor! 
 
 Such scenes as this no joy impart 
 Unto the vacant bosoms yearning; 
 
 There is a canker in my heart. 
 
 To mould its brightest blossoms turning! 
 
 Tho' beautiful the beings be. 
 
 That flit before my eyes inspection ; 
 
 I gaze upon them, and I see 
 
 No object of my heart's affection. 
 36 
 
Nay, I can even meet thy smile, 
 
 The loveliest of the smiles around me, 
 
 Without one thrill of love, the v^^hile, 
 As if some icy spell had bound me. 
 
 This loneliness it is that flings 
 
 A shadow o'er my hours of gladness 
 
 And dyes the hues on pleasure's wings 
 To colors of the deepest sadness. 
 
 37 
 
CHILDHOOD AND AGE 
 
 'T^IME, I ask of thee, oh! Time! 
 
 -*- Give me back my boyhood's prime! 
 Poor the gifts thy hand hath lavish'd, 
 To the treasures thou hast ravish'd ; 
 Years and manhood thou hast brought, 
 Care, experience, and thought; 
 And for these hast ta'en away 
 Laughing childhood's jocund day: 
 Time, I ask of thee, oh ! Time ! 
 Give me back my boyhood's prime! 
 
 Wisdom fraught thy lessons are — 
 Vain their teachings — better, far, 
 Childhood's joy illumin'd page. 
 Than the tear-stain'd lure of age! 
 Toils the teacher — not the taught — 
 Hope is sweeter far than thought ! 
 'Tis by suffering that we know — 
 Knowledge is the fruit of woe! 
 Time, I ask of thee, oh, Time ! 
 Give me back my boyhood's prime. 
 38 
 
Passing all its life so brief, 
 In the gladness of belief; 
 Knowing not a moment's leisure, 
 Every motion yielding pleasure ; 
 Thoughtless childhood dances by — 
 Age must have its reason why: 
 Childhood telleth of its gains, 
 Of its losses age complains ! 
 Time, I ask of thee, oh. Time ! 
 Give me back my boyhood's prime! 
 
 In that sweet, confiding hour, 
 Hope is born, and faith hath power: 
 And 'twere better to be dead, 
 Than to feel that these have fled ! 
 But to manhood, come they must, 
 Disappointment and distrust; 
 And its rarely attained joys. 
 Soon, alas! fruition cloys! 
 Time, I ask of thee, oh. Time! 
 Give me back my boyhood's prime. 
 
 Like the young leaves of a flower, 
 Ope'd my heart in youth's gay bower : 
 But, alas! the bower is gone, 
 And the floweret's over-blown ; 
 While, amid the mouldering years. 
 Bud, nor blossom, reappears ! 
 Ask I where the ripe fruits are? 
 Startled echo answers — ^where? 
 Time, I ask of thee, oh, Time! 
 Give me back my boyhood's prime. 
 39 
 
THE MOTHER'S GRAVE 
 
 THEY tell me thou liest here, mother, 
 This grassy mound below; 
 Thou, who did'st bless thy wilful son. 
 
 Many long years ago ! 
 The wide world was before me, 
 
 I sought its paths in joy; 
 Nor reck'd thy fervent prayer, mother, 
 "Oh! God protect my boy!" 
 
 I deem'd not 'twas so long, mother. 
 
 Since I kiss'd those lips of thine; 
 It seems like only yesterday, 
 
 When thy cheek was press'd to mine ; 
 Hope spake then in thy voice. 
 
 In thy look of love was pride. 
 And with a lightsome heart, mother, 
 
 I parted from thy side. 
 
 Care has been on me since, mother, 
 
 Grief with its heavy hand ; 
 With none to smooth my pillow, 
 
 In the cold stranger land: 
 40 
 
No kind one sat beside me, 
 
 Or bath'd my fever'd head ; 
 And I call'd aloud on thee, mother, 
 
 I knew not thou wert dead! 
 
 Oh ! little do they reck, mother. 
 
 Who still a mother have, 
 How chang'd is all the gladsome earth. 
 
 When she is in her grave! 
 The love forsakes the heart, mother. 
 
 And the tear forsakes the e5'e, 
 But a blessed angel ever sits 
 
 By the spot where she may lie. 
 
 I'm very lonely now, mother. 
 
 There's none to care for me; 
 My sister, whom I dearly lov'd, 
 
 Lies 'neath the willow tree! 
 That willow tree — I planted it, 
 
 I'll plant another here ; 
 For it did seem to please thee, mother, 
 
 When I plac'd it over her. 
 
 I recollect thy smile, mother. 
 
 Thy sweet and placid brow; 
 But, the bosom which my head hath press'd. 
 
 The cold clay presses now! 
 I have brought back gold and jewels, 
 
 I meant they should be thine ; 
 I dream'd not of the grave, mother, 
 
 And the grief that would be mine ! 
 41 
 
Thou did'st teach me when a child, mother, 
 
 Of a Father who dwelt above ; 
 Thou said'st that he was very kind 
 
 To those who sought his love ; 
 Thou did'st teach me how to pray, 
 
 My head upon thy knee ; 
 Oh! many a lonely night, mother. 
 
 Those prayers have solaced me! 
 
 I know that thou'rt in Heaven, mother, 
 
 If there the good ones go; 
 And I would not call thee back again 
 
 To this dark world of woe; 
 I will not shed another tear. 
 
 Lest it should grieve thy heart ; 
 But I'll pray unto thy God, mother, 
 
 To take me where thou art. 
 
 42 
 
EPISTLE TO 
 
 ^~T^ HE winds their boding murmurs cease, 
 
 ■*• The lurid sun has set in peace; 
 His latest hour of glory pass'd, 
 The twilight, too, is fading fast; 
 Soft fall the dews along the hill, 
 The vale is hush'd, the wood is still ; 
 And earth enjoys despite its woes 
 The blessedness of sweet repose. 
 Naught breaks the dreamy stillness round, 
 Save, from afar, the sheep-bell's sound ; 
 Save the deep hum that fills the air 
 Of thousand numerous insects there ; 
 And, as anon, distinct and clear, 
 The watch-dog's distant bark we hear. 
 That promises the fold relief 
 Gainst prowling fox and midnight thief. 
 The last faint gleam of day has faded. 
 The landscape far in gloom is shaded, 
 But, shining sweet to every eye, 
 The crescent moon is in the sky; 
 And thousand stars are burning bright 
 Along the soundless depths of night ! 
 43 
 
Oh! are those orbs, divinely fair, 
 Like ours the scenes of sin and care? 
 Dwells there earth's weaknesses and tears, 
 Its passions, loves, and hopes, and fears ? 
 Or are they realms of joy and peace. 
 Where life's perturbed passions cease ; 
 Where they, the ransom'd ones, below, 
 Tried in this crucible of woe. 
 Meet once again, no more to sever, 
 United in sweet bonds forever? 
 
 Oh ! when I muse on human life, 
 
 How wrung by anguish, torn by strife. 
 
 How full of restlessness and fears, 
 
 Continual travail, hourly tears, 
 
 How slight the joy, how great the woe, 
 
 Accorded purest hearts below; 
 
 And human love — how rare, how strange. 
 
 How full of fickleness and change ; 
 
 And when found true — how soon comes Death 
 
 To blast it with his icy breath ; 
 
 With the soul's deep, intense desire. 
 
 For something happier and higher; 
 
 In faith and hope I feel there is 
 
 A purer, surer world than this! 
 
 While pines my soul to flee away, 
 
 To rest in its eternal day! 
 
 But here we are conceiv'd in fears; 
 Our infant eyes first ope in tears ; 
 
 44 
 
The draught that our first strength bestows 
 Is brackish with a mother's woes ; 
 And in the living tide we drain 
 Are mixed the seeds of future pain ; 
 Rear'd from the cradle to the tomb, 
 'Mid sorrow, treachery and gloom. 
 
 Forgive me, lady, if that I 
 
 Have moralized too long! 
 But ever as my feelings are, 
 
 So always is my song! 
 And twilight's fair but fleeting hour 
 Threw o'er my heart its pensive power ! 
 I could not watch the parting day, 
 
 And feel its dying breath; 
 But as its glory pass'd away. 
 
 Came solemn thoughts of death ! 
 It seem'd as if all bright things here 
 Shone but awhile to disappear! 
 And when I saw up in the skies 
 
 The young moon's radiant face, 
 'Tis thus, I thought, the soul will rise 
 
 From dark death's cold embrace! 
 And every fair and glorious star 
 Look'd like a promis'd home afar; 
 Where, with life's stern ordeal o'er. 
 Fond spirits meet to part no more! 
 But other thoughts steal o'er my heart, 
 
 Sweet thoughts of love they be; 
 45 
 
And all my darker dreams depart 
 
 As fancy turns to thee ! 
 So gloom forsakes the forest shades, 
 When sunlight fills their green arcades. 
 The stars look down on vale and hill, 
 
 Like angel eyes they seem; 
 And trembling hearts grow hush'd and still 
 
 Beneath their tranquil gleam! 
 It is a holy hour — and fraught 
 With the luxurious calm of thought. 
 The moonlight steals along the sward 
 
 So softly, vaguely fair, 
 It needs no trance of dreaming bard 
 
 To deem a spirit there! 
 Accordant nature seems to blend 
 
 In sympathy with tender feeling. 
 And thought of lover, and of friend, 
 
 O'er many a gentle breast is stealing. 
 And sweet it is to think afar 
 Some dear one sees the same bright star 
 That we, from yonder hosts of flame, 
 Have singled out in his dear name! 
 Perchance upon thy pensive eye, 
 
 The dewy moonlight falls. 
 Where thou look'st forth upon the sky, 
 
 From Clynmilira's halls! 
 And lit with joy is that fair brow, 
 Or overcast by sadness now ? 
 
 46 
 
Oh! would that bj' thy side I now 
 
 Might gaze upon the fairy scene, 
 Might chase the shadow from thy brow, 
 
 And wreathe a smile where it hath been ! 
 Or, with thy gentle hand in mine, 
 
 To wander down the moonlit sward, 
 With not an ear to list but thine, 
 
 Repeating rhymes from some old bard, 
 Who knows so well the soul to move 
 With lay of knight and lady love! 
 And sooth, fair friend, if coming June 
 
 Prove not a most ill-fated era, 
 I will be seen, some afternoon. 
 
 Making my bow at Clyrimilira ! 
 Till then, I fain must pass the time 
 In idle dreams or idler rhyme: 
 Or poring o'er with thought intent 
 Some mooted point in Coke or Kent, 
 
 'Till half asleep the musing mind 
 Leaves digest and report behind. 
 And shows me mid a wondering Bar, 
 
 Victorious in some famous cause; 
 While thousand tongues proclaim afar 
 
 The great expounder of the laws! 
 But see ! I've rhym'd away my paper ! 
 
 Ten minutes since the moon withdrew, 
 And as I turn to trim my taper, 
 
 I find it nearly gone out, too! 
 47 
 
Methinks 'tis time that I should cease 
 
 This strange poetic olio, 
 Lay by my weary pen in peace 
 
 And clasp my old portfolio. 
 But tho' my pen, aside, be laid. 
 Not so the thought of thee, dear maid ! 
 Nor let thy bard forgotten be. 
 Tonight when on thy bended knee, 
 When, like to odorous leaves in air, 
 Thy dewy lips are stirr'd in prayer! 
 And may thy pillows virgin white 
 Around thee woo the slumbers light, 
 May thy sweet bosom gently heave 
 With visions such as came to Eve, 
 Ere sin and gloom on Eden fell! 
 Lady, adieu! Sweet friend, farewell! 
 
 48 
 
CAMILLA 
 
 I'VE bar'd my breast to woman's smile, and felt 
 its spells were weak ; 
 I've gaz'd upon her loving eye, and watch'd her 
 
 glowing cheek; 
 And felt that vainly on my heart her dazzling beau- 
 ties shine. 
 And sorrow'd, in my loneliness, that love might not 
 be mine. 
 
 But the pride I coldly boasted, from my soul hath 
 
 pass'd away, 
 It hath melted, as the snow-wreath melts beneath 
 
 the blaze of day; 
 And like the fond idolaters, who bow'd of old the 
 
 knee. 
 My thoughts have sought my heart's deep shrine, 
 
 and kneel to worship thee! 
 
 And trust me, not thy pensive eye, so deeply, darkly 
 
 blue; 
 Nor yet, thy high and thoughtful brow, nor lips of 
 
 rosy hue; 
 
 49 
 
Nor any of the outward charms around thy form 
 
 that dwell 
 Have thus upon my spirit cast their sunshine and 
 
 their spell ! 
 
 Thy purity it is — thy sweet, unworldliness of 
 thought — 
 
 As yet unlesson'd in the art by life's cold world- 
 school taught; 
 
 A rare and nameless grace it is, appealing to the 
 heart, 
 
 That makes thee in thy innocence so worship'd as 
 thou art! 
 
 And has thy breast no thought with mine in unison 
 
 to move ? 
 No tone of answering sympathy for all my heart's 
 
 deep love? 
 Must mine still be the aching void, the yearning, and 
 
 the pain. 
 The bitterness to love, and feel I am not lov'd again ? 
 
 Oh ! if thou knew'st this heart, thou wouldst not 
 
 scorn its love, the while. 
 And answer each impassion'd tone with that half 
 
 doubting smile ; 
 Though I at other shrines have knelt, and feign'd 
 
 a lover's part. 
 At thine alone is offer'd up the homage of my heart ! 
 50 
 
A NAUTICAL SONG 
 
 All hands ho — ^Yo — heave — ho — ^The wind is off 
 
 shore ! 
 We've a stout ship beneath us, my brave lads, once 
 
 more! 
 The land is behind us — before us the main — 
 All hands lay aloft there ! To sea, boys, again ! 
 
 The anchor is up, and the farewell is wrung, 
 Over mountain and valley its echoes are flung; 
 To the treacherous shore, and its false smiles — 
 
 adieu ! 
 We've again a stout ship, and the broad, boundless 
 
 blue! 
 
 A bumper, boys! Quaff me a health to the Brave! 
 Hearts free as the wind, and as strong as the wave ! 
 Where the flying scud gathers, the red lightnings 
 
 glare. 
 Where the waters rave wildest, their home is, aye, 
 
 there ! 
 
Blow freshly, ye gales ! Her white wings spreading 
 
 free, 
 Our barque, like a war-spirit, moves o'er the sea ! 
 And close on the wake that her proud keel maintains, 
 Press the billows, like battle-steeds tossing their 
 
 manes ! 
 
 But soft ! Fill again, boys, nor pledge me the less. 
 Here's the Mother who blest us, the Maiden we 
 
 bless ; 
 The heart and the smile that will follow us far — 
 This, true as the needle, that, bright as the star ! 
 
 Fill, again, to the few, who have souls like your own. 
 Who have lov'd us while here, and will mourn us 
 
 when gone ; 
 Who have shar'd in our plenty, nor shun'd us in 
 
 need, 
 We will drink to that few, Boys ! alas ! few indeed ! 
 
 My Country ! My Country ! A full beaker — see ! 
 'Tis the last of the bowl — we have kept it for thee! 
 Our life we here pledge to thy service and laws. 
 And ask for no omen, but thee, and thy cause ! 
 
 Blow freshly, ye gales! Her white wings spreading 
 
 free. 
 Our barque, like a war-spirit, moves o'er the sea ! 
 And close on the wake that her proud keel maintains. 
 Press the billows, like battle-steeds tossing their 
 
 52 
 
FAREWELL! 
 
 FAREWELL! but, oh! let not that dark word 
 embitter, 
 Or dim with one shadow that spirit of thine ; 
 Whose heavenly rays thro' those azure eyes glitter, 
 Like gems that far down in the blue waters shine. 
 
 Yes, Dearest, we part, but we part not forever, 
 The meeting's more dear when the parting is pain ; 
 
 And love's gentle course, like the tide of a river. 
 Though the rocks may divide it uniteth again ! 
 
 We should not hope, always, to find sunny weather, 
 
 The brightest skies weary when clouds are not 
 
 near; 
 
 And hearts would grow faithless if always together, 
 
 'Tis the parting that maketh the meeting more 
 
 dear! 
 
 Then let not — oh ! let not this moment occasion 
 
 One shadow to darken that young heart of thine; 
 But, list to the music of love's warm persuasion, 
 And teach it the trust, and the truth that are 
 mine! 
 
 53 
 
Thro' the night-time of sorrow, hope's star is still 
 beaming, 
 Beneath its bright rays let thy griefs disappear; 
 And think while the tear from thine eyelid is stream- 
 ing, 
 'Tis the parting that maketh the meeting more 
 dear! 
 
 SONG 
 
 THY presence is as the April beam 
 To the cold and frosted earth ; 
 Wherever the rays of thy beauty beam 
 The flowers and leaves have birth ! 
 
 Thine absence is as the dark cold night. 
 When the sun and the heat are fled ; 
 
 When the earth lies chill in the wintry blight, 
 And the flowers and leaves are dead ! 
 
 54 
 
SONG 
 
 THE lilies we cull when no roses are nigh, 
 We gaze on the stars when no moon's in the 
 sky; 
 But, where is the heart that from this would infer. 
 The stars to be brighter, the lilies more dear ? 
 
 'Tis thus with the heart — it may wanton, awhile. 
 
 In the beam of an eye, or a warm sunny smile ; 
 
 It may sport with the flowers, and the lights that 
 
 appear. 
 When the moon and the roses no longer are near. 
 
 As the bee to the bud when it bursts into flower. 
 As the eye to the moon in its noon-tide of power ; 
 From the lips and the eyes that smile sweetest on me, 
 Turns my heart ever truly, love, dreaming of thee! 
 
 55 
 
LINES ACCOMPANYING A BOUQUET OF 
 FLOWERS 
 
 OH! what were words made for, too harsh, and 
 too cold, 
 The heart hath its thoughts which they cannot un- 
 fold; 
 In love's own pure language, in flowers we should 
 
 seek, 
 To utter those feelings the tongue may not speak ! 
 
 I have gather'd, fair lady, a wreath from the bowers, 
 And wove from its bright leaves a billet in flowers; 
 Not a bud or a blossom I send thee, but tells 
 Of some feeling or hope in my bosom that dwells. 
 
 56 
 
I NEVER TOLD THEE 
 
 T NEVER told thee — no — I never told thee, 
 "■- But thou could'st read it in my cheek and eye ; 
 The earnest gaze with which I do behold thee, 
 The trembling of my voice when thou art nigh. 
 
 I never told thee — no — I never told thee — 
 Why say to heaven the midnight stars are fair ? 
 
 Or when its balmy pinions fan and fold thee. 
 Why tell its softness to the summer air? 
 
 I never told thee, but in all my dreaming, 
 Sleeping or working thou art still with me ; 
 
 And my thoughts turn to thee as to the beaming 
 Of dawn's fair light, the leaves turn, silently. 
 
 I never told thee, but beside thee leaning 
 All other sights are dim and dark to me ; 
 
 And vainly must my heart demand the meaning, 
 If 'tis not love that stirs its chords for thee. 
 
I ASK THEE NOT TO LOVE ME 
 
 I ASK thee not to love me — no — I may not hope 
 that thou 
 Should'st waste thy bosom's tenderness on such as I 
 
 am now! 
 And tho' upon my dark'ning soul new light from 
 
 thine has shone, 
 And tho' my wild and erring heart is all too true 
 
 thine own; 
 Preserve that maiden heart of thine still pure from 
 
 thought of me; 
 I ask thee not to love me — but — to let me worship 
 
 thee! 
 
 The impulse pure of other days is in my bosom dead, 
 
 And with the boyish impulse, ah! the boyish truth 
 hath fled ; 
 
 The temple of my early faith the world has over- 
 thrown, 
 
 And doubts like, venom'd reptiles, creep along each 
 mould'ring stone ; 
 
 58 
 
I gaze within the ruin'd shrine — 'tis dark, and cold, 
 
 and bare; 
 And thee — thou sweet, and lovely one — can I invite 
 
 thee there? 
 
 I ask thee not to love me — no — as soon would prayer 
 
 of mine, 
 Entreat some holy angel down to bless some heathen 
 
 shrine ! 
 But oh ! if by the spirit's toil, the vigil, and the pain. 
 This heart may yet be worthy thine, I will not love 
 
 in vain! 
 'Till then, nor distant be the hour my spirit pines 
 
 to see, 
 I ask thee not to love me, but, to let me worship thee ! 
 
 59 
 
I ONLY ASK A TEAR 
 
 T_T AD'ST thou a heart but f ram'd for glee, 
 ■*• -^ I ne'er could love thee so ; 
 Thy mirth hath little charm for mc, 
 
 I love thee best in vi^oe. 
 For mirth deceives, and joys beguile, 
 
 Grief is alone sincere ; 
 Letj others woo thy sunny smile, 
 
 I only ask a tear! 
 
 'Tis said the rose appears most svi^eet. 
 
 When lately bath'd in dew; 
 And in the pensive heart we meet 
 
 The love most fond and true! 
 Tho' mirth may soothe the heart, awhile. 
 
 Its falsehood still I fear; 
 Let others woo thy sunny smile, 
 
 I only ask a tear ! 
 
 60 
 
HE KNOWS NOT LOVE 
 
 HE knows not love, whose pliant knee, 
 At every shrine can bow; 
 Who has a smile for every eye, 
 For every ear a vow. 
 
 The heart is not that fickle thing, 
 Which roams from flower to flower ; 
 
 And flnds a sweet in every bud, 
 A home in every bower! 
 
 No ! He that truly loves, loves on, 
 
 'Till life itself depart! 
 The river only knows one sea, 
 
 One only love, the heart ! 
 
 61 
 
I'M VERY SAD AT HEART, LOVE 
 
 T 'M very sad at heart, love, 
 -■- And, bodingly, tonight 
 Strange feelings in my bosom start, 
 
 And banish its delight, love, 
 
 I'm very sad tonight! 
 
 Would thou wert by my side, love, 
 Thy gentle hand in mine ; 
 
 That I might sigh, as I have sigh'd, 
 How I am wholly thine, love. 
 And feel that thou art mine! 
 
 I long again to hear, love. 
 
 The low and tender tone, 
 That fell so sweetly on mine ear, 
 
 And spoke thee all mine own, love, 
 
 In low and tender tone! 
 
 Come, come unto my arms, love, 
 And lay thy heart on mine! 
 
 Enfolding those endearing charms, 
 My soul melts into thine, love, 
 And thine melts into mine. 
 62 
 
HINTS TO LOVERS 
 
 "Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together 
 Thoughts so all unlike each other !" 
 
 — Coleridge. 
 
 SHOULD she seem callous, do not deem her cold, 
 Or, if o'er-forward, blame her not as bold; 
 Should she seem proud, oh! do not deem it pride, 
 'Neath the chill ice the softer waters glide ; 
 And she may callous seem, and bold, and proud, 
 When all her heart in anguish deep is bow'd. 
 
 Should she seem sad, mistake it not for woe, 
 
 If she look angry, do not deem her so ; 
 
 Should she not heed thee, or, o'erlook thee quite. 
 
 Blame not her hearing, nor condemn her sight ; 
 
 For she may angry seem, and, sad and blind. 
 
 And treat with scorn, when mOst she would be kind. 
 
 Should she neglect thee, when she might befriend. 
 Or use harsh words, oh ! let them not of¥end ! 
 The heart its tenderness doth oft reveal 
 In words, and acts, that seemingly conceal : 
 And love, that hath no language of its own. 
 Borrows all tongues to make its meanings known. 
 63 
 
OUT OF SEASON 
 
 WHEN the peach-tree is in blossom, 
 And the April grass is green ; 
 When along the earth's soft bosom, 
 
 Sprouting leaf and bud are seen ; 
 When the birds, their love-mates chosen, 
 
 Build their nests upon the spray ; 
 And the brook, no longer frozen. 
 
 Winds its silver coil away ; 
 We believe, and vv^ith good reason. 
 Sleet and snow are out of season. 
 
 When there have been years of kindness. 
 
 And remembrance is the same; 
 Wlien there has been equal blindness. 
 
 Sweet forbearances from blame ; 
 When old friends, long tried and trusted, 
 
 Acts of mutual love have wrought ; 
 And as chords, alike adjusted. 
 
 Thought responsive answers thought; 
 Surely then, for better reason. 
 Angry words are out of season ! 
 64 
 
MODESTY 
 
 TS there a charm within sweet woman's breast, 
 
 '*' Which bears the palm, superior to the rest; 
 
 Refines each virtue, dignifies each grace. 
 
 And binds the angels to the maiden's face ; 
 
 'Tis virgin modesty— it stands alone, 
 
 The strongest mantle round her virtue thrown ! 
 
 Vice kneels abash'd before that sacred veil, 
 
 And wantonness will tremble to assail ! 
 
 To rustic homeliness it giveth charms. 
 
 It wins all honor, and all scorn disarms : 
 
 Oh ! let her guard it as her life secure, 
 
 She is but lovely as her heart is pure ! 
 
 65 
 
NIAGARA 
 Addressed to M. F. Tupper, Esq. 
 
 "I long'd for Andes all around and Alps, 
 
 Hoar kings and priests of Nature, robed in snow, 
 Throned as for judgment in a solemn row, 
 With icy miters on their granite scalps, 
 
 Dumb giants frowning at the strife below — 
 I long'd for the subHme. Thou art too fair. 
 Too fair, Niagara, to be sublime." 
 
 — M. F. Tupper. 
 
 ^~1~^00 fair for the subHme? Oh! say not so — 
 -*- Bard of the Hearts' twins and the Crock of 
 Gold ; 
 Stand once again by grand Niagara's side 
 And view its majesty of waves once more ! 
 No "snow-robed Alps," no "giant Andes" tower 
 Above the gently undulating plains 
 Golden with rye wheat and tassel'd corn ; 
 Yet here thou meetest with the true sublime ! 
 
 Press'd on by Huron and its weight of lakes, 
 Foaming and struggling, far as stretches sight, 
 A wasteful deluge of innumerous waves, 
 Onward and downward with tumultous speed, 
 66 
 
Rush the wild rapids — as when ocean's depths 
 The searching storm lifts in its airy grasp, 
 And hurls the tumbling billows to the shore, 
 An agony of waters. 
 High overhead yon azure arch, alone, 
 Spans the broad river, radiant with the light 
 Flashing like sunbeams from the tortured waves, 
 That break and madden round the rocky isles! 
 
 Man lays his sceptre on the ocean waste. 
 His footprints stiliFen in the Alpine snows. 
 But only God moves visibly on thee. 
 Oh ! King of Floods, resistless cataract ! 
 
 Words cannot picture Thee, nor pencil paint 
 
 Thy might of waters! Volum'd, vast, and deep — 
 
 Thy many toned and all pervading voice — 
 
 Thy wood-crown'd isle, fast anchor 'd on the brink 
 
 Of the dread precipice — thy double fall — 
 
 Divided — but in grandeur multiplied! 
 
 Thy wind-swept caverns and their misty walls ; 
 
 Thy crest of sunlight, and thy depths of gloom ! 
 
 What felt the savage musing by thy shores. 
 The forest-born, the offspring of the wild, 
 Whose ear ne'er caught the sound of Sabbath chimes? 
 Saw he no spirit on thy waters move. 
 No awful presence shaped from out thy mists? 
 From thy dread thunders, as from Sinai's cloud. 
 Came there no voice ; while by his naked side 
 The startled panther howl'd, unheard the while? 
 67 
 
Enwrapt and awed — amazement, terror, fill 
 The brain with wonder, and the heart with prayer ! 
 Man's schemes, and dreams, and petty littleness, 
 Lie shrunken and obscur'd; Himself, far less, 
 Kneeling before thy great Confessional — 
 Than are the bubbles on thy passing tides. 
 
 Amid the wind-swept and convolving spray. 
 Steady as Faith and beautiful as Hope, 
 Oh! fair creation of the beam and cloud, 
 Arches the rainbow its etherial hues! 
 And the scared Eagle, as he skyw^ard wheels, 
 Scarce frees his pinion from thy circling mists. 
 
 From flint, and granite, in compacture strong, 
 With no thrice harden'd steel, nought but the wave, 
 Soft and translucent did the Elder Time 
 Chisel thine altars! Here hath ever pour'd 
 Earth's grand libation to Eternity! 
 The misty incense rising unto God — 
 The God that was, and is, and is to be ! 
 Who lays his hand upon the thunder-cloud. 
 And presses from its dark and sulphurous folds 
 The herb-reviving rains. Thou praisest him. 
 Thou dread Niagara! He ordain'd thee here. 
 The Titan of the cataracts ! Gave thee voice. 
 Loud as his own loud thunders ! Gave thee strength 
 To shake the Alpine ridges to their base, 
 And trample Andes 'neath thy billowy- feet ! 
 68 
 
ON THE SUDDEN DEATH OF THE 
 AUTHOR 
 
 'Dead for a ducat — dead !" 
 
 — Hamlet. 
 
 Ty OUND yonder poor attorney's door, 
 -■-^ Who e'er saw such a crowd before? 
 For years long pass'd, that door, 'tis known, 
 Hath ope'd to him and duns alone ! 
 The veriest beggar, with a grin, 
 Hath pass'd it by, untempted in! 
 "If they be clients — faith!" I say 
 "He's in a run of luck today!" 
 But soft! the case seems not so fair, 
 Methinks I spy the sheriff there; 
 The fellow's credit hath run out, 
 His landlord doth distrain, no doubt: 
 I'll make inquiry — Prithee, friend. 
 What may this mighty crowd portend? 
 "A 'crowner's quest,' " is the reply, 
 "I know not how he came to die. 
 But spite of all his law and learning, 
 He's badly off in my discerning ; 
 Dead — dead — and hath not left a groat. 
 And, d — n him, owes me for that coat! 
 69 
 
And, though we all must take a turn for't, 
 I trust in God that he may burn for't!" 
 
 From mouth to mouth the tidings spread, 
 How fast they fly! "Poor Ridgely's dead!' 
 Full with the direful news, there meet 
 Two brother chips in Fayette street; 
 Oh! many a time had he and they 
 Worn the small hours of night away; 
 When on some fee — too rarely earn'd — 
 They o'er the steaming bowl adjourn'd. 
 Little reck'd they of client's cost, 
 His purse it was that paid the host. 
 To jovial song, and merry tale. 
 Fast flow'd the floods of creamy ale; 
 No law acknowledg'd there, but wit, 
 "Ne exiat," the only writ! 
 But, while within yon office door, 
 Lies he, whose writs shall lie no more, 
 The damps of death upon his lips, 
 Prithee, what say these brother chips? 
 
 "You've heard — ah! yes! a dreadful blow! 
 His habits — weren't the best, you know! 
 I understand, but — be not far — 
 They'll meet today — of course — the Bar — 
 When the sad tidings they shall learn. 
 The courts will, doubtlessly, adjourn! 
 Not oft so good a fellow dies — 
 Well, well ! let's dine today at Guy's !" 
 70 
 
And dine they will — ^where all must die, 
 There's nothing like philosophy ! 
 From mouth to mouth the tidings spread, 
 How fast they fly! "Poor Ridgely's dead!" 
 At last they reach his landlord's ears, 
 His ledger shows twelve months arrears! 
 The landlord sighs — his eyes are wet 
 With tears of unassum'd regret! 
 Thinks he upon the parents woe. 
 How they will bear this dreadful blow? 
 Himself and they, in days gone by, 
 Were steadfast friends, like you and I; 
 But sudden — see — he clears his looks — 
 "I'll seize the furniture and books! 
 Why thought I not on this before? 
 They'll cover thrice the rent and more — 
 My right to take, for rent's arrear, 
 Goods on the premises — is clear!" 
 
 From mouth to mouth the tidings spread, 
 How fast they fly! "Poor Ridgely's dead!" 
 The Bar have met with solemn faces — 
 (They think upon his dearth of cases!) 
 And heavily each member sighs — 
 (Small profits from his death arise!) 
 And, strong in their own vigor, then 
 
 They sl}dy take a peep at N ; 
 
 If he should suddenly fall off, 
 'Twould throw a nubbin in their trough ; 
 71 
 
Ye gods! just dream the rush for fees 
 Among the starv'd distributees! 
 
 N , conscious of the cash in pocket, 
 
 Thinks life as endless as his docket. 
 
 The resolutions neatly drawn, 
 
 Poor Ridgely's worth now first is known ! 
 
 Resolv'd — into a man of merit, 
 
 A fellow of some wit and spirit, 
 
 Who, with more learning and ambition, 
 
 Might have attain'd a high position ; 
 
 And, now his wants are at an end. 
 
 The orator's "devoted friend!" 
 
 M vents two eulogistic sighs. 
 
 The tears e'en start from Collins' eyes — 
 Collins, who did his uncle know, 
 Just five and forty years ago — 
 Whereon, with most becoming sorrow, 
 The court adjourns — until tomorrow! 
 
 From mouth to mouth the tidings spread. 
 How fast they fly! "Poor Ridgely's dead!" 
 And e'en before his pulse is cold, 
 Thro' half the town the news is told; 
 Each coxcomb vain, whose heart before, 
 Conceal'd its malice in its core. 
 May freely, now, his faults arraign, 
 Regardless of his wit or cane. 
 
 "With very little or no wit 
 He beat the devil for conceit ; 
 72 
 
Vv^as al\Aays looking out for chances 
 
 To sport his miserable fancies; 
 
 And then, I'm told, when drunk, at times, 
 
 Would bore his friends to death with rhymes; 
 
 With me, ill-nature, is not wit, 
 
 I never fancied him a bit!" 
 
 Still speeds the news as neighbors meet, 
 
 At last it reaches Franklin street ; 
 
 In bursts a neighbor out of breath, 
 
 "You've doubtless heard poor Ridgely's death!' 
 
 "A sudden thing — to make his bed, 
 
 His servant went and found him dead ! 
 
 None say, or how, or why, he died — 
 
 I wonder if 'twere — suicide! 
 
 At Coleman's, where he owes some bills. 
 
 He bought last month a box of pills! 
 
 His habits, too, were very strange. 
 
 Of late I've notic'd quite a change." 
 
 (True, recently, he had at times 
 
 O'erlook'd M.'s jests, abused M.'s rhymes,) 
 
 How shock'd is Delia — "Dreadful! dead?" 
 
 WTiile Celia scarcely turns her head. 
 
 Fair B inquires in much disma}^, 
 
 "Who is this Mister Ridgely, pray? 
 
 Good sir, you gave us such a fright — 
 
 De Meyers, or Hertz, who plays tonight?" 
 
 From Franklin street to Barnum's spread, 
 Fair Sappho hears — poor Ridgely's dead ! 
 
 73 
 
Sappho, whose deep and lustrous eyes 
 Were as the starh'ght of his skies; 
 And fill'd with light the atmosphere 
 Of night, and gloom, around him here ! 
 
 Her lovely cheek, doth it grow pale? 
 
 Her heart, do its deep pulses fail? 
 
 Oh ! ask of some firm-seated rock. 
 
 How it receives the wavelet's shock? 
 
 Or ask yon star, deep set in skies, 
 
 If mourns it when the glow-worm dies? 
 
 Fair Sappho hears, a faint surprise 
 
 A moment lights her lustrous eyes; 
 
 Upon the marble table near 
 
 A volume rests — he gave it her! 
 
 Yon page reveals his favorite sonnet, 
 
 His is the pencil'd trace upon it; 
 
 Weeps she these tokens to behold? 
 
 Nay, but believe not Sappho cold! 
 
 Had her canary flown astray, 
 
 Her lap-dog had she lost today; 
 
 In spite of all her pride's concealing, 
 
 Sappho had shown some touch of feeling ; 
 
 Nay, even a bracelet or a ring, 
 
 A friend — that's quite a different thing! 
 
 With noble fortitude we bear 
 The ills we are not call'd to share ! 
 
 74 
 
"Poor Ridgely's dead!" But this to thee 
 Is nothing, nothing e'er can be! 
 And Sappho, thou dost well to show, 
 Nor look of grief, nor sign of woe; 
 Too fair that snowy breast for sighs, 
 And tears would dim those lustrous eyes ! 
 
 Yet, e'er his name shall pass away, 
 
 To him let truth this tribute pay! 
 
 Unawed by place, unbribed by wealth, 
 
 His friend he priz'd but for himself, 
 
 And his pure worth! and for his foes — 
 
 Methinks he had but few of those! 
 
 His faults were many, some his own ; 
 
 Some such as cling to every one! 
 
 But now, remember, life is o'er, 
 
 His faults they can ofiFend no more; 
 
 And let no kindless censure here, 
 
 Arrest the sigh or check the tear. 
 
 That brief and scant are yet sincere! 
 
 Peace! Peace! And may the cold clay rest 
 
 Light as a snow-wreath on his breast ; 
 
 'Tho' twelve months hence, not one may tell 
 
 Where Ridgely sleeps, may he sleep well ! 
 
 And gentle be the winds that wave 
 
 The wild sedge growing o'er his grave; 
 
 The winds that come — the winds that go — 
 
 The whence — or whither — none may know! 
 
 75 
 
LINES SENT TO A LADY WITH THE 
 PRECEDING POEM 
 
 T^EVOUTLY, with religious reverence, 
 
 ^^ I lay this worthless offering at thy feet! 
 
 The meanest things are precious made, when they 
 
 Are unto temples dedicated; hence. 
 
 This offering at thy lovely feet I lay; 
 
 Which thou, accepting, makest of rich price. 
 
 Gems and rare incense for the sacrifice 
 
 Who could not bring, regarded not 
 
 The leaven'd cake! not having that they would, 
 
 They sought their gods by such means as they could. 
 
 76 
 
ATHENAIS 
 
 "A juger de cette femme par sa beaute, sa jeunesse, 
 Sa fierte et ses dedains, il n'y a personne qui 
 Donte que ce ne soit un heros qui doive un 
 Jour la charmes ; son choix est fait — c'est un 
 Petit monstre qui manque d'esprit." 
 
 — La Brugere. 
 
 Oh! high-soul'd lady! — Dark Athenais! 
 This sordid age of common, place and peace, 
 And trade, and barter, when the mart we see 
 Tramp down the vineyard, ill accords with thee ! 
 Thou, thy wild heart, and spirit high, belong 
 To the old age of chivalry and song; 
 When love was glory; and in Beauty's name 
 The knight spur'd forth to victory and fame. 
 
 In these dull days, when gold e'en virtue leads, 
 And narrow customs preach their solemn creeds; 
 Not thine the charms th'ignoble crowd discern, 
 Though, as thou passest, every eye will turn, 
 Sway'd by a power they feel, but cannot see. 
 As to the sweet light bends the soulless tree. 
 That high pale brow, that thin lips curl of scorn 
 Beam with disdain, of pride, and genius born ; 
 77 
 
The brave disdain of all things mean, or low, 
 Dissembled gladness or unreal woe; 
 Along thy cheek the tremulous paleness there, 
 Shows when impassion'd what thy soul would dare; 
 And those dark eyes — by fits, now soft, now wild, 
 Their look of love in Eden had beguil'd; 
 Dark as a dark cloud on the midnight air, 
 Seen by the lightnings that are vivid there ; 
 While the droop'd shadow of each silken lash 
 Softens the glance, but obscures not the flash; 
 We gaze and tremble — conscious of a will 
 Intense in all things ; or for good, or ill ; 
 A heart, aye beating with emotions strong, 
 To meet a kindness or avenge a wrong; 
 Still in extremes thy constancy to prove, 
 And daring all things, e'en for hate, or love. 
 
 If thou had'st liv'd amid the olden time, 
 
 Still had'st thou liv'd in many a minstrel's rhyme; 
 
 Fam'd for thy love, hate, beauty, daring, pride, 
 
 A Monarch's consort, or a Corsair's bride ; 
 
 I gaze upon thee, marveling at thy charms. 
 
 And, wild within me, beats my heart — to arms! 
 
 Not such alas ! the destiny I see — 
 And my soul sorrows as I gaze on thee ! 
 Slav'd by the customs that thy spirit scorns. 
 The lover trembles as the prophet warns ; 
 Oh! guard thy passions with a jealous care, 
 E'en of thy virtues — lady — oh! beware! 
 78 
 
TO THE SAME 
 
 Paraphrased from the French. 
 
 T F thou had'st liv'd when Troy and Helen fell, 
 •*• What had been said of thee, I cannot tell ; 
 But all who know thee, will this truth aver. 
 We ne'er had heard, nor Homer sung, of her 1 
 
 79 
 
SONG 
 
 WITH us the daj^s are ending, love, 
 When bird and beam were blended ; 
 And over thine, 
 And over mine, 
 The snow-flakes have descended, love, 
 The snow-flakes have descended. 
 
 The summer birds are winging, love, 
 To climes where flowers are springing; 
 
 And as of j^ore 
 
 We never more 
 Shall pause to list their singing, love, 
 Shall pause to list their singing ! 
 
 The summer days have ended, love, 
 The snow-flakes are descending ; 
 
 And cold and drear 
 
 Around us here 
 The ice-field is extending, love, 
 The ice-field is extending! 
 
FORGIVE 
 
 'Alas ! how easily things go wrongs 
 
 A sigh too much or a kiss too long, 
 
 And there follows a mist and a weeping rain, 
 
 And life is never the same again." 
 
 ■ — Georffe McDonald. 
 
 /^ NLY forgive me for what I have done, 
 ^^ Outrages manifold under the sun! 
 Under the sun and over it too, 
 For it grieveth God M^hat his children do: 
 By the hope to do better if charity's vi^on, 
 Only forgive me for what I have done! 
 
 Like to a steed — unbridled and wild. 
 
 My heart hath been from a very child ; 
 
 And, woe is me ! 'Tis a mournful lot, 
 
 To have no curb, or to feel it not; 
 
 For human passions are full of sin, 
 
 And the heart, like the steed, needs reining in. 
 
Around me breathe the scented airs, 
 
 That the breeze from the peach and lilac bears; 
 
 It shaketh the boughs of the pear-tree nigh, 
 
 And the fairy blossoms in fragments lie. 
 
 As if some sprite on the earth below 
 
 Had flung and shatter'd a vase of snow! 
 
 Away from the city, away from sin. 
 Pure, pure is the love that my heart drinks in! 
 The dog-wood lifteth its chalice white. 
 The apple-cups are all fill'd with light; 
 And bright beak'd birds, that innocent be. 
 Are winging and singing from tree to tree! 
 
 And here, where all is fresh and fair, 
 
 I will breathe thy name to the pure free air ; 
 
 And whisper the blossoms on yonder tree. 
 
 As they are to it, is thy love to me ; 
 
 And the sun's warm light to their life is less 
 
 Than thou to my heart in thy tenderness ! 
 
 82 
 
A BALLAD 
 
 "^TO gallant knight, in bright array, 
 -*" ^ With jewels sparkling o'er; 
 With lordly pride, from charger gay, 
 
 Thy lattice lights before; 
 A minstrel poor, on weary feet, 
 
 I've wander'd thro' the night; 
 To gaze upon thy presence, sweet, 
 
 And bless me with the sight! 
 
 "No courtly page, in green and gold. 
 
 Thy lover's gage may bear ; 
 And press unto his lips, so bold, 
 
 Those taper fingers fair; 
 My love is told, to thee, alone, 
 
 Alone confess'd by me, 
 And seek I to interpret, none, 
 
 Between my heart and thee ! 
 
 "Amid the guilded tournament 
 
 I set no lance in rest ; 
 No famous joust at arms hath lent 
 
 Its splendor to my crest ; 
 
 83 
 
The heart that ne'er before hath felt, 
 Thine eyes have taught to feel ; 
 
 The knees that ne'er before have knelt 
 Before thy presence kneel!" 
 
 'Twas thus into the lady's ear 
 The minstrel pour'd his strain; 
 
 And half in trust, and half in fear. 
 Thus answer' d she again. 
 
 "The dewy plumage of his wings. 
 
 No gorgeous hues bedight; 
 Yet, sweet the song the sky-lark sings. 
 
 And heaven-ward is his flight ! 
 
 "As far as may a falcon fly, 
 
 O'er fields and hamlets fair; 
 Of all yon rich domain am I 
 
 The mistress and the heir; 
 And bright array of lord, or knight. 
 
 Hath little charm for me; 
 For, gazing from yon turret's height. 
 
 My plumed vassals see ! 
 
 "Far more I prize than lordly crest 
 
 The minstrel's lore divine ; 
 And page shall ne'er at knight's behest 
 
 A finger kiss of mine !" 
 "Now softly, maid," the minstrel cried, 
 
 "Nor knightly homage wrong; 
 84 
 
Who scorns with gold to woo his bride 
 
 Would win with love and song! 
 My castle walls o'erlook thine own, 
 
 My lands lie close to thine ; 
 Thy squires shall take me for their lord, 
 
 Thee for their lady, mine! 
 Wealth makes the coward wooer bold. 
 
 Rank makes the timid strong; 
 Yet she who scorns both rank and gold 
 
 Is won with love and song!" 
 
 A moment's flush her cheek o'er-spread, 
 'Twas doubtful, love or pride ; 
 
 When lifting high her bended head 
 The lady thus replied: 
 
 "Nay, nay, Sir Knight," she said, "believe 
 
 My hand and heart are free ; 
 For love that can in ought deceive 
 
 Is not the love for me ! 
 'Tis only truth can win the heart, 
 
 That to itself is true; 
 The lord should play a lordly part, 
 
 And bard as bard should woo." 
 
 And with no touch of lips or hands 
 
 She left him like a queen ; 
 Still here lie his, and there — her lands 
 
 With yonder lake between. 
 85 
 
TWILIGHT 
 
 I LOVE thee twilight ! Calm and pensive hour ! 
 Thine is the sweet, the peace instilling power ; 
 Hope, love and memory own thy genial sway, 
 And sorrow hails thy grief subduing ray. 
 
 A soft religion we would not dismiss 
 
 Pervades the heart and soothes the soul to bliss. 
 
 All is so still, on earth, subdued in air, 
 
 Each stirring thing seems silenced into prayer. 
 
 In fancy join'd, now parted lovers greet, 
 
 And severed friends in thought's communion meet; 
 
 Pure feelings waken as thy glories shine, 
 
 I love thee twilight ! Holy thoughts are thine ! 
 
 86 
 
STREAMS THAT HAVE PARTED 
 
 STREAMS that have parted may meet at the sea, 
 But leaves that have fallen no more deck the 
 tree ; 
 Suns that have set will arise on the morn, 
 But love once extinguish'd forever is gone; 
 No link between hearts but may one day be broken, 
 And farewell's a word that bj^ all must be spoken. 
 
 The moments were sweet which together we've 
 
 pass'd, 
 But the goblet of pleasure is drain'd to the last ; 
 We may fill it again by some bright fountain's brink, 
 But as we have drunk of it never to drink ! 
 For the freshness that hallows the tide as it springs 
 Hath fled with the morning that lent it its wings. 
 
 For sweet were those moments — their stay was too 
 
 brief — 
 From the garden we've gather'd the rose's last leaf ! 
 Fare-thee-well ! Fare-thee-well ! Oh ne'er will the 
 
 chain, 
 
 87 
 
Whose links are thus sunder'd, be solder'd again ! 
 But long will we bear in our hearts inmost core 
 The remembrance of moments so sweetly pass'd o'er. 
 
 It is not from years, nor thro' changes of clime, 
 That the fair rosy cheek shows the footprints of 
 
 time! 
 His steps glideth smoothly when pleasures are near, 
 When love sits beside us and friends are sincere ; 
 But ah ! the reverses how deeply we feel, 
 When the iron of grief lendeth weight to his heel. 
 
 Life stretches before us in sunshine and shade, 
 Thro' the wild and the garden its journey is made! 
 And the pathway that wander'd 'mid brightness and 
 
 roses. 
 Too oft neath the cloud in the dark desert closes ! 
 With a tear and a prayer I now bid you adieu ! 
 The tear is mine own — but the prayer is for you. 
 
 88 
 
THE OLD STORY 
 
 "jVTOT hope, sweet lady, prompts the song 
 '^ ^ My spirit sings to thine; 
 Unto the gay doth hope belong, 
 
 Despair alone is mine ; 
 And words of love no more may be 
 The burthen of my song to thee. 
 
 The placid lips and tranquil pulse 
 
 Must mark my greeting now ; 
 Whatever pang the heart convulse, 
 
 It must not shade the brow: 
 Nor sign, nor sound, again may tell 
 The love of him who lov'd too well ! 
 
 Yet, in a world I do not love — 
 
 Tho' none more feel than I, 
 How thickly round us and above 
 
 God's many blessings lie — 
 Yet, lady, ah! forgive — if here 
 Thou, only thou, to me art dear! 
 89 
 
And deem not, tho' the bitterness 
 
 That disappointment brings, 
 Hath taught my heart to value less 
 
 Life's true and precious things — 
 Deem not all purer feeling gone. 
 And oh! mistake not grief for scorn! 
 
 Thou would 'st not from thy garden bower 
 
 Uproot the rose of morn, 
 Because the winds have stript the flower, 
 
 And left reveal'd the thorn? 
 No! warmer suns new buds will bring, 
 New leaves return with genial spring. 
 
 I grant that somewhat from my heart 
 Faith's morning glow hath fled; 
 
 And earth's delusiveness and art 
 Have there their mildew shed; 
 
 But in that heart the germs remain, 
 
 Kindness and love could stir again! 
 
 I know the world, and haply those 
 Have deem'd me weak and vain ; 
 
 And cold, perchance, as is the snow 
 No suns may melt again — 
 
 But why should I to it reveal 
 
 What I have felt or what I feel? 
 
 A boy stood by the sunny stream. 
 The sunny stream of youth; 
 90 
 
And bright as on his brow the beam 
 
 Shone in his heart the truth! 
 The world's dark mazes spread afar — 
 But boyhood asks no guiding star! 
 
 He knew — for bard and sage had told 
 
 In storied prose and rhyme 
 That good is oft by wrong control'd, 
 
 Success oft stain'd by crime; 
 And few are they the prize who win, 
 Still fewer who avoid the sin. 
 
 But in his heart and in his brain 
 
 One burning thought arose; 
 For fame and love and name to gain 
 
 He'd brave a thousand foes; 
 And sweetly, with a siren tone, 
 A voice within him whisper'd — on! 
 
 Oh ! fame ! Thy mountain stands afar ! 
 
 And its high summits glow 
 Refulgent as the morning's star 
 
 To those who toil below! 
 Men seek thy snow cncumber'd steep 
 Amid its icy wastes to sleep ! 
 
 Not so with love — oh ! love, to thee, 
 Man's earliest dream is given; 
 
 Thou'rt born upon a summer sea. 
 Foreshadowing a heaven ! 
 
 Hand clasp'd to hand, heart link'd to heart, 
 
 Whom love has join'd, not death can part. 
 91 
 
And while ambition still beguil'd 
 Thus dream'd the youth of love; 
 
 Around him spread earth's ample wild, 
 And heaven grew dark above! 
 
 But love to win and fame to gain, 
 
 Oh! what to him were toil and pain! 
 
 And pain and toil, I w^een, were his, 
 Their yoke his soul hath known, 
 
 But one undying hope of bliss. 
 Delusive, lur'd him on; 
 
 He bask'd his heart in beauty's smile. 
 
 And deem'd, or dream'd, he lov'd the while. 
 
 And triist me not all heedlessly, 
 
 His lover accents fell; 
 Nor lack'd be that sweet courtesy 
 
 That maidens love so well ! 
 And gentle ears to him were bent. 
 And gentle hands their pressure lent. 
 
 But not to him — oh ! not to him, 
 The yearn'd for bliss was given! 
 
 And now, as manhood came, more dim. 
 More distant seem'd the heaven! 
 
 Experience did his dreams dispel. 
 
 One after one his idols fell. 
 
 A maid there was in other hour, 
 His eye had bent to her; 
 92 
 
E'en then had she the girlish power 
 
 His wayward heart to stir; 
 The passing homage, which is shown 
 By pilgrim, to a shrine unknown ! 
 
 But in the girl's fair bosom now 
 The heart of woman dwelt; 
 
 His shrine was still the beauteous brow 
 To which his boyhood knelt; 
 
 And beam'd her sweet, and love-lit eyes. 
 
 With tenderness that scorn' d disguise! 
 
 And noble thoughts to her came down, 
 
 Like angels from on high ; 
 And seem'd her womanhood to crown 
 
 With something from the sky; 
 And round her lips and on her tongue 
 Truth's heavenly accents ever hung. 
 
 And hers was beauty — such as might 
 Make many a maiden vain ; 
 
 Yet beauty, tho' it charm'd his sight, 
 Could not his heart enchain. 
 
 But tender, true, and kind, and just. 
 
 To know her was to love and trust! 
 
 And day by day, and hour by hour, 
 Her presence grew more dear, 
 
 'Till she alone possess'd the power 
 His darker mood to cheer ! 
 
 Like stars with borrow'd luster bright, 
 93 
 
His being caught from hers its light. 
 And in her heart and in her mind 
 
 A sympathy he found; 
 'Till strong as chains of steel could bind, 
 
 To hers his soul was bound ; 
 It seem'd as if that soul had grown 
 A tenderer portion of her own ! 
 
 With wreaths by minstrel fingers wrought, 
 
 Her brows did he entwine; 
 Gems gather'd from the mines of thought 
 
 He laid before her shrine; 
 And sought to soothe her gentle ear 
 With songs of love she lov'd to hear! 
 
 This could not last — one hapless hour 
 
 By her sweet side he knelt; 
 And told, o'er-master'd by its power, 
 
 All he had dream'd and felt! 
 Alack! the tale — alack! the lot — 
 She listen'd, but she lov'd him not! 
 
 Now lady, thou to whom I sing, 
 
 Had one so sued and sigh'd; 
 Would'st thou have had the heart to fling 
 
 His trusting love aside? 
 Ah ! had not pity rather shown 
 Some feeling kindred to his own? 
 
 And he arose and went his way, 
 Disconsolate and lone! 
 94 
 
His star of life, with cheerless ray, 
 
 Upon a desert shone! 
 But yet the form of her he loves 
 Moves with him wheresoe'er he moves! 
 
 And like a blessed angel, still, 
 
 It lingers by his side ; 
 And, with low whisper'd warnings, will 
 
 His bitter feelings chide! 
 And wiser, sadder, better, he 
 Bears as he may his Destiny. 
 
 Lady! My song is at an end — 
 
 And what its fate may be, 
 I know not! I the offering send, 
 
 Acceptance is with thee ! 
 But ah! deal tenderly, I pray, 
 Both by the minstrel and the lay. 
 
 Thy life has been one rosy spring, 
 
 One tissue of bright hours; 
 Thy thoughts like birds upon the wing. 
 
 Have rested but on flowers; 
 And hard it is to judge aright. 
 Of one, whose Fate hath been less bright! 
 95 
 
And now farewell ! And good or ill, 
 
 What fate soe'er betide ; 
 Mine is the heart to bless thee still, 
 
 Tho' not the hand to guide! 
 And, for the wealth of Land and Sea, 
 
 Naught evil would I dream of Thee. 
 
 96 
 
THEY TELL ME THAT THY HEART IS 
 WON 
 
 ' I ^HEY tell me that thy heart is won! 
 
 ■*■ Well — may'st thou be 
 Thrice happy — and the favour'd one — 
 How blest is he! 
 
 The hope that in my bosom sprung, 
 
 Hath borne no fruit; 
 Blighted, while yet its leaves were young, 
 
 Blossom and root! 
 
 And, tho' my heart was school'd to feel 
 
 This would be so, 
 That heart, not altogether steel, 
 
 Shrinks from the blow. 
 
 As one, who by the dead unmov'd 
 
 Will start to hear 
 The funeral knell of the Belov'd 
 
 Fall on his ear! 
 
 97 
 
E'en thus, when first the tidings came, 
 
 Like a surprise 
 A sudden thrill shot thro' my frame, 
 
 And fill'd mine eyes! 
 
 And yet, I murmur'd not, nor sigh'd; 
 
 Altho' I knew. 
 That instant roll'd a dark, cold tide, 
 
 Between us two! 
 
 I've liv'd my score and ten of years. 
 
 In joy and woe; 
 And feel how little worth my tears, 
 
 Is aught below ! 
 
THE MAID AND THE LILY 
 
 ' I ''HE Lily hung drooping its delicate head, 
 -^ The dews of the morn from its bright leaves 
 had fled, 
 Its fair-petal'd blossoms, so fresh, and so gay, 
 No zephyr to woo them, droop'd sadly away! 
 
 The maiden look'd out from the lattice above. 
 Her cheek it was pale with the palor of Love, 
 And she wept, as she watched and she listened in 
 
 vain — 
 For the step of her Lover ! It came not again ! 
 
 99 
 
CLOE 
 
 t~^ LOE'S form is Beauty's dwelling, 
 ^^ Cloe hath a heart refin'd; 
 And her mind, there is no telling 
 Half the wealth of Cloe's mind! 
 
 Cloe's eyes, while bright, are tender, 
 Tho' the mere observer spies. 
 
 Sparkling o'er their soften'd splendour, 
 Only mirth in Cloe's eyes. 
 
 When those eyes first shone upon me, 
 Paus'd my heart before their spell ; 
 
 Then her sense and shrewdness won me, 
 And I thought I lov'd her well ! 
 
 Cloe lik'd my conversation. 
 
 And my friendship did approve ; 
 
 Did not scorn my admiration, 
 But she was averse to Love. 
 100 
 
If a heart be worth the having, 
 Not by sighs that heart is won; 
 
 Mine will never bear enslaving, 
 Love it yields, to Love, alone. 
 
 So, above my passion rising, 
 
 Over cold, or over kind; 
 Now I prize, as they're worth prizing, 
 
 Cloe's form, and heart, and mind! 
 
 101 
 
SONG 
 
 T TPON thy cottage, sunset leaves 
 ^-^ Its parting light — and see, 
 Home to their nests, beneath the eaves, 
 The restive swallows flee! 
 
 Now we will wander forth again, 
 
 As we have wander'd oft! 
 While with bright beams along the main, 
 
 The moon is shining soft; 
 
 And, maiden link thy hand in mine, 
 
 Press closer to my side; 
 I but await yon boatman's sign. 
 
 Yon Boatman waits the tide. 
 
 To-morrow's dawn my bark will be, 
 Far bounding o'er the main; 
 
 And many moons, your eyes will see. 
 E'er I return again! 
 
 Yet tho' thy side thy Lover leaves, 
 
 His thoughts will fly to thee; 
 As to their nests, beneath the eaves, 
 
 The restive swallows flee. 
 102 
 
THE ST. LAWRENCE RIVER 
 Addressed to 
 
 T THOUGHT of thee, I thought of thee, 
 -■- When, 'neath the parting day, 
 St. Lawrence, and its Thousand Isles, 
 
 In golden beauty lay! 
 Those lovely Isles, that fairy-like. 
 
 Arose along the tide; 
 The scene had been a heaven to me, 
 
 Had'st thou been by my side! 
 
 Indented far, in creek, and bay, 
 
 The noble River spread ; 
 And, sweetly, as the Twilight paled, 
 
 The moon her radiance shed : 
 And as the breathless stars stole out 
 
 Above that mimic sea, 
 I gaz'd upon the tranquil scene. 
 
 And silent, thought of thee! 
 103 
 
Where peasant girls their garlands weave, 
 
 Beneath the pine-tree's shade; 
 By "Montmorenci' s" lonely falls, 
 
 My pilgrim foot-steps stray'd! 
 Down the wild steep, whose rugged sides 
 
 The foaming waters lave, 
 Like one continuous fall of snow, 
 
 Far fell the shatter'd wave. 
 
 Around my feet, in sun-lit wreaths, 
 
 The breeze its vapours blew; 
 And the foliage of green cedar boughs. 
 
 Was diamonded with dew: 
 On earth a spot might not be found 
 
 More dear to Love and me, 
 Had thy sweet lips been there to praise, 
 
 Thine Angel eyes to see! 
 
 From Quebec's rampart-guarded height, 
 
 Was shown me by the guide, 
 The spot where Wolfe victorious fell, 
 
 And where Montgomery died! 
 Those names, in ages yet unborn, 
 
 Shall Valor's watch-words be; 
 While thrill'd my bosom with their fame, 
 
 E'en there — I thought of thee! 
 
 I thought of thee — I thought of thee — 
 How I have seen thine eyes, 
 104 
 
Light up at tales of victory, 
 And feats of high emprize! 
 
 And dreaming there — I wish'd again 
 Those stirring days restor'd, 
 
 That I might praise thee in my deeds, 
 And woo thee — ^with my sword! 
 
 Thus ever o'er my heart presides 
 
 The holy thought of thee; 
 Which sways the ocean of its Love, 
 
 As doth the moon, the sea: 
 And, as the kneeling waters leave 
 
 Their tribute on the shore, 
 So pours my heart its tribute, too, 
 
 Thy gentle feet before! 
 
 105 
 
NEW YEAR RHYMES TO AN OLD 
 FRIEND 
 
 THE New Year, friend, will soon be here, 
 The old Year is departing; 
 For that, no smile of welcome beams, 
 
 For this, no tear is starting. 
 It is the change within the heart. 
 
 The heart more warm, or colder. 
 That lights the smile, or melts the tear, 
 And not that we are older. 
 
 A year ago — I told thee, friend. 
 
 My life had pass'd its morning; 
 And still another year hath beat 
 
 Against my heart it's warning! 
 Nathless that heart is much the same 
 
 In sin, alas! and sorrow; 
 Yet pines it still for better things, 
 
 Still trusts it in the morrow! 
 
 Oh ! many an hour of gloom, and glee. 
 We two have shar'd together; 
 106 
 
For manly heart, seeks manly heart, 
 
 In bright, or stormy weather! 
 Still broods the dark cloud over me, 
 
 But thou, friend, need'st not mind it; 
 For thee the storm has pass'd away, 
 
 And left a heaven behind it ! 
 
 No man is strong, no man is wise, 
 
 We all are blind, and weakly. 
 Then, kindly, view your neighbour's fault, 
 
 And your own virtues meekly! 
 If short his sight — if halt his gait — 
 
 Give aid without his calling; 
 For oft-times in assisting him, 
 
 We save ourselves from falling! 
 
 This Life hath surely little joy. 
 
 Few pleasures to commend it, 
 And they who seek but sense, and self, 
 
 Not rightly comprehend it. 
 Within, is mind for better things, 
 
 And soul with higher yearning. 
 And if we but their promptings heed, 
 
 'Twill save us much heart-burning I 
 
 Expecting others to correct 
 
 What we leave uncorrected — 
 Too much from them, and from ourselves, 
 
 Too little, is expected ! 
 107 
 
The good we in another see, 
 
 Let us be quick to tend it; 
 And patiently the evil bear, 
 
 If, only God can mend it. 
 
 For kindly help from kindly hand, 
 
 Let us be ever grateful; 
 The fruit which springs from scorn, or pride, 
 
 To man, and God is hateful! 
 Then scan not close the offering. 
 
 But weigh the heart that brought it; 
 It is not how much work is done, 
 
 But, how much love hath wrought it. 
 
 108 
 
IF IN THAT WORLD WHICH LIES 
 ABOVE 
 
 T F in that world, which lies above 
 •*• This dark and sorrowing sphere, 
 The weary heart may find the love, 
 
 Ir vainly pines for here ; 
 How welcome were the hour, which brings 
 
 The yearning soul release. 
 And bids it soar on eager wings, 
 
 To that sweet realm of peace! 
 
 How welcome were the hour ! For, oh ! 
 
 Oppress'd with care, and wrong ; 
 Amid these scenes of strife, and woe. 
 
 Our hearts hath stray'd too long! 
 Our hearts have stray'd — and still, must stray- 
 
 Until their bondage riven, 
 Our weary souls may flee away. 
 
 To Peace, and Love, and Heaven! 
 
 109 
 
THE FALSE ACCUSATION 
 
 ' I '' HOU say'st Lady, thou whose gentle heart 
 
 -*• Chast'neth e'en anger Into tenderness, 
 That I too much delight in the vain art 
 
 That wakens Ridicule; and love to dress 
 Things serious in the tricksy garb of mirth, 
 Holding all sadness as of little worth! 
 
 What shall I say to combat this harsh thought? 
 
 I may not bid thee draw my bosom's veil, 
 And view the sweet wrong that thy words have 
 wrought ; 
 
 Nor with denial rude thine ear assail! 
 I can but wait, 'till thou shalt better know 
 The heart of him whom thou hast wronged so! 
 
 Who laughs the most, not always is most gay; 
 
 Who preaches wisely is not therefore wise ; 
 E'en Harlequin will dress himself in grey. 
 
 And sober Jaques put on the motley guise ! 
 And from sad hearts doth often come the jest, 
 That makes no smile on lips that love them best ! 
 110 
 
Alas! Sweet Lady! Sorrow I have known, 
 Have liv'd alone with it, ah, many a while! 
 
 Sorrow and I have so familiar grown. 
 
 No farewell weep we, and no welcome smile! 
 
 We meet, and part — without a shake of hands, 
 
 With some light word, perchance, each understands. 
 
 Ill 
 
ALONG THE SANDS 
 To Miss E. H. B., December 25, 1855- 
 
 ALONG the sands where parted Land, and 
 Wave, 
 In shining fragments lie the hollow shells; 
 Gone are the waters to their ocean cave, 
 And where they linger'd only ruin tells. 
 
 Yet, tho' the low tread of the waves may be 
 Heard not again upon the silent shore. 
 
 Still, still, the shells will murmur of the sea, 
 And with its tones be fill'd forever-more. 
 
 We, too, have parted! But, in heart, and mind, 
 What once has been, must now, forever be; 
 
 Thou canst not dream forgetfulness to find 
 In me, nor I forgetfulness in thee! 
 
 And of our Love the scatter'd wrecks remain, 
 The hopes and memories that will not die: 
 
 That, like the shells of ocean, still retain 
 Sweet echoes of departed melody. 
 
 To guide thy steps be every angel's care, 
 
 Sweet Peace attend thee, now, and evermore! 
 
 Gliding between thy folded hands in prayer, 
 Standing beside thee, when thy prayer is o'er! 
 
 112 
 
ON FOR THE CRIMEAN FIGHT 
 
 T TP with your standards! Wrong or right, 
 ^^ Muster and march for the Crimean fight ! 
 Work is there for the brave to do, 
 Mid the clashing arms, and the death halloo, 
 On the plain shot-riven, and piled with mud, 
 In the trenches up to the knees in blood, 
 Where mould'ring corpses taint the air, 
 Of brethren slain in the carnage there ! 
 
 Up with her standard! England, still. 
 Hath hands to strike with terrible will ! 
 Witness ye dead at Alma slain. 
 And Balaklava's crimson plain ; 
 Where vengeful voices cry aloud, 
 From bodies that rot with never a shroud — 
 Forward! march — to the Crimean shore. 
 Strike as ye struck at Agincourt ! 
 
 Up with the standard that never yet 
 Fled from the lists where its staff was set! 
 113 
 
Shall the serf from a Briton win the field? 
 Shall the Lion now to the Jackall yield? 
 No! By the blood of your brethren dead, 
 While a drop of your own is left to shed, 
 Up! and, on! with a hero's might! 
 Forward, march, to the Crimean Fight! 
 
 Little the guerdon and light the pay, 
 That winneth the arm of man to stay; 
 Arouse his Passions, and bid him kill, 
 Ravish, and rob, at his own wild wall. 
 And, never a tiger in jungle or den, 
 Thirsteth like him for the blood of men ! 
 Who is it asks if wrong or right? 
 Forward, march, to the Crimean Fight! 
 
 I 
 
 114 
 
THE CRIMEAN WAR 
 
 \ X 7 HO for the glorious days of old sighs o'er the 
 " ' rusted lance 
 
 That England bore, at Agincourt, stain'd with the 
 blood of France; 
 
 When the war-cry of her Knighthood, high, in 
 shouts victorious rose, 
 
 And fled King Charles' Chivalry before her Yeo- 
 man's bows? 
 
 To such doth modern story tell a strangely variant 
 tale, 
 
 How hands now clasp in friendship hands that met 
 before in mail ; 
 
 And such may see, tho' strange it be, opposing armies 
 close, 
 
 And France and England charging there, yet, charg- 
 ing not as foes! 
 
 Tho' Austria may conceal the sneer, tho' Islam may 
 applaud, 
 
 115 
 
There's discord in such unison, and in such friend- 
 ship fraud: 
 
 The praise of One hath ever been her sister nation's 
 shame, 
 
 And the very drums beat war notes to the bans that 
 they proclaim! 
 
 King Edward's dust lies buried deep beneath six feet 
 of ground, 
 
 His stalwart son can hear no more the brazen trum- 
 pet sound; 
 
 Yet still their name to England's fame all time the 
 more endears, 
 
 And France in vain would wash the stain from 
 Cressy, and Poitiers! 
 
 But what the cause that breaks the laws of nature 
 
 and of man? 
 The crescent fights against the cross, and England 
 
 le?ds the van! 
 Oh ! Ye, who boast your crests from those who bled 
 
 at Palestine, 
 Arouse! and place your protest on this outrage to 
 
 your line! 
 
 I honour England, as I do the brave, wherever 
 
 found. 
 The ground that bore Plantaganet to me is hal- 
 
 low'd ground ! 
 
 116 
 
But in this contest, if 'twere mine to strike a soldier's 
 
 blow, 
 My hand were with the Cossack, and, my heart with 
 
 England's foe! 
 
 And tell me not our sj'^mpathy to Albion belongs, 
 The mists that o'er the Euxine roll veil not man's 
 
 nearer wrongs ; 
 The thousand dark, and social wrongs, that grind 
 
 the People down, 
 That Lords may wear a golden star, and Kings a 
 
 jewel'd crown. 
 
 I marvel not that Islam's creed a nation's faith 
 
 should sway, 
 Or darken to its eyes the light that marks the 
 
 Christian Day: 
 That those who worship Beth'lem's Star, should 
 
 league with those who scorn, 
 And plant upon the Saviour's brow, another crown 
 
 of thorn! 
 
 117 
 
NIGHT 
 
 LAST eve, impeU'd by an impulsive thought, 
 ^ I wander'd forth beneath the moonlight's 
 sheen ; 
 The vi^estern sky was faintly overwrought 
 
 With Twilight's rosy hues; whiles, from between 
 The sunset clouds, broken, and scatter'd far 
 In golden flakes, peep'd out the evening star, 
 Lovely, as Love ! 
 And, bright, above. 
 The crescent moon shone like a pinnace fair, 
 New launch'd upon the azure depths of air. 
 
 Oh, beautiful ! As night must ever be ; 
 
 Nature's dark daughter, dearest lov'd of all! 
 How glorious her jewel'd brow to see — 
 
 How noiselessly her slippered footsteps fall ; 
 As, with her offspring slumber, and a train 
 Of phantom forms, she moves along earth's plain. 
 In darkness clad ; 
 Tho' deep, not sad ; 
 And from her unseen censer, softly flings 
 A sweet repose upon all living things ! 
 118 
 
AVE MARIA 
 
 NOW from the old cathedral tower, 
 Time's iron tongue proclaims the hour; 
 The holy hour of Vesper-time! 
 The suppliant hath sought the shrine; 
 And bended knees the chancel press 
 In penitential lowliness; 
 As on the lucid waves of air, 
 Ascends the angel-footed prayer! 
 
 Red in the West, the sun retiring, 
 Gilds temple dome, and tower aspiring; 
 And Eve's fair star is seen to glimmer 
 Where Twilight's purple lines grow dimmer. 
 Slanting a shade of kindred hue 
 On broad Patapsco's spreading blue; 
 While still, from city, forest, river, 
 Goes up a murmur'd worship ever! 
 119 
 
Ave Maria! Virgin mild! 
 Pure mother of the sinless child ! 
 This lovliest hour of all that be, 
 This holiest hour is worthiest thee! 
 Sweet hour! that bringeth labour rest, 
 And sheds its peace on every breast, 
 So darkly pure, and purely bright, 
 The marriage of the Day and Night! 
 
 Ave Maria ! Thou hast worn 
 
 The human mother's crown of thorn; 
 
 And still M-ithin thy bosom glows 
 
 A sympathy wath human woes; 
 
 And human passions find in thee 
 
 A friend in their infirmity; 
 
 As thine was once this garb of clay. 
 
 Oh! Help to cleanse its stains away! 
 
 Ave Maria! Dark within. 
 Our erring hearts lie cas'd in sin ; 
 Unworthy we to breathe thy name, 
 Still less, thine intercession claim! 
 Yet, Mary Mother ! by the tie 
 That links thee to humanity. 
 Do thou thy gentle hand extend, 
 For us thy intercession lend ! 
 
 Ave Maria! Darkly round 
 
 The shadows gather o'er the ground; 
 
 120 
 
And, as decline the hues of Even, 
 The holy stars shine out in heaven ! 
 E'en thus, as o'er the troubled soul 
 Night clouds of sin and sorrow roll, 
 Ave Maria! Help our prayer 
 To kindle heaven-born glories there! 
 
 121 
 
ANOTHER YEAR! 
 
 A NOTHER year — and yet — another year! 
 -^ ^ And I am older by a year at least! 
 How much more wise? Inquisitor, forbear, 
 And list the sigh that breaks within my breast ! 
 
 "Sorrow is Knowledge !" Is it wisdom too ? 
 
 The Bard and Sage alike their lessons teach; 
 Sages but tell us what before we knew, 
 
 And Bards but picture what we never reach ! 
 
 The Sages' knowledge hence becomes the throne 
 From whence Bards see into a higher sphere — 
 
 Why have we that if this remains unknown? 
 Brings Knowledge joy to compensate the Tear| 
 
 Never, ah, never! Too much then to know 
 Cannot be Wisdom! Ignorance is wise 
 
 As well as blissful! Let things ever show 
 
 As they were mirror'd in the Boys' fond eyes!, 
 
 Time speeds along no power can command. 
 
 The sands flow swifter through the glass each day, 
 
 And thus our life — a snow-flake in the hand, 
 The warmer grasped the faster melts away. 
 122 
 
FOOT-PRINTS IN THE SNOW 
 
 OVER lane, and roof, and steeple, 
 Lies the soft and yielding snow; 
 And, behold! a crowd of people, 
 Moving noiseless to and fro; 
 Like to troops of spectres, people. 
 Moving noiseless thro' the snow. 
 
 Tho' the echoes all are voiceless 
 To the steps that come and go; 
 
 Every step, however noiseless, 
 Leaves a foot-print in the snow; 
 
 And each print, altho' 'tis voiceless, 
 Tells its story to the snow. 
 
 Here be steps of Youth, and Maiden, 
 Age and manhood, pleasure, pain — 
 Some, whom cares have overladen, 
 
 Some, whom care hath sought in vain- 
 Steps of manhood, Youth, and Maiden, 
 Care will follow, not in vain! 
 123 
 
Yonder print all blur'd — uneven — 
 Marks some weary pilgrim's shoon; 
 
 After all his sins forgiven, 
 
 May the grave accept him soon! 
 
 He whose steps seem so uneven — 
 May the grave accept him soon. 
 
 There are footprints, sharp, and rigid — 
 From their pressure we may know 
 
 One, whose heart, as winter frigid. 
 Melts not at another's woe! 
 
 But, beware! Wrong howe'er rigid, 
 Right will overtake with Woe! 
 
 There an impress, neat and slender. 
 
 Shows where some fair girl hath pass'd- 
 
 God! o'erwatch a thing so tender, 
 Angels shield her from the blast! 
 
 Heart so frail, and form so slender. 
 Needs be shielded from the blast! 
 
 Here a naked foot seems creeping, 
 
 Plainly mark'd each little toe; 
 Has some mad-cap child been leaping 
 
 From the window, in the snow? 
 Out ! a beggar's brat is creeping, 
 
 Creeping, shivering thro' the snow! 
 
 While, with shout and whoop hewild'ring, 
 Racing, ch^ing down the street; 
 124 
 
There, a band of merry children, 
 Leave the marks of dancing feet. 
 
 To that bare-foot child, bewild'ring 
 Are those marks of dancing feet! 
 
 Thus upon the prospect dreary, 
 Like the child of long-ago, 
 
 I could gaze for hours unweary. 
 Counting foot-prints in the snow ! 
 
 Musing o'er the prospect dreary, 
 Reading foot-prints in the snow! 
 
 In them lies no unwise moral — 
 Foot-prints in the melting snow! 
 
 With the soft snow do not quarrel, 
 But a little while — ^'twill go! 
 
 Meantime, all may find a moral 
 Reading foot-prints in the snow ! 
 
 Jan. 1st, 1854. 
 
 125 
 
ON THE LOSS OF THE STEAMSHIP 
 ARCTIC 
 
 /^ H ! many hearts are bright with Hope, 
 ^^ And many light with glee, 
 As gallantly yon noble ship 
 
 Moves homeward o'er the sea! 
 The foamy waves are crush'd beneath 
 
 The trampling of her wheel; 
 While strength hath clasp'd her oaken prow, 
 
 And speed hath shod her keel! 
 
 The tempest may perplex the sky, 
 
 The storm disturb the deep; 
 Still, gallantly, yon noble ship, 
 
 Her homeward course will keep! 
 And standing on her peopled deck, 
 
 Elate with pride we view, 
 Amid the realms of wind and wave, 
 
 What human skill can do! 
 126 
 
 i 
 
Oh! blended faith — and reckless trust! 
 
 Bent, bent, be every knee ! 
 The hand of man is on the helm, 
 
 But God's is on the sea! 
 The day's bright beams are wrapt in mists 
 
 Of thick impervious dark. 
 And fatally, amid the gloom, 
 
 Drives on yon stranger barque ! 
 
 A crash — a shriek — a fearful cry — 
 
 The noble ship heads on; 
 But soon that breathing pause from fear, 
 
 That moment's hope is gone! 
 Her oaken ribs are split in twain 
 
 'Spite iron bolt and bar, 
 Along her crush'd and delug'd deck 
 
 The waters rushing are. 
 
 Oh! ye whose feet are on the shore. 
 
 Who tread not on the sea, 
 To you the horrors of this hour, 
 
 An unknown tale must be! 
 Oh ! ye who by a brother's bed 
 
 Await the ebb of breath, 
 To you no summons hath been sent, 
 
 What can ye know of death ? 
 
 But here upon the lonely deep. 
 Behold a sinking wreck; 
 127 
 
And see where Death stands face to face 
 With hundreds on yon deck! 
 
 Each feels his final hour is come, 
 Each hears the dreaded call, 
 
 And booms from yonder signal gun, 
 The fearful knell of all! 
 
 Stout hearts are palsied now with dread. 
 
 Warm hearts with fear are chill; 
 Some plunge thro' terror in the sea, 
 
 Thro' terror some are still! 
 A desperate few, on boat and spar, 
 
 A selfish refuge find, 
 Regardless of the prayer or cry, 
 
 Of those they leave behind! 
 
 Yet, 'twas a noble sight, e'en there 
 
 To see the gallant few 
 Who bravely at their posts go down, 
 
 Beneath the soundless blue ! 
 Oh! I would give of mortal years, 
 
 A dozen and a day, 
 To meet death, when he comes to me, 
 
 As manfully as they! 
 
 Ten thousand keels shall plough that sea. 
 There gaze ten thousand eyes; 
 
 But eye, nor keel will ever reach 
 The Arctic, where she lies! 
 128 
 
And of the few whom Fate or Heaven 
 Hath rescued from the wave, 
 
 Let silence shame the coward's cheek, 
 And honour crown the brave! 
 
 Oct. 19th, 1854. 
 
 129 
 
TO 
 
 ^~r~^ HOU lovely star with silver gleam 
 
 ■^ Sweet shining through the gloom of night 
 I gaze upon thy gentle beam 
 
 And bless thee for its sacred light. 
 For oh ! I love to watch with thee 
 
 While heedlessly the hours depart 
 And think of one whose memory 
 
 Is shining thus within my heart. 
 
 Nor will that memory fainter grow 
 
 While feeling thrills this heart of mine, 
 The' Lady, thou should'st never know 
 
 How changelessly that heart is thine. 
 The midnight woos in vain to rest, 
 
 For slumber's spells are lost on me 
 From dreams of Love and angel's blest 
 
 My soul awakes to thoughts of thee. 
 
 130 
 
I 
 
 MY ONLY SKILL IN WOOING THEE 
 
 WOULD not ask how other eyes 
 Regard those eyes of thine, 
 Nor ask I if thy words are sweet 
 
 To other ears than mine! 
 I only know my weary heart 
 
 Doth in thy smile rejoice, 
 And feel as if each pulse beat were 
 
 An echo of thy voice. 
 
 Sweet, sweet unto the Pilgrim's lips 
 
 Are springs in deserts found, 
 And sweet the stream to panting deer 
 
 O'ertask'd by horn and hound ; 
 But not so sweet to Pilgrim's lips 
 
 Or o'ertask'd deer they be. 
 As to my fond and weary heart 
 
 Are moments pass'd with thee ! 
 
 No lure can win me from thy side. 
 
 Nor rude ambition draw; 
 The sweet desire to be near thee 
 
 Hath grown my beings law! 
 Is there a charm thy heart to win — 
 
 Oh! teach to me the spell! 
 My only skill in wooing thee. 
 
 Is loving thee too well! 
 131 
 
NO JEWELS ON THY FINGERS 
 
 T^r O jewels on thy fingers, 
 ■*- ^ No bracelet on thine arms; 
 And in thine ears no ear-rings, 
 From whence arise thy charms? 
 
 The gorgeous heaven of midnight 
 
 Is set with many a star, 
 But the starless sky of twilight 
 
 More lovely is, by far! 
 
 Then tender dews are falling, 
 And Peace keeps watch above; 
 
 And every pulse beats softly. 
 As to the touch of Love! 
 
 No jewels on thy fingers. 
 
 No gems amid thy hair; 
 And in thine ears no ear-rings, 
 
 Why seemest thou so fair? 
 
 Oh ! ask it of the evening. 
 
 When holy thoughts are nigh; 
 
 Or ask it of the angels. 
 
 And they will tell thee why ! 
 132 
 
THE EBBING TIDE 
 
 I SAW an old man 'neath a tree 
 Seated one day; 
 Around him gambol'd, in health, and in glee, 
 Children at play! 
 
 Down thro' the green leaves on his face 
 
 Shone the sun's beam; 
 Deep were the lines of care that traced, 
 
 Seam, upon seam! 
 
 Worn were his limbs, feeble and bent; 
 
 Quickly, I knew 
 One, unto whom griefs had been sent, 
 
 Cares, not a few! 
 
 Vet, there shone in his aged eyes, 
 
 Like wasted fires. 
 All the quench'd gleams, and dim prophecies, 
 
 Of high desires. 
 
 133 
 
"Old man," unto the sage I said, 
 
 "What thinkest thou ? 
 Or seest? Thou of the hoary head, 
 
 And prophet brow?" 
 
 "Youth," he replied, "solemn and low, 
 
 Passeth away!" 
 Age, tho' it move tottering and slow, 
 
 Cometh some day. 
 
 Youth, like the flood-tide, in its coming, heaves 
 
 Sparkles before! 
 Age, like the ebb of the tide, only leaves 
 
 Marks on the shore! 
 
 134 
 
SONNET 
 
 "^TOW from the Past, and its defeat of Hope, 
 ■^ ^ Turn we unto the Present ; and there seek 
 With its rude tumult and cold scorn to cope! 
 Desiring not to look beyond its scope, 
 
 Narrow, and cribb'd. The heart, alas, grown 
 weak. 
 Weary, and mock'd with disappointments — flings 
 No glance before! But, with fierce struggle clings, 
 
 And vain tenacity, to each thing near ; 
 Striving to wring from out their rugged rind 
 
 Some juice medicinal the heart to cheer, 
 Or failing this, some lethean drug to find. 
 
 In vain ! in vain ! The memory will not die, 
 And Hope rekindles ever in the mind; 
 
 And whispers to the soul — Eternity? 
 
 135 
 
AN EPITAPH 
 
 T T ERE lies, beneath this simple mound, 
 
 ■^ -'■ One, who had fame and fortune found, 
 
 But that a bosom over kind, 
 
 Made him to fame and fortune blind! 
 
 Ye wise, and prudent, pause not here, 
 Upon this grave to drop the tear; 
 For he, when living, did despise 
 The cold, and timorously wise ! 
 
 But ye, whose bolder footsteps stray 
 Beyond the dull and trodden way, 
 A moment linger by this stone, 
 And muse on faults so like your own! 
 
 136 
 
TO 
 
 /COMMUNION I with other hearts have held, 
 ^^ And own'd myself disciple to their creeds — 
 Their most false creeds — thereto was I impell'd 
 
 By hope to find what most the spirit needs; 
 The peace, the rest, that ever from faith springs, 
 
 Be it in any thing, divine, or human ! 
 
 And ever had the gentle voice of woman 
 Strange power to soothe — as when a church bell 
 sv/ings 
 
 Its Sabbath chimes upon the evening air, 
 
 Calling the pastoral villagers to prayer! 
 
 And, therefore, with a tremulous step I seek 
 
 The shrine thy soul inhabits; and the song, 
 Strong in my heart, upon my tongue is weak ; 
 
 For I would not, oh, lovely Lady! wrong 
 Thy presence with stale vows. From cups profaned 
 
 My hand would not, thy beauteous feet before, 
 
 Unconsecrate, or new libation pour! 
 
Yet that my faith in thee may be sustain'd, 
 May I not sit beside thee, hear thy voice, 
 And in the radiance of thy smile rejoice? 
 
 To thee I bring nor offering, nor vow; 
 
 On other altars I my gifts have lain 
 And there vow'd vows — all humbly would I, vow, 
 
 As self-convicted of some secret stain, 
 Bend low before thee — hold me not afar ! 
 
 I would not touch thy vestal robes, nor dare 
 
 To lay my hands upon them, e'en in prayer — 
 For thou to me art as some sacred star 
 
 Beheld far off in heaven's immensity — 
 
 That is at once a faith and destiny! 
 
 138 
 
TO 
 
 T T E lov'd thee — and as man should speak 
 •*- ■■■ To Woman — frank, and bold, 
 To thee, in simple confidence, 
 His tale of love was told. 
 
 But manly truth avails him not! 
 
 He, who would win the prize, 
 Must scorn the love that consecrates, 
 
 And bring the wealth that buys. 
 
 Such wealth is thine — the burnish'd store, 
 
 Of wisely valued gold ; 
 Aye, thou hast at thy finger-ends, 
 
 More than his palms can hold! 
 
 Keep well the treasure — guard it fast — 
 
 It is a royal thing! 
 And she who brings it as her dower. 
 
 Is consort to a king! 
 139 
 
See where they kneel — the cringing slaves! 
 
 Thy noble vassals they! 
 Give them thy jewel'd hand to kiss, 
 
 Their homage they would pay! 
 
 Oh ! Lady, beauty is thine own ! 
 
 And kind, benignant Heaven, 
 A thousand winning boons of love, 
 
 Unto thy heart hath given ! 
 
 And tenderness that shrinks from scorn, 
 
 And truth most like divine, 
 And sweetest human sympathies, 
 
 Are richly, amply thine! 
 
 And can'st thou not discriminate 
 'Twixt truthfulness and guile? 
 
 Hast thou no faith, distinguishing 
 The manly from the vile? 
 
 It cannot be — 'twere piteous. 
 
 One, lovely as thou art, 
 Should pass thro' life, the slave of doubt. 
 
 Mistrusting every heart ! 
 
 Quit — quit thy gilded throne, and learn 
 Where thousands bend the knee. 
 
 That one, at least, who kneeleth there. 
 Bows not to it, but, thee! 
 140 
 
That one, at least, would scorn to think 
 Thy heart could stoop, the while. 
 
 Unto the worse than littleness 
 Of deeming his so vile — 
 
 So vile as make a sale of faith, 
 
 His truth, his honor soil. 
 For that, which every manly heart, 
 
 Can gain by manly toil! 
 
 141 
 
HER VOICE 
 
 \ S when the fingers over the lute 
 -^ ^ Awaken the chords that were late so mute, 
 We may not detect each particular tone, 
 But are charm'd by the wonderful unison. 
 
 And as the bee doth honey compose 
 From various flowers pink, woodbine or rose, 
 So all that is fairest and sweetest we see 
 And all that is loveliest blended in thee. 
 
 142 
 
LINES COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT IN 
 THE CITY 
 
 CILENTLY, how silently, 
 
 ^ The midnight stars are beaming 
 
 O'er the city, tenderly. 
 
 Their angel light is streaming! 
 All above seems Peace and Love 
 
 A holy vigil keeping; 
 While below, e'en Strife, and Woe, 
 
 Are hush'd in dreamless sleeping. 
 
 Cheerfully, — all cheerfully, 
 
 The day will dawn To-morrow; 
 While from Slumber, tearfully, 
 
 To Toil awakens Sorrow! 
 Joy and Sadness, Grief and Gladness, 
 
 Are ever each succeeding; 
 Rightly look in Nature's book, 
 
 And solemn is the reading. 
 143 
 
Mournfully, ah! mournfully, 
 
 We turn its mystic pages; 
 The gold-illumin'd marge, but ill 
 
 The motley text presages ; 
 There indeed, the eye may read, 
 
 Bright promise for the morrow, 
 To-morrow gone, with tears we own, 
 
 E'en Hope — attain'd, is Sorrow. 
 
 144 
 
ON MY LITTLE DAUGHTER'S BIRTH- 
 DAY, JUNE 19 
 
 LISTEN, Mother, to what I say, 
 ' I am five years old to-day, 
 Just five years have come and gone 
 Since the time that I was born ; 
 Nineteen days, it was in June, 
 On a Sunday afternoon 
 When an angel bright and fair 
 Gave me to thy tender care, 
 Watched by it, and loved by thee, 
 Happy must thy darling be; 
 Kisses plenty, one, two, three, 
 Four, five, six, seven, I give to thee 
 On thy cheeks, eyes, brow, and hair. 
 And still have plenty more to spare. 
 
 145 
 
ETERNITY 
 
 T^ TERN ITY— that ever hastens on, 
 
 -'--' Sublime and terrible — to solve the doubt 
 
 Of those vi^ho think to end as they began 
 
 In nothing — Nothing? Hear the choral shout, 
 Of all the stars proclaim — nothing is nought! 
 Nothing can never be — hath never been — each 
 thought 
 
 Hath wings that waft it through all time; 
 The web-like gossamer thy hand hath caught 
 Light as the air — existence hath. Sublime 
 Through all the ages — who can name the term 
 When it was not as substance or as germ? 
 
 We cast at Autumn on the ground, the seed 
 
 That spring-time ripens into fruit and flower; 
 We lay the body in the grave indeed, 
 
 But who dare say that there exists no power 
 When the appointed months shall o'er it roll 
 To warm and quicken it into a soul. 
 
 Demon's or Angel's — as we tender'd here 
 The seedling clay — neglected to control, 
 
 Its evil tendencies — or sought to clear 
 From rust and canker the immortal shoot 
 From worm and weevil clinging to its root. 
 146 
 
THE SEA 
 
 T STOOD on the beach of the wond'rous sea, 
 
 -*- And listed the hollow roar 
 
 Of the waves as they beat, like a human pulse, 
 
 Against the ribb'd sands of the shore; 
 And still as I gaz'd a question came, 
 
 And ever abode with me. 
 Is there never, oh, sea, upon all thy shores. 
 
 One moment of rest for thee? 
 
 The bark as it sways to thy rolling brine 
 
 May know of an anchorage near; 
 And the dolphin dream of a quiet cave 
 
 In the depths of thy waters clear! 
 The eagle may soar and poise on its wings, 
 
 As the mariner doth on his oars ; 
 But for thee, nor for me is there rest, oh. Sea, 
 
 Upon all of thy thousand shores ! 
 Newport, Rhode Island, August, 1864. 
 
 147 
 
TO MY SISTER 
 
 Written when engineering on the Baltimore & Ohio 
 Railroad west of Cumberland. 
 
 O WEETLY shines the moonbeams pure, 
 ^^ Through yon tatter'd aperture ; J 
 
 Which the hand of Time hath rent 
 In the canvas of my tent; 
 Wooing slumber from his bed 
 To gaze upon the sky instead. 1 
 
 Oh! who would think to see it now, ' 
 
 Bright with the moon's etherial glow, j 
 
 That it had e'er been overcast, 
 Or darken'd by the tempest-blast? 
 Yet, though no vestage can we trace. 
 Such lately swept its azure face; 
 And those who then beheld it clouded, 
 By the impervious vapour shrouded, i 
 
 Did not think to see so soon, 
 The silver presence of the Moon. 
 And Sister who that saw us playing. 
 Through our Home's wild woodland's straying, 
 148 
 
Twining the flowers, so fresh, and fair, 
 In wreathlets for each other's hair; 
 Dream'd then how soon our hearts between, 
 Mountains and vale should intervene? 
 Yet, as the storm which overcast 
 The blue serene of heaven, is pass'd ; 
 Shall mount and vale no barrier be, 
 When I return to home, and Thee; 
 But only make more fond the greeting, 
 If such can be, at our next meeting. 
 
 How lovely o'er the foliage far. 
 That robes the mountain, gleams yon star! 
 Twinkling above its summit, won 
 Like a sparkle from the sun; 
 Beautiful as to slaves may be, 
 A dream of promised Liberty. 
 And dimpling in the moonbeams smile. 
 Bright flows the creek round "Ellen's Isle:" 
 And where the rippling waters glide, 
 The willows stoop to kiss the tide. 
 Here, wid'ning over moss and stone, 
 You scarce can hear its tinkling tone ; 
 But narrowing where the rocks impede, 
 It hurries on with babbling speed; 
 Downward, downward, flowing ever, 
 'Till lost in broad Potomac's River. 
 And deep the star-lit heavens appear, 
 Reflected in those waters clear; 
 
 149 
 
So shineth Ellen's spirit high, 
 Through the deep azure of her eye ; 
 And after her — nay — ^wherefore smile? 
 I've call'd our Island — "Ellen's Isle." 
 Nor would fair Ellen frown, if she 
 Could our leafy islet see : 
 Its pebbly shore, and forest shade, 
 Would please the eye of tasteful maid; 
 And Sister, where may maiden be, 
 Of purer taste than Ellen Key? 
 Here flowers of every hue are springing. 
 Here birds of every note are singing. 
 The linden here, and elm, unite 
 In arbours beautiful and bright; 
 Where builds the pensive dove her nest, 
 Above the truant school-boy's quest; 
 Mid hickory boughs the squirrel is seen, 
 Feasting upon their foliage green; 
 And oaks and poplars toss on high, 
 Their giant branches to the sky, 
 And many a noble bower we see, 
 Of spreading beech and sugar-tree: 
 There grows on yonder bank, I trow; 
 The laurel meet for poet's brow; 
 And oderous is the air that breathes 
 From out the spicy walnut leaves: 
 The dog-wood too, to Ellen dear. 
 And many a clambering vine is here. 
 
 150 
 
Northward along the River's shore 
 Extend the groves of sycamore, 
 Whose shadowy trunks, so tall, so white, 
 When on them falls the pale moon-light, 
 Look like spectres of the trees, 
 That died in by-gone centuries. 
 Swiftly along, the sparkling wave, 
 Brawls over pebble, rock, and cave; 
 And far adown its shores are seen. 
 The meadows wide of waving green: 
 While in extended rise of hill. 
 Sombre frown the "Heights of Will 
 And lovelier looks our fairy Island 
 In contrast with the barren highland 
 Where flickering the moonbeams shine 
 Along the straggling ranks of pine. 
 Which watch above the rocks and fountains 
 Like banner'd warriors of the mountains; 
 Guarding their castellated walls 
 Against the shivering thunder-falls. 
 Which round those rocky turrets burst, 
 In peals, like ordnance accurs'd. 
 
 Oh! Sister! would that thou wert near, 
 To view with me the prospect here! 
 How much more beautiful would seem, 
 The willowy shore, the winding stream. 
 The mountain gay, the heaven seen through, 
 
 151 
 
A bursting flower, a drop of dew, 
 
 The grandest, simplest things described, 
 
 When those we love are at our side. 
 
 But none I love — alas! is here, 
 
 With me this beauteous scene to share! 
 
 Alone my listless limbs are laid. 
 
 Beneath the beech-tree's spreading shade; 
 
 I seek the moss enamel'd stone, 
 
 But I must sit on it alone ; 
 
 I see the waves beneath me dash. 
 
 Alone must feel their welcome splash ; 
 
 I gather flovv-ers of fairest hue, 
 
 With none I love to give them to; 
 
 In yonder maple grove is heard 
 
 The song of many a joyous bird; 
 
 But I must hear their forest glee, 
 
 With none I love — to hear with me. 
 
 My comrades scarce the height would climb. 
 
 To which yon mountain, towers sublime, 
 
 E'en if their dim and careless eyes, 
 
 Could thence behold a paradise. 
 
 They crush with heedless feet the flower 
 
 That blooms beside their daily bower. 
 
 But, soft ! behind the mountain's brow, 
 The waling moon is sinking now ; 
 And many a jagg'd, and giant shadow, 
 Its outline casts on stream and meadow: 
 
 152 
 
And I have now beguil'd too long, 
 
 Sleep's blessed hours with idle song; 
 
 But restless was my soul, and they, 
 
 So slowly trail'd their length away: — 
 
 Oh! have you never felt how slow. 
 
 When we would speed them, moments go? 
 
 But Sister see ! the moon's pale light 
 
 Hath pass'd from us — Good night! good night! 
 
 And may some guardian seraph, steep 
 
 Thy sweet eyes in the dews of sleep ; 
 
 And golden dreams come down to Thee, 
 
 Fair as thine own sweet fancies be; 
 
 Filling thy chamber with their light. 
 
 Like odorous lamps! — Good night! Good night! 
 
 153 
 
THE TRESSES FOR ME 
 
 A CHARM there is in the golden hair, 
 -^^*- As it sporteth free o'er the white neck bare; 
 Unbound by a fillet, and bright as the beams 
 Of tender light that the sun-set gleams: 
 But the' a charm in the hue there be, 
 The Golden are not the Tresses for me. 
 
 The Flaxen hair so silken soft, 
 I have admired its light hues oft! 
 Falling soft o'er the neck below. 
 Like a lily's shade on a curve of snow: 
 But fair as its gossamer ringlets be. 
 The Flaxen are not the Tresses for me. 
 
 I love to gaze on the glowing hue 
 
 The beautiful curls of Auburn, too ; 
 
 As it waveth about, no bond to check. 
 
 And is blown aside from the swan-like neck; 
 
 But tho' its rings as of gold may be, 
 
 The Auburn are not the Tresses for me. 
 
But give to me the Tress that can bring 
 
 A gloss like the hue of the raven's wing; 
 
 As a shadowy cloud it floateth about, 
 
 'Neath which like a moon the neck gleams out: 
 
 Dark as the wave of a midnight sea, 
 
 The jetty black are the Tresses for me. 
 
 m 
 
TO 
 
 W/ HEN the mind is expanding in Friendship 
 ' ' and Truth, 
 And the roses of Hope fill the garden of Youth ; 
 When the feelings are fresh as the new-fallen dew, 
 And the heart whence they spring is as innocent too ; 
 In that glorious Spring-time of pleasure and pain, 
 We can almost believe Earth an Eden again. 
 
 Oh! Maiden, the lovely and youthful! such now, 
 Is the smile on thy cheek, and the glow on thy brow ! 
 From that cheek, and that eye, thy pure soul stealeth 
 
 through, 
 Amid glances and blushes, warm, tender, and true: 
 And if we may judge by thy past, oh! how clear! 
 How bright, doth the sky of thy Future appear! 
 
 But the fruit that is sweetest, is soonest decayed ; 
 And the fairest — alas! are the fleetest to fade; 
 Yes! Sorrow may come, and thy sky may be clouded, 
 But a light is within thee that ne'er can be shrouded ! 
 The flowers may all wither — the hopes pass away — 
 But thy sweetness, and truth, they will never decay. 
 156 
 
WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM 
 
 WHAT are Albums? Lady's bowers, 
 The verses written in them — flowers; 
 The pictured memories" — their bloom, 
 The truth within them, the perfume; 
 The rains which cherish them, are tears, 
 And We, the horticulturers. 
 
 157 
 
YOUTH 
 
 THERE is an hour, the gladsome dawn of day, 
 When Night's dark shadows, mist-like, melt 
 away ; 
 When the old hill tops catch a youth-like gleam, 
 In the first flash of days eiiulgent beam. 
 On leafy groves the dewy pearl-drop clings, 
 The brooks flow by in cooler murmurings, 
 The purple clouds like banners streaming on 
 Herald the glory of the coming sun. 
 O'er sparkling fountains flashing back the rays 
 In light augmented the fresh radiance plays, 
 And the gay fields that golden flowers adorn 
 And birds and music welcome in the morn. 
 
 Like the first glory which that hour displays 
 When morning twilight sheds abroad its rays, 
 Is youthful beauty bursting on the sight 
 In freshness, breathing loveliness and light. 
 Oh! there's a magic in young Beauty's dawn, 
 In its first smiles and blushes newly born, 
 158 
 
When the red lips in dewy freshness shows 
 Like bright leaves curling on the budding rose, 
 The high brow shining beautiful and fair 
 Unsullied yet by Falsehood, or by Care, 
 The step of lightness and the graceful air, 
 The choice enchantments of this life are there. 
 
 159 
 
TO 
 
 WHERE'ER I roam, whatever planets shed 
 Their stranger beams around my humble 
 head ; 
 Whether in northern climes, or southern meads, 
 Where Fortune lures me, or where Fancy leads ; 
 Still will my thoughts forever turn to thee, 
 Like constant rivers rolling to their sea. 
 
 At that calm hour, when music's tones are heard, 
 Breath'd sweetest then, from many an evening bird, 
 When parting daylight, lingering serene, 
 Blends golden tints with Ocean's darker green. 
 Mid light and music still my heart shall turn, 
 To thee for whom its quenchless fires burn. 
 
 *Mid the gay scene, when brimming cups go round. 
 And mirth, and gladness, wit and sport abound; 
 Mid airy figures, forms how passing fair, 
 And Love, and Beauty, darting glances there; 
 Turning from them, the sparkling cup I'll shun. 
 Or quaff it but to Thee, thou loveliest one. 
 160 
 
I ne'er behold the tender twilight shine , 
 But it reminds me of that smile of Thine ; 
 The floweret's hue, the blossom on the tree, 
 Hath something delicate that speaks of Thee; 
 And with thy memory shall my love increase, 
 Forgotten only when this pulse shall cease. 
 
 161 
 
AUTUMN 
 
 /^ H ! hear ye the song of the frost laden breeze, 
 ^-^ As it tunes its wild harp in the autumnal 
 
 trees ; 
 How sad, oh ! how sweet 'tv^^ould be, could I obtain 
 A breath of its music to blend with my strain ! 
 
 The woods late array'd in the wealth of their leaves, 
 Of their summer-born glory the frost-blight be- 
 reaves ; 
 And thro' their dark shades as it fitfully sighs, 
 The weird winds are chanting their dirge to the 
 skies. 
 
 The landscape late smiling so gay and serene, 
 Now darkling, and purpling, all changing is seen ; 
 The green grass and flowers lie scatter'd and dead. 
 As if Life from the bosom of Nature had fled. 
 
 Our Youth's early hopes are as bright, and as brief ; 
 For the heart hath its summer as well as the leaf ; 
 And the Autumn that comes the warm bosom to 
 
 chill. 
 Is as bleak, and as drear, as the blast of the hill. 
 162 
 
ON A LADY'S PORTRAIT 
 
 (A relative, but one whom I had never seen.) 
 
 Ty EMOVE the curtain — once more let me trace 
 
 -^^ The pensive sweetness of that lovely face! 
 
 How fine each feature, exquisitely fair! 
 
 The soul itself seems almost breathing there: 
 
 As Nature's hand had lent the Artist aid, 
 
 And Life's strange essence round the pencil played. 
 
 I knew thee not, sweet Lady, thou wert one, 
 Mine eye was fated ne'er to look upon. 
 In the cold tomb, thy form reposes now, 
 Corruption canker's o'er thy beauteous brow; 
 This sembling canvas, all the heart can save, 
 From the sad — dark — oblivion of the Grave. 
 
 Made up of sorrow, care, remorse, and strife. 
 Will man e'er truly learn the worth of Life? 
 How false its joys ! Its tenure too, how brief ! 
 Far less enduring than yon canvas leaf ! 
 It is a fearful precipice's brink — 
 What lies beyond it. Reason reels to think ! 
 163 
 
LINES 
 
 T IKE the joyous dawn of a springtime day, 
 ^-^ When the rose blooms bright in the cheek of 
 
 May; 
 When the dew hangs fresh upon flow'r and tree, 
 And the wild birds waken with songs of glee. 
 
 Such is she now, and her beauty so bright, 
 Is lit from within by the spirit's light ; 
 And the flash of wit, and the glow of feeling, 
 And Love and Mirth thro' her eyes are stealing. 
 
 Like the sparkling gush of a mountain stream, 
 When it shineth clear in the morning's beam, 
 Winding its way amid blossoming flowers. 
 And laughing in scorn of the sun-set hours. 
 
 But the spring-time day — it departeth soon. 
 And the rose-leaves fade in the breath of June, 
 And the dewy drop, and the wild bird's song. 
 From the tree, and the bow'r, depart ere long. 
 
 And the stream of the mountain, gushing free. 
 Too soon is it lost in the wide, salt sea ; 
 And all bright things — ^whatever they be — 
 Are passing away — to Eternity. 
 164 
 
'TWERE BETTER FAR TO BID 
 FAREWELL 
 
 IF in that world which lies above 
 This noisome, dark, and sorrowing sphere, 
 The yearning heart may find the Love 
 For which it pines in vain for here; 
 How welcome were the hour which brings 
 
 The clay-encumber'd soul release; 
 And bids it soar on joyous wings 
 To that eternal realm of peace. 
 
 Like those dark springs, which Trav'lers tell 
 
 Are found in Afric's desert lands; 
 Whose gushing waters only swell 
 
 To sink among the burning sands ; 
 This heart, alas! hath sought too long. 
 
 The bliss which springs from souls allied; 
 And pour'd mid an unfeeling throng, 
 
 The wellings of AfEection's tide. 
 165 
 
And though, amid the glittering crowd, 
 
 None e'er hath seem'd so fair as thou; 
 Nor ever have those fountains flow'd 
 
 So warmly, as for thee thej^ flow: 
 Yet since not even sorrow's spell 
 
 Can melt that bosom's icy seal, 
 'Twere better far to bid Farewell, 
 
 Than feign the Love thou can'st not feel. 
 
 166 
 
THE WIZARD'S CURSE 
 
 AYE — bright was the star that shone on thy 
 birth, 
 Thou proud one in spirit, poor worm of the Earth ! 
 But its brightness was of the meteor's glare, 
 And wildness, and sorrow, and wrath were there. 
 
 Thou laugh'st at my power, thou mockest my art, 
 But my words shall be graven in fire on thy heart; 
 I know that thou scornest this life of mine. 
 With a curse on thee, Proud one, I'll read thee 
 thine. 
 
 A heart deep impassion'd, with warmth flowing o'er. 
 Mistrust like the frost-blight shall chill to the core; 
 Scorn and neglect thy bosom shall wring, 
 And the pride that consumes thee, shall quicken the 
 sting. 
 
 The pure, the beautiful — unto thy heart, 
 They shall be dear to thee, proud as thou art; 
 But cold, and unloving, they pass thee by. 
 They shrink from the glance of thy haughty eye. 
 167 
 
Thou shalt seek fame, and fame shalt thou find, 
 Thou shalt have sway o'er the human mind, 
 But the heart — oh — the heart — and its love divine, 
 Haughty in spirit, shall never be thine! 
 
 Midnight vigils for moments of guilt — 
 The vial of w^rath on thy head is spilt — 
 Thou shalt be shun'd by thy fellow men, 
 Haughty in spirit, remember me then! 
 
 Remember me then in the hour of grief, 
 When despair consumeth thy heart's sere leaf; 
 Proud one, and haughty, my blessing hath sped, 
 Broken in spirit — thy doom it is read. 
 
 The haughty one turn'd in scorn to depart, 
 But the blight of that curse was on his heart ; 
 Fame aye he gain'd, but he felt it not, 
 His was a proud, but, a wretched lot. 
 
 Coldness and scorn and affection slighted 
 The sun daring gaze of the eagle blighted 
 The Love that ripen'd in guilt and in hate, 
 Grief, and despair, were that proud Spirit's fate. 
 
 168 
 
FAREWELL 
 
 ■p/iREWELL! farewell! Thy smile hath been 
 -*- the sweetest, 
 
 That ever in this dark world shone on me; 
 And of my toiling hours have been the fleetest, 
 
 The happy moments I have pass'd with thee. 
 
 Honour and duty — fame — ambition — call. 
 And a voice whispers warningly, "av/ay!" 
 
 Though leaving Thee, I bid adieu to all 
 My soul holds dearest, yet, I must not stay. 
 
 For a strange power within that deep blue eye. 
 And that dear voice's most melodious tone; 
 
 Have thrill'd my heart-strings with their witchery, 
 And stirr'd a feeling that I must not own. 
 
 I go to claim my portion in Life's waste. 
 
 Where sorrow comes an heirloom to each soul ; 
 
 Where they of finest feelings soonest taste 
 The bitterness of pain's o'erflowing bowl. 
 
 Farewell! I dare not trust my lips with words, 
 Lest what it should not it perchance might tell; 
 
 And I will strive to still the trembling chords 
 Of my impassion'd heart — Farewell ! Farewell ! 
 169 
 
LOVE 
 
 'TpO Love — I'll tell thee what it is to love! 
 J- To fawn and flatter, cringe and bow the 
 knee; 
 To be the slave of woman's changing whim; 
 To go and come, to be at beck and call. 
 To tremble at her slightest nod, and deem 
 Heav'n hath no music like her warbling voice ; 
 Bless'd if she raps thy knuckles with her fan, 
 Too happy if she smiles; but if she frowns. 
 As oft in coquetry she will, to be 
 The veriest slave earth in its circle holds, 
 And yet — ah, yet — ^who would not be in love? 
 
 LOVE 
 
 T OVE, that takes its colour from the rose, 
 -■— ' Too often like the rose, leaves but a thorn, 
 The only token of its promis'd blooms. 
 
 170 
 
LINES TO 
 
 T ASK thee not to think of me, 
 '*' When gayer thoughts intrude; 
 I would alone reraember'd be, 
 When in a pensive mood. 
 
 Amid the Ball, the Dance, the Song, 
 
 Where all is mirth and glee ; 
 When Pleasure's tide flows full and strong, 
 
 I would forgotten be. 
 
 But when the stilly night comes on, 
 
 And thought is pure and free; 
 When all day's garish joys are done, 
 
 I'd have thee think of me. 
 
 And when in solitude, and prayer, 
 
 Upon the bended knee. 
 Thou seek'st divine communion there 
 
 Oh ! then remember me ! 
 
 171 
 
TO MRS. JOHN P. KENNEDY 
 
 {on seeing her kill a snake) 
 
 TTAD EVE with equal firmness met 
 ■*• -*■ Th' insidious snake of yore, 
 We had not now in vain regret, 
 Mourn'd Eden's blissful shore. 
 
 Could man that blessed seat regain, 
 Its loss he ne'er would grieve, 
 
 The wily serpent's suit were vain, 
 Wert thou the garden's Eve. 
 
 With all her charms, but far more wise, 
 To thee, this power is given ; 
 
 She — chang'd to Earth a Paradise, 
 Thou — makest Earth a Heaven. 
 
 172 
 
MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME 
 
 HOW art thou chang'd my Childhood's Home, 
 Since last I sought thy joyous hearth! 
 And I in sorrow, now must roam 
 An outcast from my native earth. 
 
 Mine ear no words of welcome greet, 
 
 No tear of fond affection falls; 
 And eyes with cold suspicion meet 
 
 The orphan in his fathers' halls. 
 
 For gone, or dead, are all whose smile 
 
 Could cheer me on my lonely way; 
 And stranger footsteps now defile 
 
 The temples of the by-gone day. 
 
 Upon my Mother's sacred tomb, 
 
 I've shed my last and only tear; 
 Now will I bear my bosom's gloom 
 
 Unto some wild and distant sphere. 
 
 Where none are left to love or bless, 
 
 Oh ; wherefore, should we longer dwell ? 
 
 Thy paths no more mv feet shall press, 
 
 My childhood's home — Farewell — Farewell ! 
 
 "Font Hill", Elkridge, Maryland 
 
 173 
 
CHANGE 
 
 "Look abroad thro' nature's range, 
 Nature's mighty law is— ^change." 
 
 -Burns. 
 
 T /"A-IN is the hope to see on high, 
 
 ' Forever smile one changeless sky; 
 And vain the hope on Earth to find, 
 A constant heart, a steadfast mind. 
 The w^inds that with their vi^elcome gale, 
 Now fill the light barque's snowy sail, 
 And the gay streamer's seaward blow, 
 Blew not the same an hour ago. 
 Where eye may glance, or Fancy range, 
 The universal law is — Change. 
 
 Hast thou ne'er seen a woodland flower. 
 That seems to shun the gazer's sight; 
 And hides in some sequester'd bower, 
 Its blushing beauties from the light? 
 Before the noon-day sun arise, 
 'Twill ope its bosom to the skies; 
 174 
 
And ere the evening dews be shed, 
 Its leaves shall mourn their odors fled ; 
 And the reft bow^er bewail, in vain. 
 The bud no dews revive again. 
 
 When late beguiling June pass'd by, 
 The landscape blossom'd to the sky; 
 The meadows now, all sere are seen, 
 The groves have lost their foliage green. 
 Along the hills the frost foreshows 
 The coming on of Winter's snows; 
 And lowering clouds that shade the sky, 
 Forbode a tempest gathering nigh, 
 Which soon shall break the pure serene 
 That softly veil'd this morning's scene. 
 
 And sadder yet! Hast thou ne'er known 
 A heart congenial to thine own, 
 Blest with each feeling, tender, kind, 
 And all the soul most longs to find; 
 Ingenuous faith, and manly truth, 
 All the brave appanage of youth. 
 Yet, after years in absence pass'd. 
 The wish'd for moment come at last. 
 Ye haste, in hopes a friend to greet. 
 And meet, alas ! as strangers meet — 
 Coldly ye drop the hand estrang'd. 
 And sad Truth murmurs — "chang'd, how chang'd !' 
 While memories of past endearments, 
 175 
 
Like restless spirits, burst their cerements, 
 And pass before the bewilder'd brain, 
 A phantom-like, but, joyous train. 
 Whose presence tends but to contrast 
 That moment's darkness with the past; 
 Within the crumbling heart revealing 
 Cankering thought, and wasted feeling, 
 Like light that on a ruin falls, 
 Showing the night-damp on the walls; 
 The broken arch, and mouldering stone, 
 And all the happy inmates- — gone. 
 
 176 
 
A 
 
 NAPOLEON 
 DARING soul — created to achieve, 
 
 The wildest deeds Ambition might conceive ! 
 Borne swiftly on — ere thought could plume its wing, 
 A Soldier, General, Consul, and a King! 
 Subjecting cities — overwhelming towns — 
 Now conquering realms, and now bestowing crowns ! 
 Before his steps, the earth a garden smil'd — 
 Behind him— Lo! The Eden is a Wild! 
 Carnage and desolation mark his way, 
 And vanquish'd Nations own his growing sway. 
 His soul of iron laughs all toil to scorn, 
 No perils fright him, and no omens warn ; 
 Uncheck'd by tempests, madly on he goes, 
 'Gainst Scythian swords, and Scythia's fiercer snows. 
 But frenzied zeal the Cossack hoarde inspires, 
 The eagle's pinions shrink in Moscow's fires; 
 Wild superstition gives to vengeance sway, 
 Hate joins the rout. Religion swells the fray, 
 Red flows the tide by Beresina's ford, 
 While Winter's breath smites deadlier than the 
 
 sword. 
 
 3 77 
 
Guarded and watch'd, on Elba's Island shore, 
 The captive dreams his toils and triumphs o'er. 
 
 But, see again ! with scarce an aiding lance, 
 
 Once more a Monarch seeks his Kingdom, France! 
 
 The standard waves — War kindles its alarms — 
 
 And Paris cljisps her hero in her arms ! 
 
 But, ah! too soon the short-liv'd triumph dies I 
 
 His skill avails not, for his fortune flies! 
 
 Discord, unsated, peals the trumpet note. 
 
 O'er marshal'd ranks the gothic eagles float; 
 
 Rage white the falchion of the astonish'd foe. 
 
 Forth Europe's hosts like gather'd waters flow; 
 
 The clarion sounds — and War's loud thunders 
 
 roar — 
 O'er crimson'd fields the tides of Battle pour — 
 Vain Genius struggles — field on field they gain — 
 And France pours forth her noblest blood in vain — 
 O'erthrown is he who half the world o'erthrew, 
 The Conqueror flies — Immortal Waterloo! 
 But naught can tame that all enduring will; 
 And e'en tho' vanquish'd, he is dreaded still: 
 No earth built wall may be his spirit's bar, 
 Rocks, winds, and waves, his mighty jailors are! 
 His was the comet's course, the comet's birth. 
 The pride, the curse, the wonder of the Earth! 
 And as a moral, let his death proclaim 
 The worthlessness of all bestow'd by Fame. 
 
 178 
 
TO 
 
 ^ I ^HEY are jesting, and jeering at me, love, 
 
 •*- They say with a cynical sneer. 
 
 That I am all feeling with thee, love, 
 
 All coldness when others are near. 
 
 They speak of my constant devotion, 
 
 They smile when my fond look they see; 
 
 They know not the purer emotion. 
 That wakes in my bosom for thee. 
 
 They bid me go seek for another's. 
 That thy heart it can never be mine; 
 
 They believe not my love is a brother's, 
 That a sister's affection is thine. 
 
 But I heed not the jests they let fall, love, 
 I but feel that my heart is unknown ; 
 
 And I smile at the sneers of them all, love, 
 With thy gentle hand in mine own. 
 
 179 
 
THE CASCADE 
 
 (A Ramble) 
 
 COME, Fanny, lay your needle by, 
 The Earth and Heaven are bright to see; 
 I dare be sworn the summer sky, 
 
 Ne'er smiled with more serenity! 
 The blustering winds, and chilly rains, 
 That lately swept Arundel plains, 
 Have only serv'd the fields to dress 
 In garb of vernal loveliness: 
 With new engender'd strength supplied 
 The sparkling cascade's laughing tide; 
 And it will flow with prouder swell, 
 Hoarse dashing down the rocky dell. 
 
 Nay, mind not there the dampen'd ground, 
 
 The day is summer-like and sweet; 
 I promise that it will be found 
 Sufficient dry to dainty feet; 
 For well soled boot, your bard opines, 
 Made by the cunning hand of Hines, 
 If he his patrons does not wrong, 
 Will keep thee dry shod all day long. 
 180 
 
Haste! let us bring yon hill slope green 
 The lattice and our path between, 
 For fear thy mother's watchful eye 
 May chance our truant steps espy; 
 And with a hem authoritative, 
 Recall thee back to hem thy kerchief ; 
 So — now we're safely hid from view. 
 Which path would Fanny's feet pursue? 
 Or shall we take the one which lies 
 
 The streamlet's winding brink beside, 
 Watching the crystal bubbles rise, 
 Like fairy domes along the tide; 
 
 Or lov'st thou best the paths which lay, 
 Around the steeper upland way? 
 Nay, mine to follow — thine — to guide — 
 Either were lovely by thy side, 
 And sweet the way yon forest through, 
 Led by the streamlet's silver clue. 
 
 Invited by the further shore — 
 Thy hand — and I'll assist thee o'er! 
 Thy girlish form, so light, and agile, 
 I fain for rhyme's sake would say fragile,— = 
 But that arch lips forbidding smile 
 Hath warn'd me guard my speech the while,— 
 In homely school-phrase, "in a wink," 
 Hath sprung across the streamlet's brink. 
 
 Oh ! Fanny see — yon bending spray, 
 
 So thickly pearl'd with dew-drops clinging, 
 181 
 
The grove is vocal with its lay, 
 
 Dost thou not mark the mock-bird singing? 
 There — as the light wind lifts aside 
 The leaves that serve his form to hide, 
 Canst thou not see him — look! look! now — 
 Ah ! he has left the trembling bough 
 And scatter'd, in his hasty flight, 
 That shower of dew-drops, fresh and bright; 
 And perch'd on yonder oak, again 
 Pours gaily forth his dulcet strain. 
 Does not thy heart's quick pulses beat 
 Concordant with its wood-notes sweet? 
 May ever thus the pure — the fair — 
 Awake a kindred feeling there! 
 And oft when aught or grand, or bright, 
 In earth, or heaven, meets thy sight. 
 Have I seen flash thro' every feature 
 Revealings of thy inner nature ; 
 And dear I love to watch their glow, 
 
 Stealing through that cheek of roses j 
 Like the light which sunbeams throw 
 
 O'er the west when evening closes; 
 ^Neath a virgin blush concealing 
 Warmth of heart, and depth of feeling, 
 And all the soul impassion'd glow, 
 That colder bosoms may not know. 
 
 But list! how musical, and sweet, 
 The winding brooklet murmurs clear, 
 
 1S2 
 
Slowly gliding by thy feet, 
 
 As if in homage stealing near 
 To offer up an offering meet 
 
 Unto thy gentle ear! 
 And tinkling o'er each polish'd stone, 
 More swiftly now it hurries on. 
 And dost thou mark yon lonely leaf, 
 
 Floating upon the joyous tide? 
 Ah! who can tell the time how brief, 
 
 'Tis doom'd that sparkling v/ave to ride! 
 That careless leaf — it well might be 
 
 An emblem of this life of mine! 
 And Fanny, look! another, see! 
 
 As emblematical of thine! 
 Mark how merrily down they glide. 
 
 Like two young envoys sent by Spring, 
 Now parting, and now side by side, 
 
 To prepare her welcoming. 
 How gaily thine floats on — but look! 
 Mine sinks beneath the eddying brook — 
 Yet dear the omen, if for thee. 
 Life may a voyage of joyance be. 
 
 Now steeply winds the rugged road 
 
 Down the deep glen ; as wild, and lonely. 
 
 As ever minstrel footstep trode. 
 
 And meet for minstrel footstep only. 
 
 Nay why that pause ; unto thine ear. 
 
 My words convey a m^a ling clear! 
 183 
 
For breathes there one, with heart so cold, 
 Who Nature's beauties can behold, 
 And feel not thro' his bosom glow 
 The holy rapture poets know; 
 Nor seek his thrilling voice to raise, 
 In praise-like song, or song-like praise? 
 With hearts, wherein such feelings stir, 
 Akin are Bard and Worshiper! 
 
 Oh! There's a poetry of the heart. 
 
 Truer than that by minstrel sung; 
 Sweeter than ever minstrel's art 
 From harp or cymbal wrung! 
 It lives unseen, and unreveal'd. 
 
 As burns a pure and sacred light 
 Within some holy shrine, conceal'd 
 
 From man's polluting sight ! 
 It is a sympathy which springs 
 
 Unbidden in the breast; 
 A trembling of the heart's mute strings 
 
 From impulses suppress'd! 
 Wherever ought of grand, or bright, 
 
 Or wonderful, or fair, 
 In glorious Nature meets our sight, 
 
 That feeling thrills us there! 
 'Tis the awak'ning of the heart, 
 
 The morning song of soul ; 
 
 'Tis nature, unpossess'd by art, 
 
 It scorns all art's control! 
 
 184 
 
This only Poesy is — and they, 
 Whose souls have never felt its sway, 
 Are colder than the unsun'd snow- 
 On Chimborazo's frozen brow; 
 Their stern and rocky hearts possess 
 No feeling for a scene like this. 
 But narrowing leads the path around 
 
 The precipice's edge; 
 I ween there's scanty footing found 
 
 Upon its mould'ring ledge ! 
 And tho' thy fearless foot might cope 
 With mountain loving antelope, 
 I fear me, Fanny, much, that thou 
 Wilt never reach its vine-clad brow; 
 'Twere safest keep the lower side, 
 WTiere seemeth broader space supplied. 
 
 In sooth it is a lovely scene 
 
 As ever met delighted eye! 
 Above, the living evergreen — 
 
 Beneath — the streamlet gliding by. 
 And leafy trees, and rocks around. 
 
 And verdant fields far off appearing. 
 And many a hill with flowerets crown'd, 
 
 And many a lovely bird in hearing. 
 And legends could I ween be told, 
 
 Might we but wake the dead to tell, 
 Of Indian warriors, stern, and bold, 
 
 Whose dust is in yon lovely dell! 
 185 
 
But the Legend must remain unspoken, 
 And the dreamless rest of the dead unbroken. 
 
 'Tis said that Time, where'er he ranges. 
 Leaves his footsteps mark'd by changes: 
 Dost thou on yon grey rock discern, 
 Its granite frontlet crown'd with fern? 
 Upon its rugged breast of flint, 
 His stamp the Tyrant could not print; 
 But o'er its brow in homage cast 
 That vernal wreathlet as he pass'd. 
 And crown'd the hoary pinnacle, 
 The monarch of this lonely dell. 
 
 But I have prattled all the way, 
 
 And thou art tired with listening; 
 And if the Cascade's seen to-day. 
 
 We'll soon behold it glistening! 
 Aye, look! down dashing, loud and bright, 
 E'en now it flashes on the sight. 
 In scattered foam, and broken rays, 
 Far glancing back the noon-tide blaze; 
 So — pause we here these rocks between, 
 And silent view the wild'ring scene. 
 
 May 6th, 1840. 
 
 186 
 
SONG 
 
 THE green turf above thee 
 Thy form but endears — 
 Oh! thou, who did'st love me 
 
 Thro' absence of years! 
 The Pledge never broken, 
 
 Still, still, I retain; 
 The vows of Love spoken, 
 I speak them again. 
 
 I ask'd for thy dwelling, 
 
 They show'd me thy tomb; 
 And strangers, in telling. 
 
 Wept over thy doom ! 
 They talk'd of thy kindness. 
 
 Thy Beauty, and Youth; 
 Nor saw, in their blindness, 
 
 My Sorrow and Truth. 
 
 Still, still, and forever 
 
 Thine own I will be; 
 Vaixi every endeavor 
 
 To win me from Thee! 
 The green turf above Thee, 
 
 Thy form but endears; 
 Oh ! thou who did'st love me, 
 
 Thro' absence and years. 
 187 
 
TO 
 
 T 'M very sad at heart, Love, 
 -*- And, bodingly, to-night 
 Strange feelings in my bosom start, 
 
 And banish its delight. Love, 
 
 I'm very sad to-night. 
 
 Would thou wert by ray side. Love, 
 Thy gentle hand in mine, 
 
 That I might sigh, as I have sigh'd, 
 How I am wholly thine, Love, 
 And feel that thou art mine. 
 
 I long again to hear, Love, 
 The low, and tender tone, 
 
 That fell so sweetly on mine ear, 
 And spoke thee all mine own, Love, 
 In low, and tender tone. 
 
 Come! come, unto my arms, Love, 
 
 Thy bosom press to mine; 
 While clasping those confiding charms. 
 
 My heart melts into thine, Love, 
 
 And thine melts into mine. 
 
 March ist, 1846. 
 
 188 
 
EPIGRAM ON MRS. V. 
 
 Uenfant gate de la Musique. 
 
 WITH sorrow I think on our friend Mrs. V., 
 For though petted by you, she is pitied by 
 me; 
 Her fairy-like feet, and her delicate fingers, 
 Her smile, like the light which at eventide lingers; 
 Her musical voice — oh ! we feel as she sings 
 There can nought be so sweet — save the praise that 
 
 it brings! 
 But fail in that praise, of the dear incense thwart 
 
 her, 
 And that musical tongue, is the tongue of a Tartar ! 
 She "throws off her friends like a huntsman his 
 
 pack," 
 But, ah ! unlike him, cannot "whistle them back ;" 
 And we sigh, as we think how all hearts would 
 
 rejoice, 
 If her temper were only as sweet as her voice. 
 1846. 
 
 189 
 
TIME 
 
 TIME! I ask of Thee, oh! Time! 
 Give me back my Boyhood's prime! 
 Poor the gifts thy hand hath lavish'd, 
 To the treasures thou hast ravish'd: 
 Years and manhood thou hast brought, 
 Care, Experience, and Thought; 
 And for these hast ta'en away, 
 The joyous laugh of Childhood's day! 
 Time, I ask of Thee, oh. Time! 
 Give me back my Boyhood's prime ! 
 
 Wisdom fraught thy lessons are; 
 Vain is Wisdom! Better, far. 
 The blest Ignorance of Boys, 
 Than the Love the man enjoys. 
 The Teacher toileth, not the Taught, 
 Hope is sweeter far than Thought; 
 He must suffer who would know, 
 Knowledge is the fruit of Woe. 
 Woman's Love I may not trmt, 
 190 
 
And my heart is dry as <iust ; 
 Memory comes but to contrast 
 Present pain with pleasure past; 
 Time, I ask of Thee, oh! Time! 
 Give me back my Boyhood's prime. 
 
 In that sweet confiding hour. 
 Trust is born, and Faith has power, 
 Veiling its horizon's scope 
 In the sunny heaven of Hope; 
 Living all its life so brief, 
 In the gladness of Belief ; 
 Knowing not a moment's leisure, 
 Every motion yielding pleasure. 
 Thoughtless childhood dances by — 
 Age must have its reason why: 
 Childhood telleth of its gains, 
 Of its losses Age complains! 
 Time, I ask of Thee, oh. Time! 
 Give me back my Boyhood's prime! 
 
 191 
 
THE RUBY 
 
 "D ACCIIUS, Lord of wit and wine, 
 •'■^ Did on a day with Venus dine ! 
 Ambrosial dainties deck'd the board, 
 Fast flow'd the juice the God ador'd; 
 The sparkling glory of the bowl, 
 With fire etherial fill'd his soul: 
 Smiles o'er Beauty's sweet lips pass'd, 
 Like evening beams on roses cast; 
 In her fair cheek the blushes glow. 
 Like rainbows shadow'd upon snow; 
 And like a summer wavelet's swell 
 Her lilied bosom rose and fell. 
 The God arose, a sparkling draught, 
 Within the golden goblet laugh'd. 
 And ere his purpose could be guess'd, 
 Pour'd the bright liquid o'er her breast. 
 *'To thee," he cried, "to thee be given. 
 Thou loveliest of the Queens of Heaven, 
 This jewel, wrought by art divine, 
 From the rich sunlight of the vine!" 
 The falling tide was chang'd to stone, 
 And like a burning crystal shone; 
 Still glows it with etherial flame. 
 And mortals it the ruby name, 
 a92 
 
LINES 
 
 Written on the 3d night of the new moon, and 
 inscribed to that fair lady, Emeline. 
 
 TIKE to a Lady robeless in her chamber, 
 ^-^ Whose unveil'd loveliness no eye beholdeth, 
 Her fair wan cheek unting'd with thought of shame. 
 The crescent moon sits in the western sky! 
 
 Like to yon wan moon in her peerless beauty. 
 Her pale, sweet face to the pure heavens upturning. 
 Her angel presence hallov/ing the air — 
 My Lady-Love sits also in the west. 
 
 Like one who loves, the lady-moon appeareth. 
 The angel -lady, seems like one a-dreaming; 
 Oh ! Heaven ! oh, Earth ! can ye be far apart, 
 When ye reveal such kindred loveliness! 
 
 193 
 
WOMAN 
 
 WHO doth not own the deep, the strange con- 
 trol, 
 The fearful power of Woman o'er the soul ! 
 Who hath not felt his fate, for good, or ill, 
 Rest on the dictate of her simple will; 
 While Duty's promptings, and Ambition's schemes, 
 Are quell'd or strengthen'd as her beauty beams! 
 Let Reason whisper sagely as it may. 
 We list no reason when the passions sway; 
 For Weal or Woe mysterious is thy art. 
 Oh! strange Enchantress of Man's erring heart! 
 
 194 
 
A PORTRAIT 
 
 HERS is a presence lovely to behold, 
 Nature has cast her in its rarest mould; 
 No words can picture, and no pencil trace, 
 The dreamy sweetness of her thoughtful face; 
 Whose shadowy languor takes a brighter hue. 
 As the check'd feelings struggle into view; 
 While, beautiful, above her large grey eyes, 
 And high, arch'd brow, the parted ringlet lies! 
 
 And unto her belongs that wondrous charm, 
 Which, calm itself, all passion can disarm; 
 That absence of all dissonance, which throws 
 Around each act the magic of repose. 
 Yet, leaves us not without the thought, that there, 
 Deep feelings slumber in their quiet lair. 
 
 Thus, when no zephyr stirs the mirror'd waves, 
 Calm sleep the waters in their coral caves; 
 O'er their smooth breast the nautilus may ride, 
 The minstrel's barque, the Lover's pinnace glide; 
 But wake the tempest, and bring on the gale — 
 From the bent mast is torn the tatter'd sail, 
 The billows rush impetuous on their course, 
 And stranded navies testify their force. 
 195 
 
LINES TO 
 
 A THOUSAND things we think ourselves, 
 J. \^ T^e would not breathe to any; 
 A thousand things we tell to one, 
 We would not tell to many! 
 
 The world hath much of guile and art, 
 
 Mistrusting, misconceiving, 
 And of its blessings rare, by far, 
 
 The sweetest is — believing! 
 
 But few the hearts where we can lean 
 
 In frank, and full confiding, 
 And feel that every weakness there, 
 
 Can find a place of hiding! 
 
 Such hearts once found, or fancied so — 
 
 How jealously we view them! 
 The slightest, idlest things become 
 
 A trust imparted to them! 
 196 
 
We would not other eyes should read 
 The simplest books we lend them; 
 
 We would not other hands should touch 
 The simplest flowers we send them ! 
 
 When words that we have whisper'd them, 
 
 However lightly spoken, 
 Are told to other ears, we feel 
 
 A confidence is broken. 
 
 191 
 
TO 
 
 ' I ''HE dream is past — and I who wore 
 
 -'- Thy silken chains, wear them no more— 
 From heart, and brow, is gone each sign 
 That spake how wholly I was thine — 
 Like scales remov'd from blinded eyes, 
 Each spell that dim'd my vision flies; 
 And I, who saw but Heaven in thee, 
 Can see thee now, as others see. 
 
 And yet, it was no fault of mine, 
 That I was once so wholly thine; 
 I did not plan the winning ways, 
 The smile that woos, and then betrays; 
 Nor think I, that thou wert aware. 
 How often thou did'st spread the snare; 
 Much have the heartless to deplore. 
 The willful much, the thoughtless more! 
 
 And yet, I deem thee lovely still, 
 And gentle, both in way and will; 
 198 
 
I blame thee not that thou wert kind, 
 And blame not me that I was blind; 
 Let each forgive the other's sins, 
 With us, acquaintance rebegins — 
 Each link that bound me to the past 
 Is shiver'd — ^Take thou back the last. 
 
 199 
 
TO MISS ELLEN KEY 
 On her copying for me "The Star- Spangled Banner." 
 
 I THANK thee not! for words are weak, 
 Thou knowest, "unless the heart could speak. 
 I thank thee not ! but, oh ! I prize 
 Thy gift beyond the world's surmise. 
 Too poor is language to reveal 
 The richness of the joy I feel. 
 The "Spangled Banner" long must shine, 
 Its glory spread by hands like thine: 
 Long shall its stars unfold their rays, 
 With bard like Key to hymn their praise. 
 And long as waves yon Banner fast. 
 The Bard and Patriot's fame shall last. 
 
 Before my heart could understand 
 The love it owed my Native Land, 
 Before my lips could scarcely spell — 
 Thy Father's song, I loved it well ! 
 200 
 
My youthful breast It would inspire 
 And rouse my infant soul to fire ! 
 And I have gathered up the strips 
 Of linen, and the silken slips 
 Deemed by the sempstress worthless rag, 
 And of them wov'n a mimic flag; 
 Wishing that I lived in the days, 
 When heroes bled beneath its rays. 
 
 Hopes had I formed, but they to me 
 
 Have prov'd as vain as hopes can be, 
 
 Hopes had I form'd, one day to stand 
 
 A sailor of my dear lov'd land ; 
 
 Following o'er the heaving sea 
 
 Yon starry Banner of the Free, 
 
 Yet though those hopes have prov'd but slight. 
 
 Long will I love yon Banner bright, 
 
 Long, Lady, love thy Father's song. 
 
 As the sweet numbers pour along. 
 
 And copied, gifted girl, by thee — 
 
 How priceless must the relic be! 
 
 I will not say 'tis so to me. 
 
 But I will prize it, as I'd prize 
 
 A beam of love from Angels' eyes. 
 
 And now farewell! for I am going 
 Where Shenandoah's stream is flowing; 
 There I will gather flowerets fair, 
 And cast them on the waters there ; 
 
 201 
 
In hopes by thee they'll be descried 
 When floating down Potomac's tide. 
 Who knows but it may bear them on 
 To the blest shores of Washington? 
 
 Lady, farewell! a few weeks more — 
 And I'll have pass'd those regions o'er 
 Where Alleghany to the sky 
 His azure frontlet lifts on high. 
 There, pensive, when my work is done, 
 And slowly sinks the setting sun, 
 Retired in some sequester'd grot, 
 With thy lov'd bard, Sir Walter Scott, 
 I'll chase the tedious hours away 
 Reading the "Minstrel's latest lay" 
 And searching o'er his leaves to see 
 The beauties, most admir'd by thee. 
 
 A. S. R. 
 
 Font Hill", May, 1839, 
 
 Elkridge, Maryland. 
 
 202