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DRIFTINGS 
 
 THE STREAM OF LIFE 
 
 A COLLECTION OF FUGITIVE POEVIS. 
 
 J 
 
 ELIZABETH BOGART. 
 
 0/ 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON. 
 
 BOSTON: E. P. BUTTON AND COMPANY. 
 1866. 
 
 No. I, 
 
\ 
 
 ■^A 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by 
 
 Elizabeth Bogart, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southexn District of 
 
 New York. 
 
 RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 
 
 STEREOTTPED AND PRINTED BY 
 
 H. 0. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Long time I doubted if the world would hear, 
 Or, hearing, prize these fancies of my youth, — 
 These verses woven only of the truth, — 
 
 These records of a past my heart held dear. 
 
 And doubting thus, I sought no more a name 
 Which once I coveted. So years went by. 
 And others wrote, and men gave praise, while I 
 
 Was silent still, nor dreamed again of fame. 
 
 Nor do I seek it now. I only ask 
 
 That those who read may love my simple 
 
 words, — 
 That they may sometimes wake long silent 
 chords, 
 And touch some hearts : be this my better task. 
 
iv PREFACE. 
 
 To you, my friends, whose sympathy, no less 
 Than loving praise, bade all my doubts de- 
 part, — 
 To you my book belongs ; my grateful heart 
 
 Links your dear names with effort and success. 
 
TO THE READER. 
 
 In collecting these Poems for publication in 
 a volume, I have been influenced more by the 
 wishes of my family and friends than by any 
 undue value placed upon them by myself I 
 have called them " Driftings from the Stream 
 of Life " ; for they have drifted on through a 
 number of years, gathering here and there a 
 straw in their onward passage with the waves 
 of Time. In reviewing them, I often find repe- 
 titions of ideas, and contradictions of sentiment, 
 in the different pieces, — each written from the 
 impulse or feeling of the moment, which is ever 
 changeful as the human mind. There are some 
 of them which have never been in print, al- 
 though the larger proportion have appeared 
 formerly, under the. nom de plume of " Estelle," 
 in the " New York Mirror " and other period- 
 
vi TO THE READER. 
 
 icals of by-gone years. I had the'n no idea of 
 ever casting them on the tender mercies of the 
 Critic, in the more pretending form of a Book. 
 But though now brought to make the venture, I 
 can truly say that I do not anticipate any great 
 success for my work, since many of those who 
 would have taken an interest in it have gone 
 before me to the spirit-land. 
 
 E. B. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 — ♦— 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Curate's Love 1 
 
 Forgetfulness 15 
 
 He came too late 19 
 
 Resemblance 21 
 
 The Midnight Ball 22 
 
 Not yet 24 
 
 They tell me 25 
 
 The Italian Wife 26 
 
 To Dr. J. W. Francis 31 
 
 The Price of Success 33 
 
 That little Word, Farewell 35 
 
 To my Cousin 37 
 
 The Broken Promise 40 
 
 The Gifted 43 
 
 The Chosen Tree 47 
 
 Sonnets by E. S. S 49 
 
 Answer to E. S. S 50 
 
 Estrangement 52 
 
 The Student 56 
 
 I deemed thou wert forgotten 61 
 
 The World has won thee 64 
 
 Evening 67 
 
 Life without Love 69 
 
 To a Friend 71 
 
 I look for thee 73 
 
 Reflections on New- Year's Evening 75 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAQB 
 
 Neglect 78 
 
 ToE. S. S 80 
 
 On reading a Poem supposed to have been written by a 
 
 former Friend 83 
 
 Sing me that Song again 87 
 
 She knew she was deserted 90 
 
 Away, then, to thy Pleasures 93 
 
 She meant not to deceive him 95 
 
 The Meeting 98 
 
 Midnight 100 
 
 The old, old Story 104 
 
 Life's fallen Star 109 
 
 To my Harp • Ill 
 
 They tell me he is changed 114 
 
 A Life Memory 117 
 
 Our Friendship is a vanished Dream 119 
 
 Thou sayest it 122 
 
 Stanzas written in an unknown Ladj^'s Album 125 
 
 Parting of the Spanish Lovers. 127 
 
 The Sisters and Step-Mother 132 
 
 To a Friend 134 
 
 The Visit 135 
 
 Reminiscences 136 
 
 Southampton 138 
 
 My Geranium 140 
 
 To Dr. F 142 
 
 The Clouds 143 
 
 To an Authoress who addressed a Love-Poem to a Star. . 146 
 
 To Mary. Written in her Album 147 
 
 Cleanthe 149 
 
 A Portrait 152 
 
 Autumn View from my Window 155 
 
 Niagara 157 
 
 My Dream 159 
 
 Moonlight 161 
 
 April Snow-Storm 165 
 
CONTENTS. ix 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To a Poetess, on hearing her say she did not love Moon- 
 light 167 
 
 To J. G. Whittier 169 
 
 Poetry 172 
 
 June 174 
 
 Sunset Reflections "> 177 
 
 Katydids 180 
 
 Moonlight again 184. 
 
 Little Barbara 180 
 
 Father Heinrich 187 
 
 Rain at Night 188 
 
 To the old Oak-Tree by the Gate 191 
 
 My Faded Rose 194 
 
 Easton 197 
 
 To E. S. S. on reading a Poem from her Pen, addressed 
 
 to a Mutual Friend 200 
 
 To a caged Sky-Lark 202 
 
 To the Willow opposite my Window 205 
 
 The Forks of the Delaware 208 
 
 I love to hear the Birds sing 214 
 
 Spring 216 
 
 I think of thee 220 
 
 Inquiry after Happiness 223 
 
 Sabbath in the Country 225 
 
 I 'm weary with thinking 227 
 
 The Sabbath Eve 230 
 
 Tribute to Learning and Eloquence 233 
 
 Recollections on hearing an old Tune sung in Church. . . 235 
 
 Jairus' Daughter 238 
 
 Christ refusing the Request of the Mother of Zebedee's 
 
 Children 241 
 
 The Grave 244 
 
 The Country Church 246 
 
 Summer in Easton 249 
 
 Tribute to tlie Memory of Rev. John Knox, D. D 254 
 
 On the Death of a beautiful young Lady 256 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Dear little George 258 
 
 Iren6 May 260 
 
 Julia P. De Witt 261 
 
 Eugenie 263 
 
 Little Harold 265 
 
 In Memory of little Theron 267 
 
 Theodore F. De Witt 269 
 
 Louise, our Angel-Child 271 
 
 The Lost Thought 274 
 
 Appendix. 
 
 Solitude 279 
 
POEMS. 
 
 THE CURATE'S LOVE. 
 
 HE church was his profession, — it had 
 been 
 From early youth his choice, — for piety 
 The very essence of his nature seemed ; 
 As if by miracle, he had escaped 
 The fearful curse and heritage of sin. 
 Born in an humble sphere, and far apart 
 From the gay world of fashion and of wealth, 
 He ne'er had learned the forms of polished life. 
 Nor aught but bookish lore ; nor knew he well 
 To shape his speech in smooth and courtly 
 
 phrase : 
 But the distinctions of society 
 Were sunk in his high calling ; and his life 
 Of purity and strict integrity, 
 Together with his cultivated mind, 
 Gave him the station he was formed to fill. 
 1 
 
2 THE CURATE'S LOVE. 
 
 Simplicity of manners and of speech, 
 
 And charity, and meek humility, 
 
 And love to all mankind, bore evidence 
 
 Of the true Christian ; and it mattered not 
 
 To him where Fate should cast his lot in life, 
 
 So he mjght be the humble instrument 
 
 Of spreading gospel light o'er darkened souls. 
 
 Thus, guided by the hand of Providence, 
 
 He journeyed toward the east, — as erst of old 
 
 The Wise Men followed Bethlehem's guiding star, 
 
 Until it stood, and pointed to their Lord. 
 
 His errand was the same, — to worship Him, 
 
 The Saviour of the world ! Parents and friends. 
 
 And native land, he cheerfully gave up, 
 
 To do his Master's will. His early home, 
 
 The fond affections of his youthful days. 
 
 Were to his holy office sacrificed 
 
 Without a murmuring thought ; and strangers 
 
 came, 
 A stranger-people on a foreign shore, 
 And offered him a welcome, where the smoke 
 Pose from a quiet hamlet, and the spire 
 Of one small solitary church appeared 
 From out its midst. Without a pastor then. 
 Its doors, they said, were closed ; and from its 
 
 bell 
 No matin chimes, nor vesper music, rung. 
 
TEE CURATE'S LOVE. 3 
 
 To call the wanderers to the heavenward way. 
 He listened till they won him to the charge ; 
 And they became his people, and his heart 
 Turned lovingly to them, and that lone chmxh. 
 
 But with the lapse of time, at length arose 
 A yearning for the past, — a longing wish, 
 Increasing day by day, — a memory 
 That grew into a shadow by his side, 
 And whispered, even in the sacred desk, 
 Of a sweet spot among the western hills. 
 Where dwelt the loved ones he had left behind. 
 In vain he strove to silence that still voice ; 
 It drowned all louder sounds of busy life. 
 Clear and distinct, above the thunder's peal, 
 Or the church-going bell, or joy's acclaim, 
 Or sorrow's wail, it spoke within his breast. 
 It haunted him in dreams, and bade him take 
 The wings of mom, and flee, and be at rest. 
 He gatliered up his books, and laid them by, 
 And spoke a hasty and a kind farewell. 
 With promise to his flock of quick return. 
 And then his breath came freer, and his veins 
 Swelled with the coursing blood, which from his 
 
 heart 
 Rushed with redoubled force, as fancy drew 
 A glowing picture of the future scene : 
 The good ship " homeward bound," with sails 
 
 unfurled, 
 
4 TEE CURATE'S LOVE. 
 
 Cutting its onward way through yielding seas ; 
 Himself upon the deck, with swelling hopes, 
 Stronger and bolder than the mounting waves. 
 
 The voyage was over, and he stood once more 
 
 Upon the soil the Pilgrim Fathers trod, 
 
 And hallowed by their faith ; and where to him 
 
 '^ The lines had fallen in pleasant places " once, 
 
 With spell of household words, and heartfelt love. 
 
 Back to his native place he bore again 
 
 The same unchanged demeanor, mild and meek ; 
 
 Untainted by the world, he had not caught 
 
 The tints of fashion, nor the lighter shades 
 
 Of folly's flying plumes, nor sought to " ape 
 
 The manners of the great," nor striven to make 
 
 A compromise with principle, to gain 
 
 The favor of the rich. True to himself 
 
 And to his God, his character remained 
 
 A record of his early piety. 
 
 But there was one — a lady — in whose name 
 His pride was stirred, — his cousin Imogen. 
 Brought up in high life's circles, she was versed 
 In all the mysteries, to him unknown, — 
 The idle requisites of form and rank. 
 And school-taught grace, and artificial aids. 
 So wrought into the charm that captivates. 
 And dazzles to deceive, — and well she knew 
 
THE CURATE'S LOVE. 5 
 
 The current coin of manners and of words, 
 Which pass unquestioned in the world's esteem. 
 They ne'er had met, — Ethwold and Imogen ; 
 Their fortunes cast in different spheres, had kept 
 Their paths of life apart. The Curate, bound 
 Upon his earnest, steadfast way to heaven ; 
 And she, to whom his thoughts in secret clung, 
 Trained but to ornament this lower world. 
 They ne'er had met, until at his return 
 He sought her out and claimed the privilege 
 Of calling her his cousin. He had dreamed 
 In fancy of that meeting ; for her fame 
 Had reached his ear in his remote abode. 
 He had been told that she possessed a mind 
 Gifled with various talents ; that her powers 
 Of conversation had been seldom equalled ; 
 And that she spoke, with accent pure and sweet 
 The living languages of many nations, — 
 Conveying with her words, ideas bright. 
 Original, and full of genius. 
 Her pencil, too, drew pictures, such as mer 
 Delighted oft to look upon, and trace 
 Resemblance to the fairest scenes in nature. 
 And her quick pen poured out the wealth of 
 
 thought 
 Upon the vacant page, till it was rich 
 And glowing with the beauty of her theme ; 
 Whil(^ from her heart the feelings that o'er- 
 
 flowed 
 
6 THE CURATE'S LOVE. 
 
 Seemed springing from a fountain in her soul, 
 Of more than human excellence and virtue. 
 
 Her beauty scarce was mentioned ; 't was a 
 
 thing 
 Which weighed so lightly in comparison 
 With her mind's treasures, that he had not heard 
 How fair her face, how faultless was her form : 
 And when he met an eye whose brilliancy 
 Lighted the emanations of the mind, 
 And saw the mantling color on her cheek 
 Rise at his cordial greetins:, and the smile 
 Of welcome on her lips, through which there 
 
 shone 
 The parted pearls, but half disclosed to view, 
 He started with surprise, and felt his heart 
 Yielding its homage, ere he well knew why. 
 
 She was his senior, — though no tell-tale lines 
 Had marked it on her face. With her, as yet, 
 The elegant accomplishments of art, 
 And grace, and fmcy, iVi*/^a-like, had kept 
 The glow of youth in fresh, perennial bloom ; 
 While weary hours of study and of thought, 
 In Ethwold's sterner course, had been to him 
 Like prints of time, and added years of age. 
 Brief was that first unguarded interview. 
 The cousins parted ; Ethwold to collect 
 
THE CURATE'S LOVE. 7 
 
 His scattered senses, and to ask himself 
 
 If Imogen, the gifted and the gay, 
 
 Whose tastes were all refined, and habits formed 
 
 In brilliant scenes and circles, and a life 
 
 Of which he knew not half the fatal charm, 
 
 Could bend her thoughts to a poor Curate's love, 
 
 And be a fitting wife to soothe his cares. 
 
 The question was unanswered. Love had cast 
 His veil o'er better reason, and, unused 
 To the unequal strife, his mind was bowed 
 Beneath the power which had enthralled his 
 
 heart. 
 Weeks passed away, and spellbound he remained 
 Day after day, still lingering at her side. 
 All other friends and objects which had claimed 
 His interest were neglected, till he di'ew 
 A half-reluctant promise from her lips 
 To join her fate with his, for good or ill, — 
 To be his minist'ring angel through the world, 
 His star of beauty in his foreign home. 
 His earthly friend, and counsellor at need, 
 And loved companion in his path to heaven. 
 And then with buoyant hopes of happiness, 
 Beyond the boundary of all former dreams, 
 He left her for a season, and returned 
 To his forsaken, half-forgotten charge. 
 
8 THE CURATE'S LOVE. 
 
 But Imogen was sad with heavy thoughts ; 
 Her lofty visions of some high estate 
 Reserved for her afar by Fortune's hand, 
 And all her airy fabrics raised, until 
 They had become a substance in her mind, 
 Walled by ambition with its tenfold strength 
 Of ghostly power, were dashed at once away. 
 Her cousin absent, and her vanity 
 No longer flattered by his deference. 
 And soft admiring gaze, and voice of love 
 Breathed ever in her ear, she felt too late 
 Her heart was never, could be never his. 
 Her sense of honor held her for a while 
 In stern subjection, and she durst not break 
 Her hasty promise, though it seemed a bond 
 Of iron fetters girded round her soul. 
 But well she knew the gentle Curate's heart, 
 And feared to break it. What then could she do ? 
 How yield the world, the homage of the crowd, 
 Received, till grown to a necessity 
 For daily nutriment of daily thought, — 
 How cast them all away to starve on love ! 
 Which did but cloy her with continual sweets. 
 It might not be ! He was not there to plead 
 With his beseeching eyes and earnest words ; 
 And she resolved, ere he should come again, 
 To write her sentiments with open truth. 
 In such choice language, all so well arranged, 
 
THE CURATE'S LOVE. 9 
 
 And with such warm expressions of regret, 
 Making her letter such a specimen 
 Of feeling and of elegance combined, 
 That he should quite forgive her broken faith. 
 And thus she wrote : — 
 
 " Dear Ethwold, blame me not ! 
 Blame not my wayward heart, nor deem it proud, 
 Nor vain, nor cruel, for its sad mistake ! 
 Oh, I have struggled with the consciousness 
 That I have wronged thee, — trifled with thy love, 
 And wronged thy generous nature, with a vow 
 False to myself, and therefore false to thee ! 
 I know thy worth ; full sensible am I 
 Of thy surpassing nobleness of mind, 
 Thy piety, and virtue, — and I feel 
 I am not worthy of thee. Blame me not ! 
 And oh, forgive me that I cannot love, 
 As thou deservest to be loved, — for ah, 
 A strange and froward thing is woman's heart ! 
 I meant not to deceive thee : I mistook 
 A cousin's calm affection for the power 
 Of that deep passion which thou didst require. 
 Forgive me, Ethwold : let me but retain 
 Thy friendship and esteem, and be thou blest 
 With one far better than thy Imogen." 
 
 Thus was her conscience stilled ; and she dis- 
 missed 
 
10 THE CURATE'S LOVE. 
 
 The memory of his hopeful confidence 
 
 And fond devotedness, and turned again 
 
 To lean upon the cold and heartless world. 
 
 He read her letter, and it needed not 
 
 Long time to answer it, nor many words 
 
 To speak his quick reply. His ready pen 
 
 Traced in a moment the one hasty line, — 
 
 " Imogen, I release thee ; thou art free ! " 
 
 He said no more. He felt that he had sinned, 
 
 Sinned greatly in his heart's idolatry. 
 
 Her image had been worshipped in his thoughts, 
 
 And stood before him in his wandering prayers, 
 
 An earthly object 'twixt his God and him. 
 
 But he was punished. Keenly did he feel 
 
 The chastening rod ; although he proudly scorned 
 
 To breathe reproach to her, or yet to say, 
 
 " I blame thee not ; thou art forgiven ! " 
 
 Some human feelings lingered in his breast. 
 
 Which seemed to choke the utterance of those 
 
 words. 
 He could not speak them, though he cherished 
 
 not 
 Resentment in his heart ; but he could feel 
 The burning flash of indignation rise 
 Above his inward discipline of mind : 
 And then he sought with sorrow to regain 
 The peaceful spirit of his Christian faith, 
 And consolations of the sacred page. 
 
THE CURATE'S LOVE. \\ 
 
 And was she happy ? Imogen the proud 
 
 And self-condemned ? Came there no hours to 
 
 her 
 Of penitence, on feeling's turning tide, 
 When ebbing joys were passing from her heart? 
 She told it not : but dull and tasteless grew 
 The world around her ; and she went abroad 
 To seek for new sensations in new scenes, — 
 To visit ancient cities, and to muse 
 O'er melancholy ruins old and gray, — 
 O'er fanes and chapels of the monkish days, 
 The broken arches, crumbling stone by stone, 
 And grand, dilapidated towers, to which 
 The climbing ivy clung, and greener grew 
 Above the moulderins^ monmnents of death. 
 But painted oriels, and vaulted halls. 
 And sculptured images, and pictured saints, 
 And many a superstition's carved device, 
 Were all forgotten in the wild romance 
 And mountain grandeur of the Switzer's land. 
 The snow and ice of ages, gleaming bright 
 On lofty peaks, from which the pointed rocks 
 Shot into mist high upwards in the clouds ; 
 The foaming cataracts, dashing fiercely down 
 Their craggy sides, and casting wide their spray ; 
 While from afar, like distant thunder, rolled 
 The Alpine torrent and the avalanche. 
 And then again, in contrast strange and new, 
 
12 THE CURATE'S LOVE. 
 
 The wild flowers blooming on the glacier's 
 
 edge, 
 And the sweet valley of the rushing Arve 
 Lying in loveliness and peace below. 
 She wondered not that amor patrice clung 
 To those bold hearts whose pulses first kept 
 
 time 
 To such wild symphonies. She wondered not 
 At that brave peasant race whose earliest breath 
 The mountain breezes fanned to hardihood. 
 There only was her restless spirit calmed 
 With humbled thoughts, 'mid Nature's wondrous 
 
 works, — 
 And sadly and regretfully she turned, 
 With lingering steps and slow, to that bright 
 
 clime 
 So famed for skies serene and ever blue, — 
 So full of charmed associations, bound 
 By history's glorious chain of golden links, 
 Time-brightened with each passing century, 
 Where arts and sciences sprung into life. 
 And artists " made rude blocks of marble speak," 
 And poetry and eloquence divine 
 Had consecrated every memory. 
 She sought the nursery of sentiment 
 In sunset hours, and silent solitude. 
 But happiness was wanting, and she felt 
 That she had cast the " pearl of price " away. 
 
THE CURATE^ S LOVE. 13 
 
 Her soul's requirings still were unfulfilled ; 
 And to the country of her birth, at length, 
 She wandered back, unsatisfied, — to die. 
 
 Years passed away — and Ethwold came once 
 
 more 
 And stood beside her grave. His character 
 Had undergone a change. His piety 
 Had grown austere, and rigid, and severe ! 
 And the meek, gentle Christian had become 
 The stern and gloomy man. But then he wept. 
 His soflened nature yielded to the touch 
 Of human sympathy ; and o'er her tomb 
 He poured his lamentations and his grief. 
 
 " Oh Imogen, my cousin, where are now 
 
 Thy earthly dreams of greatness ! Felt thou 
 
 ne'er 
 How worthless and how vain that shade of Fame, 
 So anxiously pursued, and which, alas ! 
 With all its boasted immortality^ 
 Had not the power to save thee from the grave ! 
 Oh, where are now thy visions of renown ! 
 Quenched is the light of thought \vitliin thy 
 
 mind ! 
 At rest those feverish hopes, which gleamed 
 
 a while 
 Over thy brief existence ! All is past ! 
 
14 THE CURATE'S LOVE. 
 
 Low lies thy head in death, and ev'n thy name 
 Is half forgotten by the sycophants 
 Who by their flattery strove to win thy love. 
 They come not here to thy last resting-place, 
 To mourn for the bright spirit fled so soon ; 
 While he who in thy pride thou didst reject 
 Weeps bitter, agonizing tears for thee ! " 
 
 He stooped down to the marble slab, and read 
 The pompous lines which blazoned forth her 
 
 worth. 
 And told of talents and accomplishments, 
 Lost in the grave beneath. His stricken heart 
 Refused to echo back the empty strain ; 
 And, with one sorrowing gaze, he bade farewell 
 Forever to the spot, and slowly turned 
 To mingle with the living multitude. 
 He'd crossed the seas to look upon that grave ! 
 It was a weary journey, sad and long ; 
 But now, his mission done, he would return 
 To come again no more. Past memories 
 Were better borne 'midst strangers ; and hence- 
 forth 
 His^ life should be devoted to the Church, 
 As was his early love. A woman's heart 
 May break, and in her misery she dies ; 
 But man lives on, and gathers up his strength, 
 And scorns to be subdued. 
 
FORGETFULNESS. 
 
 We parted : friendship's dream had cast 
 
 Deep interest o'er our brief farewell, 
 And left upon the shadowy past 
 
 Full many a thought on which to dwell. 
 Such thoughts as come in early youth, 
 
 And live in fellowship with hope, — - 
 Robed in the brilliant hues of truth, 
 
 Unfitted with the world to cope. 
 
 We parted : he went o'er the sea, 
 
 And deeper solitude was mine ; 
 Yet there remained in memory 
 
 For feeling still a sacred shrine. 
 And thought and hope were offered up, 
 
 Till their ethereal essence fled, 
 And disappointment, from the cup, 
 
 Its dark libations poured, instead. 
 
 We parted : 't was an idle dream 
 
 That thus we e'er should meet again ; 
 
 For who that knew man's heart would deem 
 That he could long unchanged remain. 
 
16 FORGETFULNESS. 
 
 He sought a foreign clime, and learned 
 Another language, which expressed 
 
 To strangers the rich thoughts that burned 
 With unquenched power within his breast. 
 
 And soon he better loved to speak 
 
 In those new accents than his own ; 
 His native tongue seemed cold and weak 
 
 To breathe the wakened passions' tone. 
 He wandered far, and lingered long, 
 
 And drank so deep of Lethe's stream. 
 That each new feeling grew more strong, 
 
 And all the past was like a dream. 
 
 We met : a few glad words were spoken, 
 
 A few kind glances were exchanged ; 
 But friendship's olden charm was broken, 
 
 His had been from me estranged* 
 I felt it all ; we met no more ; 
 
 My heart was true, but it was proud I 
 Life's early confidence was o'er, 
 
 And hope had set beneath a cloud. 
 
 We met no more ; for neither sought 
 
 To reunite the severed chain 
 Of social intercourse ; for naught 
 
 Could join its parted links again. 
 
FORGETFULNESS. 17 
 
 Too much of the wide world had beei 
 
 Between us, for too long a time ; 
 And he had looked on many a scene, 
 
 The beautiful and tlie sublime. 
 
 And he had themes on which to dwell. 
 
 And memories that were not mine, 
 Wliich formed a separating spell, 
 
 And drew a mystic boimdary line. 
 His thoughts were wanderers ; and the things 
 
 Which brought back friendship's joys to me, 
 To him were but the spirit's wings, 
 
 Which bore hmi o'er the distant sea. 
 
 For he had seen the evening star 
 
 Glancmg its rays o'er ocean's waves. 
 And marked the moonbeams from afar, 
 
 Lighting the Grecian heroes' graves. 
 And he had gazed on trees and flowers 
 
 Beneath Italia's sunny skies. 
 And listened in fair ladies' bowers 
 
 To genius' words and beauty's sighs. 
 
 His steps had echoed through the halls 
 
 Of grandeur long left desolate ; 
 And he had climbed the crmnbling walls, 
 
 Or oped perforce the hingeless gate. 
 2 
 
18 FORGETFVLNESS. 
 
 And mused o'er many an ancient pile, 
 
 In ruin still magnificent, 
 Whose histories could the hours beguile 
 
 With dreams, before to fancy lent. 
 
 Such recollections come to him. 
 
 With moon and stars and summer flowers, ■ 
 To me, they bring the shadows dim 
 
 Of earlier and of happier hours. 
 I would those shadows darker fell ! 
 
 For life, with its best powers to bless, 
 Has but few memories loved as well, 
 
 Or welcome, sls forgetfulness. 
 
HE CAME TOO LATE! 
 
 He came too late ! Neglect had tried 
 
 Her constancy too long : 
 Her love had yielded to her pride 
 
 And the deep sense of wrong. 
 She scorned the offering of a heart 
 
 Which lingered on its way, 
 Till it could no delight impart, 
 
 Nor shed one cheering ray. 
 
 He came too late ! At once he felt 
 
 That all his power was o'er : 
 Indifference in her calm smile dwelt, 
 
 She cared for him no more. 
 Anger and grief had passed away. 
 
 Her heart and thoughts were free ; 
 She met him, and her words were gay, 
 
 No spell had memory. 
 
 He came too late ! The subtle chords 
 Of love were all unbound. 
 
20 HE CAME TOO LATE! 
 
 Not by offence of spoken words, 
 But by the slights that wound. 
 
 She knew that life held nothing now 
 Which could the past repay, 
 
 Yet she disdained his tardy vow, 
 And coldly turned away. 
 
 He came too late ! Her countless dreams 
 
 Of hope had long since flown ; — 
 No charm dwelt in his chosen themes, 
 
 Nor in his whispered tone. 
 And when with word and smile he tried 
 
 Affection still to j^rove, 
 She nerved her heart with woman's pride, 
 
 And spurned his fickle love. 
 
RESEMBLANCE. 
 
 Art tliou not then the same ? 
 A strange resemblance flits across my mind, 
 The past and present in one thought to bind, 
 
 And blending the loved name, 
 Which long hath slept in silence in my heart. 
 With features drawn anew by Nature's art. 
 
 A stranger's face I see ! 
 Yet it familiar looks, as one of old, 
 And memory's scroll before me is unrolled : 
 
 T know thou art not he 
 Whose image thus thou bearest ; ,yet I gaze 
 Till visions rise of long departed days. 
 
 Who art thou, then, and why 
 Dost thou disturb my thoughts ? He is not here ! 
 Behind the gathered shades of many a year 
 
 The recollections lie 
 Of him whose likeness I but find in thee 
 To cheat my dreaming heart. Thou art not he ! 
 
THE MIDNIGHT BALL. 
 
 She 's bid adieu to the midnight ball, 
 
 And cast the gems aside, 
 Which glittered in the lighted hall ; 
 
 Her tears she cannot hide. 
 She weeps not that the dance is o'er, 
 
 The music and the song ; 
 She weeps not that her steps no more 
 
 Ajre followed by the throng. 
 
 Her memory sees one form alone, 
 
 Within that crowded hall ; 
 Her truant thoughts but dwell on one, 
 
 At that gay midnight ball. 
 And thence her tears unbidden flow. 
 
 She 's bid adieu to Mm ; 
 The light of love is darkened now, 
 
 AU other lights are dim. 
 
 She throws the worthless wreath away 
 That decked her shining hair. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT BALL. 23 
 
 She tears apart the bright bouquet 
 
 Of flowerets rich and rare : 
 The leaves lie scattered at her feet, 
 
 She heeds not where they fall, 
 She sees in them an emblem meet 
 
 To mark that midnight ball. 
 
NOT YET I 
 
 Not yet, not yet ! — oh no, not yet depart ! 
 
 Stay but a moment, hear my last farewell ! 
 Then go and drive my image from thy heart. 
 
 Absence full soon will break love's magic spell. 
 
 Oh, for one hour, one little hour's delay ! 
 
 Life will have lost its charm when thou art 
 gone ; 
 The song will die, the harp will cease to play, 
 
 And happiness her mourning robe put on. 
 
 Not yet, not yet ! — Time will be all too long — 
 The world will have too much of solitude ; 
 
 Too much of weariness the idle throng, 
 
 And love will be with too much pain imbued. 
 
 Why is it, then, that friendship thou dost spurn. 
 As if 't were but a feeling of to-day ? 
 
 Thou art too cruel, causeless, thus to turn 
 
 With scornful words and angry thoughts away. 
 
THEY TELL ME. 
 
 They tell me love 's an idle dream 
 
 From which we wake at morrow, — 
 A fire-fly spark, a meteor gleam. 
 
 Soon lost in gloom or sorrow. 
 They say, (but I believe it not,) 
 
 That lover's vows are folly : 
 I know that I am not forgot ! 
 
 " Away with melancholy." 
 
 They tell me life is like the rose, 
 
 Whose thorns are ever sternest ; 
 I care not ; while the buds unclose 
 
 I feel that " life is earnest." 
 We struggle onward with the stream, 
 . Hope's anchor ne'er forsaking, 
 And ah, if love 's indeed a dream, 
 We vield it but in waking. 
 
THE ITALIAN WIFE. 
 
 She sat alone ; and busy thought went back, 
 A truant wanderer, to her native clime ; 
 And memory's magic wand touched every scene. 
 And flowers and trees and rivers rose to view 
 Beneath Italia's sunny skies. Her heart 
 Leaped in her bosom as the vision grew 
 More bright to fancy's eye ; and suddenly 
 She swept the chords of her neglected harp, 
 And " Home, sweet home " reechoed to the 
 
 sound. 
 Gently it died away ; the swell was gone ; 
 And murmurs sweet and low fell on the ear. 
 As if ^olus had just wandered past 
 And stirred the strings — so sad the symphony. 
 And yet so full of untaught music ! Hers . 
 Was Nature's science, — 't was the soul itself. 
 Breathing in harmony with the deep voice 
 Of earth and air and ocean ; all things felt 
 By the pure spirit's innate sympathies. 
 A wondrous gift it was that few possessed 
 
THE ITALIAN WIFE. 27 
 
 Of thrilling melody ; and with this power, 
 But seldom equalled, she had often held 
 Thousands in listening silence, while the charm 
 Of her soft foreign accent gave a tone 
 More sweet to English words; but when she 
 
 sang, 
 Within the walls of her own splendid dome, 
 To silent pictures, and the gilded things 
 Of art and luxury, her voice refused 
 Its compass to the strain, and breathed forth then 
 Those broken notes. — 
 
 A stranger entered, — one 
 Of her own countrymen, who came to bring 
 Tidings from her forsaken home. He spoke 
 Her native language in its purity ; 
 The first her infant lips had learned to lisp. 
 The first her heart had understood and loved. 
 He told his tale with classic elegance. 
 " He 'd come from Rome," he said, " where he 
 
 had been 
 A favored guest in her own father's house. 
 And thus had brought a mission from her friends. 
 
 " Her mother was no more : she slept in peace 
 With her long line of ancient ancestry. 
 Her sister had grown up most beautiful. 
 And rich in genius, the bright heritage 
 Of her dear country ; and her brother's name 
 
28 TBE ITALIAN WIFE. 
 
 Was crowned with glory in the martial field, 
 And laurels fitted well his lofty brow. 
 The olden palaces and temples yet 
 Were there as erst, unbroken but by Time. 
 The Muses' seats were on the mountains still, 
 Their favorite haunts along the rivers' banks. 
 The climate was as pure, the sky as blue, 
 The trees as shady, and the flowers as bright, 
 As when she left the soil." 
 
 Emilia wept, 
 Till feeling's tide o'erflowed in rapid words. 
 And from her lips rushed forth a sudden stream 
 Of the heart's wild, unstudied eloquence. 
 " Speak, stranger, speak those thrilling words 
 
 again ! 
 Oh, tell me of sweet Italy, my own, 
 My native land ! — What mighty magic lies 
 In those three simple words, — iny native land! 
 It brings associations to the heart 
 Of love and hope and happiness and home ; 
 Of childhood's halcyon days, the gladsome hours 
 Of careless mirth and youthful innocence. 
 Oh, Italy beloved, my joy, my pride ! 
 Far dearer than the spirit-stirring scenes 
 Of this gay city ! What is this to me ? 
 This land of commerce and of interest ? 
 Can it compare with that bright spot of earth, 
 Where poetry and genius seem to breathe 
 
THE ITALIAN WIFE. 29 
 
 E'en from inanimate things ? where every breeze 
 Which sighs o'er fragrant flowers whispers some 
 
 tale 
 Of high-wrought fancy ; while the classic streams 
 And rivers, as they glide along their course 
 In murmuring music, woo the Muses' smiles ; — 
 AVhere mountains are the storied monuments 
 Of ancient greatness, and each verdant vale 
 A fitting home for beauty and for love ? 
 Begin again ! repeat what you have said ! 
 In glowing language paint the picture o'er, 
 Till every object lives and breathes before me ! 
 My tears will flow afresh, but heed them not, — 
 My heart would burst without them." — 
 
 Suddenly 
 Another entered, with a haughty eye ; 
 A question in his glance : 't was he whose love 
 First won the young Italian from her home. 
 The scene was soon explained, — the husband 
 
 spoke, 
 And at his voice a change came o'er her thoughts, 
 The images raised by the stranger's words 
 Melted away, and she was all the wife. 
 " Why weeps my dear Emilia ? Sighs she still 
 For the bright scenes of childhood? For the 
 
 things 
 Which once weighed in the balance with her love 
 Were light compared to it ? Wliat feeling now 
 
30 THE ITALIAN WIFE. 
 
 Has wrought this change ? Am I not still the 
 
 same, 
 Still all yom' own, as in that blissful hour 
 When you exchanged your parents' love for 
 
 mine ? 
 My country is your country ! Tell me, then, 
 Which of the links is broken that so long 
 Have bound our hearts in one ? " 
 
 She could not tell, — 
 She had forgotten all in those few brief 
 And happy moments, — all but the one sense 
 Of her heart's young idolatry. Italia's streams, 
 And vales, and mountains, with its azure skies. 
 Its bright luxuriant flowers, its palaces, 
 And fanes and temples, e'en its poetry, 
 And eloquence and music, all were lost 
 In that one dream ; — and such is womaiis love / 
 
TO DR. J. W. FRANCIS, 
 
 ON HIS KEQUESTING THE AUTHORESS AT A WEDDING TO 
 WKITE ON A BROKEN HEART. 
 
 " A BROKEN heart ! " 'T is a hackneyed theme, 
 
 With too little of novelty, 
 And too much of truth for the poet's dream, 
 
 Or the wanderings of memory. 
 And few would suppose, who had heard thy name, 
 
 'T M^as a fitting thought for thee. 
 While pursuing thy proud career of fame 
 
 And thy brilliant destiny. 
 " A broken heart ! " Oh, it is not now 
 That such visions of sadness should cloud thy 
 brow 
 
 'Mid this scene of gayety. 
 Where the vows of the lovers have just been 
 
 plighted. 
 And the heart and the hand are forever united. 
 
 It is true that full many a bridal wreath 
 Has been worn with an aching heart. 
 
 As the wild flower blooms o'er the barren heath. 
 In its lonely beauty, apart. 
 
32 TO DR. J. W. FRANCIS. 
 
 And full many a nuptial vow has been heard 
 
 By those who could never know 
 How the crushed affections, and feelings seared, 
 
 Were performing their work of woe. 
 The blasted hope, and the hidden grief, 
 (For which even thy skill could have no rehef,) 
 
 The poison sure, though slow. 
 Which told at length that the heart was broken, 
 Though in voice or eye was no outward token. 
 
 'T is a beautiful world for the happy ! and thou. 
 
 Who delightest in nature and art, 
 And art rich in their knowledge, oh, why is it now 
 
 Thou shouldst speak of a broken heart ! 
 Doth thy fancy roam to the dungeon cell, 
 
 Or to poverty's lowly cot, 
 Or unmask the great, with the wizard spell 
 
 Of deep and familiar thought ? 
 Oh, lift not the veil ! there is anguish and pain. 
 And keen disappointments, a desolate train. 
 
 In the high, and the envied lot ; 
 And broken hearts, 't is in vain we endeavor 
 From the bright scenes of life the dark vision to 
 sever. 
 
THE PRICE OF SUCCESS. 
 
 A BOY sat musing by a wayside brook, 
 
 With prescient dreams of honor and of wealth ; 
 
 His eye was scanning Nature's open book, 
 
 His ruddy cheek proclaimed life's blessing — 
 health. 
 
 He sought for knowledge, and he sighed for fame, 
 With ardent longings in his youthful heart ; 
 
 The voices of the earth should sound his name 
 Beyond the sphere where he might act his 
 part. 
 
 He bent his will to hope, his hope to will. 
 
 And marked with single aim his onward 
 course ; 
 
 Concentred strength should break down every ill, 
 The strength of mind, with its unyielding force. 
 
 And thus determined, from that brooklet's side, 
 That little stream which to the ocean ran. 
 
 He dashed forth in the world, and on its tide 
 He wrestled sternly, and became a man. 
 
34 THE PRICE OF SUCCESS. 
 
 And with the swift he ran the toilsome race, 
 And with the strong he battled for the prize ; 
 
 That with the learned his name should have a 
 place 
 In some bright niche, whate'er the sacrifice. 
 
 He jostled rivals from his way, for room. 
 His eye grew dim with study ere his prime, 
 
 And, frightened from his cheek, fled boyhood's 
 bloom, 
 And gray hairs came, unlicensed yet by Time. 
 
 Dreams, waking dreams, hung o'er his weary life, 
 And circled round him with bewildering power ; 
 
 He scorned repose, amid the ceaseless strife. 
 And for the yellow leaf trod down the flower. 
 
 And onward still, and upward, was his course. 
 Till he obtained both honor, fame, and wealth : 
 
 But the bright fountain had a bitter source. 
 And sapped the springs of boyhood's blessing, 
 health. 
 
 The man with reckless waste had spent his 
 powers 
 In restless toil to reach life's dizzy height ; 
 The wayside brook flowed on through summer 
 hours. 
 As hope exhaustless, as ambition bright. 
 
 I 
 
THAT LITTLE WORD, FAREWELL! 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE WATER. 
 
 That little word, Farewell ! 
 Was that too much for thee to say to me ? 
 To leave its lingering tones in memory 
 
 Upon my heart to dwell ? 
 It is enough — lue 've parted ! Life has not 
 For me a sadder thinoj than that one thought. 
 
 I watched till weariness 
 Crept o'er the heavy hours, as hope went by 
 On raven wings, darkening the summer sky, 
 
 Before, all shadowless ; 
 Casting its sunlight o'er the visioned things 
 Which came in thick and wild imaginings. 
 
 I thought each step was thine. 
 Until, successively, their echoes died. 
 Borne onward still upon Time's lapsing tide 
 
 As were those dreams of mine. 
 They may not come again : proud feelings swellj 
 To think thou wouldst not even say " FareweUr 
 
36 THAT LITTLE WORD, FAREWELL! 
 
 The moon upon the sea 
 Is glancing her bright rays around me now ; 
 The mirrored deep is tinted with her glow, 
 
 As if in sympathy 
 With the soft beauty of the evening sky, 
 Wooing the stars on its calm breast to lie. 
 
 , Slowly the vessel glides. 
 And I impatient watch its tardy wake, 
 While fancy's glittering visions seem to break 
 
 As the lioht wave divides. 
 But memory's hoarded treasures may not be, 
 Like fitful dreams, lost on the unstable sea. 
 
 How lovely is the scene ! 
 How mild, how sweet, how pure to look upon, 
 With all its tempest-flaws at rest, and gone 
 
 As though they ne'er had been. 
 Yet while I gaze, one thought is ever near, — 
 The deep, undying thought, thou art not here ! 
 
TO MY COUSIN. 
 
 Time has swept on, and changeful hues 
 
 Have decked his flying plumes, 
 As now the wild romance of thought 
 
 A thousand shades assumes. 
 Time has swept on since first we met, 
 
 And hope so gayly smiled. 
 When thou wert in youth's early spring, 
 
 And T was still a child. 
 
 My Cousin ! dost thou not look back 
 
 Upon those careless hours, 
 And feel how crushed and faded now 
 
 Are life's first blooming flowers ? 
 How like a dream those joys which filled 
 
 The heart's imaginings. 
 How brighter far \\^s fancy's power 
 
 Than aught that memory brings ? 
 
 And yet how is it that thy brow 
 Wears not the marks of care ? 
 
 That fortune's changes have not made 
 A single furrow there ? 
 
38 TO MY COUSIN. 
 
 I deemed thy heart was still the same, 
 
 But scarcely thought to find 
 Thy looks so like the looks of old 
 
 Engraven on my mind. 
 
 I could forget that Time had flown 
 
 While gazing on thy face, 
 But that upon the checkered past 
 
 His ruins still I trace. 
 Where are the hopes whose brilliant beams 
 
 Made life a cloudless scene ? 
 I know not where — but they are now 
 
 As if they ne'er had been ! 
 
 The future has no second ray 
 
 Like hope's first star of light, 
 The heart no second dreams of bliss 
 
 So beautiful and bright 
 As those ere life's first confidence 
 
 Has been deceived and lost, — 
 Ere treachery and ingratitude 
 
 The trusting mind have crossed. 
 
 My Cousin ! hast thou learned to doubt 
 
 Professions, and distrust 
 The word of promise ? if not so, 
 
 The world has been more just 
 
TO MY COUSIN. 39 
 
 To thee than me ; and thou canst not 
 
 The feeling comprehend 
 Which bids the heart to fear the more 
 
 The more it loves a friend. 
 
 Time has swept on, and in his flight 
 
 The separating years 
 Between us have been gathering 
 
 In sunshine and in tears. 
 And we should be as strangers now, 
 
 Nor cast a thought behind, 
 But that there is a tie of blood 
 
 Which time can ne'er unbind. 
 
THE BROKEN PROMISE. 
 
 I KNEW men kept no promises, — or none 
 At least with woman ; and yet, knowing this, 
 With credulous folly, still I trusted one 
 Whose words seemed so like truths that I forgot 
 The lessons I had learned full oft before : 
 And I believed because he said he 'd come. 
 That he would come; and then night after 
 
 night 
 I watched the clouds, and saw them pass away 
 From the bright moon, and leave the clear blue 
 
 sky 
 As spotless, and serene, and beautiful. 
 As if no promises were broken e'er 
 Beneath it. 
 
 Man forgets in busy hours 
 What in his idle mom.ents he has said, 
 Nor thinks how often woman's happiness 
 Hanors on his liMitest words. It is not things 
 Of great importance which affect the heart 
 Most deeply : Trifles often weave the net 
 Of misery or of bliss in human life. 
 
 I 
 
THE BROKEN PROMISE. 41 
 
 There 's many a deep and cankering grief chat 
 
 comes 
 From som'ces which admit of no complaint, — • 
 From things of which we cannot, dare not speak ; 
 And yet they seem but trifles, till a chain, 
 Link after link, is fastened on each thought. 
 And wound around the heart. They do their 
 
 work 
 In secrecy and silence ; but their power 
 Is far more fatal than the open shafts 
 Of sorrow and misfortune ; for they prey 
 Upon the mind and spirits, till the bloom 
 Of health is changed to fever's hectic flush. 
 They break the charm of youth's first brightest 
 
 dreams, 
 And sap at length the very springs of life. 
 But this is woman's fate ! , 
 
 It is not thus 
 With proud, aspiring man ! His mind is filled 
 With high and lofty thoughts ; and love and 
 
 hope. 
 And all the warmest feelings of his heart, 
 Are sacrificed at cold ambition's shrine. 
 He feels that the whole world was made for him ! 
 And if some painful disappointments cross 
 His path of life, he does but change his course ; 
 Nor broken promises, nor hopes destroyed, 
 Are e'er allowed a place on memory's page. 
 
42 THE BROKEN PROMISE. 
 
 'T is only woman in her loneliness, 
 And in her silent, melancholy hours, 
 Who treasures in her heart the idle words 
 That had no meaning ; and who lives on hope, 
 Till it had stolen the color from her cheeks, 
 The brightness from her eyes ; who trusts her 
 
 peace 
 On the vast ocean of uncertainty ; 
 And if 't is wrecked, she learns her lot to bear, 
 Or she may learn to die I — but i^ot forget 1 
 It is for her to hoard her secret thoughts. 
 To brood o'er broken promises, anti sigh 
 O'er disappointed hopes ; till she ^believes 
 There 's less of wretchedness in the wide world 
 Than in her single heart ! 
 
THE GIFTED. 
 
 He was a son of genius ! Mind 
 
 Threw o'er his face a sparkling light ; 
 And soaring fancy, unconfined, 
 
 Scattered rich gems in each new flight, — 
 Gems in* no borrowed lustre drest. 
 
 Pure from the unfathomed mine of thought ; 
 More brilliant and more rich, confest. 
 
 Than if from stores of learning brought. 
 
 He was a son of genius ! Life 
 
 Was full of visionary things ; 
 The grovelling earth, its cares and strife, 
 
 Were not for his imaginings. 
 He half disdained his fellowship 
 
 With those who could not feel like him ; 
 And I have seen him curl his lip 
 
 And laugh, as if from sudden whim. 
 
 And noting then the strange surprise, 
 The cold, uncomprehending look, 
 
 Contempt has spoken from his eyes, 
 And few could the expression brook. 
 
44 THE GIFTED. 
 
 And those who loved him grieved to see 
 How few could love him, while his heart 
 
 Rejected all the sympathy 
 
 Which common feelings could impart. 
 
 He had no common feelings ; his 
 
 Were wild, uncertain, fitful gleams: 
 He saw the world, not as it is, 
 
 But as it seemed in fancy's dreams. 
 The gifted are not happy ; yet 
 
 The thoughtless envy them those powers 
 Which often in the mind are set 
 
 To fit the heart for gloomy hours. 
 
 He could not feel as others do, 
 
 Who take from ordinary things 
 Their cast in life, and thus pursue 
 
 In beaten tracks their wanderings. 
 He sought th' untrodden paths of light. 
 
 And drew from earth and air and sea 
 Their hidden treasures, — all too brio-ht 
 
 For life in its reality. 
 
 He was a son of genius ! Hope 
 To him was like the eagle's plume ; 
 
 Its highest visions were the scope 
 
 Of ail his thoughts ; yet morbid gloom 
 
THE GIFTED. 45 
 
 Would sometimes hover o'er his heart, — 
 
 A dark, impervious aegis there, — 
 While joy and pleasure stood apart, 
 
 And cast their smiles upon the air. 
 
 He was a son of genius ! Love 
 
 Within his warm, impassioned breast 
 Was not a feeling which could rove, 
 
 Neither in which he might be blest. 
 There was but one in the whole range 
 
 Of the vast universe, whose lot 
 He would have linked with his : 't was strange ; 
 
 Alike in soul, she loved him not ! 
 
 Why it was thus, he never tried 
 
 To know ; enough that he had deigned 
 To offer her his heart ; his pride 
 
 Persuaded not, nor yet complained. 
 But he forsook the crowded halls, 
 
 And shunned a while the haunts of men ; 
 Immured within his study walls. 
 
 He gave his feelings to his pen. 
 
 " The thoughts that breathed, the words that 
 burned," 
 
 Rushed swiftly o'er the trembling lyre, 
 As if in quenching love he'd learned 
 
 To light anew bright genius' fire. 
 
46 THE GIFTED. 
 
 And then he sought the voice of fame 
 To drown that silent memory, 
 
 And strained each nerve to give his name 
 The shade of immortality. 
 
 He had a noble spirit. All 
 
 That made him seem, at times, unkind, 
 Was that his friends appeared so small 
 
 In contact with his giant mind. 
 And half in sorrow, half in scorn. 
 
 He coldly, carelessly passed on, 
 Grieved, and yet proud that he was bom 
 
 To stand thus in the world alone. 
 
 Such was the gifted ! Envy not 
 
 His strange and wayward destiny ! 
 There is no bliss in such a lot, 
 
 Where none may feel in sympathy. 
 Better to have a kindred mind 
 
 With beings in a hiunbler sphere, 
 Than those deep feelings, too refined 
 
 For mortals while they linger here. 
 
 i\ 
 
THE CHOSEN TREE. 
 
 " I 'll choose this tree for mine ! 
 When I 'm afar, if thou wouldst know my fate, 
 
 Look on it : if it flourish or decline, 
 Such destiny, believe, will me await. 
 
 " At the return of spring, 
 See if its leaves come forth all fresh and bright 
 • List, if the robin in its branches sing 
 A carol gay ; then know my heart is light. 
 
 " Come in the summer days 
 And visit it, and sit beneath its shade : 
 
 Seek its cool shelter from the noontide rays, 
 Nor let it thy neglectfulness upbraid. 
 
 " And when with autumn's blast 
 Its golden-tinted leaves abroad are hurled, 
 
 Look, if its trunk be hardy to the last. 
 For such wilj be my courage through the world. 
 
 " Watch it, dear friend, for me ! 
 T is bending now to catch the water's tone ; 
 
48 THE CHOSEN TREE. 
 
 The wave, perhaps, may whisper to the tree 
 Of him who blends its thriving with his own." 
 
 And then his name he graved 
 Upon the bark, and turned his steps away ; 
 
 And o'er the river still the branches waved, 
 And still the stream flowed on from day to day. 
 
 And she, as years went by, 
 Oft wandered in her walks to that lone spot ; 
 But to her questionings came no reply, — 
 The waves were mute, the breezes answered not. 
 
 Dreamer, where art thou now ? 
 The axe has hewn thy tree, but not destroyed ; 
 Rough-hewn, perchance, thy fortunes ! Where 
 art thou ? 
 In what far land dost wander, — how employed ? 
 
 The sympathetic chain 
 Of friendship ever circles thee around, 
 
 And by its strong, magnetic power, again 
 Thy image to thy chosen tree is bound. 
 
 For still thy friend of old 
 Is watching o'er thy visioned destiny ; 
 
 Bound by her plighted word her faith to hold 
 In this, thy speculative prophecy. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 BY E. S. S. 
 
 TO ESTELLE. 
 
 Come out upon the dewy hills, sweet friend, 
 And let us study Nature's changeful face ; 
 See how the sun's last rays harmonious blend, 
 Foldinof the woodlands in a warm embrace. 
 Each glowing leaf, stirred by the evening breeze. 
 Gleams with prismatic hues — crimson and 
 gold ; 
 Purple and azure seem the waving trees ; 
 
 The mists their silvery vapors have unrolled, 
 And hover o'er the river's troubled breast. 
 
 River, that, 'midst such deep and calm repose, 
 Forever murmurs with a sad unrest, 
 
 Like human hearts o'erburdened ynth. life's 
 woes. - 
 But see, like messenger from Heaven, — Queen 
 of the summer skies. 
 Filling the earth with loveliness., the harvest 
 moon arise ! 
 4 
 
50 SONNETS. 
 
 Moonlight upon the hills ! there is a spell 
 
 Like witchery o'er us ; as we gaze around, 
 A tender light illumines rock and dell, 
 
 Falling in golden checkers o'er the ground. 
 Now perfume steals out from the forest shades ; 
 
 All fragrant things, and fair, their incense 
 bring ; 
 And hark ! amid the dim woods' tangled glades, 
 
 I hear the gushing waters laugh and sing. 
 Among the clustering leaves of yonder oak 
 
 A ring-dove's nest is hid ; list her soft moan ; 
 Love never to night's ear in language spoke, 
 
 Calling with deeper fondness on its own ! 
 World ! if. to thee, sin-stained, such lavish charms 
 are given, 
 
 What must those unknown glories be that fill 
 the courts of heaven ! 
 
 ANSWER. 
 
 TO E. S. S. 
 
 Thou called'st me ; and Echo brought the word 
 From hill to hill, till on my heart it fell. 
 
 Like the sweet music of the singing-bird. 
 But with a deeper, calmer, holier spell. 
 
 Thou roamest o'er the mountains with the light 
 
SONNETS. 51 
 
 Of thought and feeling ever in thy breast, 
 A day-spring there, arising o'er the night, 
 
 Now fast approaching through the glowing 
 west. 
 What matters it, if day or night prevail ? 
 
 The world is full of beauty, 'midst the dreams 
 Which haunt the poet's fancy — hail, all hail ! 
 
 The light of mind, the soul's celestial gleams ! 
 
 I come 1 I come ! I heard the soft wind sig-h 
 
 Across thy harp-strings with the spirit-ear, 
 And smiled, as the rich melody went by, 
 
 That none but me the mystic call could hear. 
 The soul has strange communings, by which 
 power 
 
 The chords of secret sympathy are strung. 
 Till, like the gushing fragrance of a flower, 
 
 Sweet revelations o'er the heart are flung. 
 Thus roams the spirit, free and unconfined. 
 
 To meet its kindred ; for to thought are given. 
 By the great God who rules the human mind, 
 
 Ethereal wings, whose flight may reach to 
 heaven ! 
 
ESTRANGEMENT. 
 
 Thou too, e'en thou, the changeless one through 
 
 years' vicissitudes, 
 Hast bowed at length to fickleness with earth's 
 
 vast multitudes. 
 Thy heart has mingled with the world, its 
 
 passions and its pride. 
 And stern collision, mind with mind, thy hidden 
 
 powers has tried : 
 And in thy intercourse with men, its rivalries and 
 
 fears. 
 Thou hast of little import deemed the friendship 
 
 of past years. 
 
 Well be it so ; and mayest thou find the busy 
 scenes of life, 
 
 The spirit-stirring warfare, and the wild com- 
 mingling strife 
 
 Of man's pursuits, a recompense for the more 
 quiet things, 
 
 The softer, sweeter joys, to which the heart of 
 woman clings. 
 
ESTRANGEMENT. 53 
 
 And mayest thou find ambition's path a bright 
 
 and pleasant way, 
 Nor e'er regret in after-life what thou hast cast 
 
 away. ^ 
 
 Go then: I feel that thou art changed, — the 
 
 sign is on thy brow ! 
 Its cold expression as 1 gazed in silence, even 
 
 now. 
 I cannot bear that altered look ; we must not meet 
 
 again ! 
 We 've come to the diverging point where breaks 
 
 the social chain 
 Of feeling's union, and we part, unbiased to 
 
 pursue, 
 Each one alone, the chosen path, the distant 
 
 goal in view. 
 
 It is not that the thought was mine, e'en in the 
 
 future far. 
 That e'er our destinies could form beneath one 
 
 guiding star. 
 I never sought to win thy love, in that absorbing 
 
 sense 
 Which speaks of perfect union, and of perfect 
 I confidence. 
 
 j I never dreamed that thrilling word, howe'er it 
 
 be defined. 
 
54 i:S TRANGEMEN T. 
 
 Applied to thee and me, or swayed the thoughts of 
 either mind. 
 
 'T was but the spirit's friendship, and opinion's 
 interchange, 
 
 That e'er a moment came within imagination's 
 range. 
 
 I miss thy bright approving glance, or thy re- 
 proving smile. 
 
 In gentleness and kindness given, effectual too, 
 the while. 
 
 I miss thee in the trifles of which happiness is 
 made. 
 
 And in the more momentous scenes where life is 
 all displayed. 
 
 I would forget, if wish were will, all thou hast 
 been to me ! 
 
 But how, when each familiar thing still speaks to 
 me of thee ? 
 
 How can I mix in fashion's throng amidst each 
 gay delight, 
 
 Or walk beneath the moonbeams, or the watch- 
 ing stars of night, 
 
 Or sketch with fancy's graphic power the home 
 scenes of the heart. 
 
 Nor see thee in each picture still, all altered as 
 thou art ? 
 
ES TRANGEMENT. 5 5 
 
 But, go : thy way is in the world, the rising 
 
 place of men, — 
 The mart of deep, contesting thoughts borne on 
 
 the lip and pen. 
 Not in green fields, nor smiling groves, nor some 
 
 loved solitude, 
 But where thick-clashing interests meet, and 
 
 jealousies intrude ; 
 Amidst the hurry of the mind, the sick heart's 
 
 weariness, 
 The strange excitement of the nerves as hopes 
 
 too wildly press. 
 Go, bear thy part in the vain strife ; it is thy 
 
 destiny ! 
 While I must grieve that for such things thou art 
 
 estranged from me. 
 
THE STUDENT. 
 
 Young Athol trimmed his lamp, and sat him 
 
 down 
 To his deep midnight studies ; on his cheeks 
 A hectic flush burned with unwonted power, 
 And his eyes shone with an unearthly fire. 
 The ponderous volume lay upon the desk, 
 And as he opened to his weary task, 
 He breathed forth murmurs, in half-uttered words. 
 " Sure there 's a curse on learning ! oh, it steals 
 The calm and natural quiet of the heart, 
 The lightness of the spirits ; and instead 
 Of life's sweet pleasures, and gay dreams of hope. 
 Brings but anxiety, and care-worn hours. 
 Sleep passes by on viewless wings, nor yields 
 His balm to the tired student; o'er whose sight 
 Sits the decoying serpent, urging on 
 Still to the tree of knowledge. Be it so ! 
 I must to my stern labors ! 'T was my xoill 
 That formed my destiny ; nor will I now 
 Shrink from the road to which ambition points. 
 
THE STUDENT. 57 
 
 The hill of Fame still skirts the distant view, 
 And difficult and steep is the ascent ; 
 Yet will I onward in the hazardous path, 
 And win the goal, or perish in the attempt." 
 
 Thus Athol mused, and wrestled with fatigue 
 Till he o'ercame its power ; and the still night, 
 Which laid a slumberous spell on all around. 
 Unfolded many a mystery to him 
 From the deep well of science. He drew forth 
 Its hidden treasures with the talisman 
 Of thought and genius. Not then had he felt 
 That passion's power which paralyzes all 
 The strength of intellect. Ambition seemed 
 All that was worth the energies of man. 
 Within his breast t was a consuming fire. 
 Fed by the lightest breath of the world's praise. 
 He strove to fill his heart with thoughts of fame, 
 Casting all dreams of bliss, all hopes of life, 
 Upon a throw for glory, — on, and on, 
 Climbing and toiling for a phantom bride. 
 
 Time wrouorht its changes ; and the student^s 
 
 dreams 
 Had other inspirations. Suddenly 
 His books were cast aside, and every thought 
 Was chained by the absorbing power of love. 
 Fresh springs of feeling, bright and pure and 
 
 deep. 
 
58 THE STUDENT. 
 
 Opened within his soul, and he forgot 
 How his proud spirit had disdained them once 
 As weak and puerile, — fitting but that sex, 
 Whose path of life is circumscribed by fate 
 To humbler spheres. But woman has her day 
 Of triumph over man, — brief it may be, 
 But absolute in its allotted time. 
 Thus even Athol yielded to her sway, 
 And bowed a while to his new deity, 
 Resistless beauty, at her sovereign shrine. 
 Ah, beauty has an all-subduing power, 
 Where mental charms and fascinations fail ! 
 
 Adelle was lovely as a poet's dream ! 
 More beautifid than aught of earthly mould 
 That e'er had crossed his path. Bright as the 
 
 morn, 
 And soft as evening in its sweet repose 
 After a summer's day ; yet lacking still 
 The brilliant light of mind, the quick, deep 
 
 thought 
 Wliich shines fi'om out the eyes, and speaks at 
 
 once 
 A strange and powerful language. Thus it is 
 That talents seldom meet, where hearts imite. 
 He loved her for her gentleness and mirth. 
 And for her fond devotedness to him. 
 He loved her that she was so passing fair, 
 
THE STUDENT. 59 
 
 So free from art and guile, so full of hope, 
 "Wliich breathed its incense o'er his wearied mind. 
 And yet, with all the selfishness of man, 
 He left her when his fitful dream had passed, 
 And cast her love away, — a love more pure 
 Than e'er is found, save in a woman's heart. 
 He lefl her for the world, when he was all 
 The world to her ; and in succeeding life, 
 When fortune smiled, and honors crowned his 
 
 name, 
 Eemorseful thoughts huno- round those memories. 
 But pride is cruel ; and he would not stoop 
 To an unequal match. Some men there are. 
 Who blend the attributes of gentleness 
 And sternness in their nature with such art. 
 That often, unresistingly, we yield 
 To the seducing softness, while we feel 
 How firm in purpose is each cold resolve ; — 
 And such was Athol. 
 
 Years again rolled on, 
 And half of the young student's towering hopes 
 Had been fulfilled. He ranked among the first 
 In his profession ; and as wealth poured in, 
 Friends were not wanting. He was liberal 
 To all who sought his aid in sordid gold. 
 Or higher mental labor, and soon grew 
 The popular favorite of the multitude. 
 But in his heart there was one blighted spot 
 
60 THE STUDENT. 
 
 Which spread its desolate barrenness o'er all 
 The fairest scenes of life. He had won fame, 
 And found its boasted joys a bubble burst ! 
 Ambition had not satisfied his soul 
 In its vain longings ! yet it bore him on, 
 Reckless of dangers, through his toilsome way. 
 He spoke not of unhappiness, regret, 
 Or disappointment ; and, to eyes 
 Unused to read the heart, his lot in life 
 Were seemingly most blest. Flattered by all, 
 His talents envied, and his favor sought. 
 He strove to chase the visions of the past. 
 And draw the rankling thorn from memory. 
 But 't was in vain. In hours of loneliness 
 It pierced his inmost soul , till bitter thoughts 
 Sported with his sad heart, and brought again 
 His blissful dream of youth, his lost Adelle ; 
 And then he keenly felt how false the pride 
 Which could not give a recompense for love. 
 And in his joyless life he knew that she. 
 The long forsaken one, was well revenged. 
 
I DEEMED THOU WERT FORGOTTEN. 
 
 I DEEMED thou wert forgotten ! Well I knew 
 Thou didst not think of me I for I had sought, 
 In years departed, to drive off the thought 
 
 When others sighed, that I could love thee too. 
 
 I did not love thee then ! 'T was but a dream 
 Which flitted o'er my heart with fitful light, 
 Like some uncertain vision of the night, — 
 
 A flashing meteor on the world's wide stream. 
 
 And time passed on, and years, long years went 
 by, 
 In which we met not ; and it were not strange 
 I deemed thou wert forgotten, in the change 
 
 Of hopes which only rise o'er life to die ! 
 
 I 
 
 I never dreamed that deep within my soul 
 There laid a slumbering memory, Avhich one 
 
 tone 
 Of thy sweet voice could wake to days long 
 flown, 
 
 And bid Time's darkening shadows backward 
 roll. 
 
62 / DEEMED THOU WERT FORGOTTEN. 
 
 But though I felt thou didst not speak for me, 
 I listened once again, and every word 
 Seemed to vibrate upon some silent chord 
 
 Which might have slept forever, but for thee. 
 
 And thou wert altered too ! I saw thee not 
 As in youth's opening bloom, matured ere now ; 
 Manhood had set his seal upon thy brow, 
 
 And the rough cares of life had been thy lot. 
 
 They had not left within thy bosom's shrine 
 Place for the memories which came back to 
 
 me ; 
 And while I deemed I had forgotten thee, 
 
 I felt that to forget had all been thine. - 
 
 I would not speak of it, but well I know 
 
 This will not meet thine eye ; or if, perchance, 
 Unwittingly it fall beneath thy glance. 
 
 Thou wilt not own, for thee my verses flow. 
 
 Thou knowest not that for years, in joy or grief, 
 Thou wert my Muse ; that every flower which 
 
 sprung 
 From Hope, or Poetry, or Fancy, flung 
 
 To thee its incense, and its tribute brief. 
 
 And yet I deemed thou wert forgotten ; naught 
 Reminded me of thee in the strange stir 
 
/ DEEMED THOU WERT FORGOTTEN. 63 
 
 Of the gay city. Fancy well might err, 
 So light and changeful was each passing thought. 
 
 But when the gorgeous clouds at sunset hour 
 Met from the hills my gaze, and far below 
 I marked the rushing waters' rapid flow 
 
 Through the sweet valley, then came back thy 
 power. 
 
 In the still midnight when the moon was high, 
 Reigning alone in gloiy, Queen of night, — 
 In royalty companionless, as bright, — ■ 
 
 Dreams of the past seemed written on the sky. 
 
 And then I sought upon the clear expanse 
 Of the blue heavens to read forgotten things, 
 Till lonor lost feelings and imas^inino^s 
 
 Familiar grew, unchecked by change or chance. 
 
 Thus silently thou dwelt in memory. 
 
 It needed only Nature's scenes, the flowers, 
 The hills, the streams, to bring back faded 
 hours. 
 
 And tell me I had ne'er forgotten thee 1 
 
THE WORLD HAS WON THEE! 
 
 The world has won thee ! Go thy way, I will 
 
 not share thy heart ! 
 I knew it would be thus, and now I am prepared 
 
 to part. 
 Slowly and sadly I have loosed each feeling from 
 
 thy hold. 
 And reconciled my mind, at length, to see thee 
 
 changed and cold. 
 I could not break with sudden force the ties so 
 
 closely bound, 
 But calm and steady efforts have each mystic 
 
 chord unwound. 
 
 The world has won thee ! and I know that in 
 
 its charmed embrace 
 The memory of the past will glide away Avithout 
 
 a trace. 
 But it will leave, in after-years, upon thy heart 
 
 a stain. 
 Which even Lethe's stream would fail to wash 
 
 away again. 
 
THE WORLD HAS WON THEE! 65 
 
 In sorrow, not in anger, now I bid thee this 
 
 farewell. 
 And call my heart to its own home in solitude to 
 
 dwell. 
 
 The world has won thee ! I refuse to take thy 
 
 love again ! 
 It is not worth all it has brought of bitterness 
 
 and pain. 
 For though in memory's tangled web some golden 
 
 threads are wrought. 
 They cannot stand Time's mildew damps, with 
 
 blioht and ruin fraucrht. 
 And yet it is no fault of thine like all mankind 
 
 to be ; 
 Mine was the folly, to believe that none were like 
 
 to thee ! 
 
 The world has won thee ! who will say that 
 this is strange or wrong, 
 
 "While hope is round thee with her light, enticing 
 thee along ? 
 
 They will but smile at my vain dream that thou 
 alone shouldst turn 
 
 From Flattery's siren voice, and all her hollow 
 promise spurn. 
 
 Her promise, 'ke'pt hut to the ear, in fortune's pros- 
 perous hour, 
 5 
 
 k 
 
66 TEE WORLD HAS WON THEE! 
 
 But broken to the hope, as soon as clouds or 
 sorrows lower. 
 
 The world has won thee! Go thy way, and 
 drink of pleasure's cup; 
 
 Slowly and sadly I have taught my heart to give 
 thee up. 
 
 Hard was the struggle ; but at last with calmness 
 I submit, 
 
 Though none may know with what strong bonds 
 my soul to thine was knit. 
 
 But go ! thy path of life is bright, with thorn- 
 less flowers o'erspread ; 
 
 Step lightly, lest thou crush their bloom, and 
 mourn their beauty fled. 
 
 The world has won thee ! 't is enough for me 
 
 this truth to know, 
 Which most I feared, while trusting all upon one 
 
 doubtful throw. 
 The chance was run : the sacrifice was but a heart 
 
 to thee ; 
 The gain was nothing in thy hands ; the loss was 
 
 all to me ! 
 Take back thy love, for dangers lurk amidst its 
 
 seem.ing smile, 
 And I reclaim the heart once more so idly won 
 
 the while. 
 
EYENma 
 
 The evening hours went on ; 
 Slowly, indeed, and heavily they moved.. 
 As, watching for the footsteps of the loved, 
 
 I wished the moments gone ; 
 But with each one came darker thoughts to 
 
 oppress 
 My heart with a deep sense of loneliness. 
 
 Oh, it is misery ! 
 This strange, unquiet weariness of all 
 That is around me ; even pleasures pall, 
 
 Because I would be free — 
 Free to seek solitude, and muse alone. 
 O'er hopes whose life and breath and bloom have 
 flown. 
 
 The evening hours are gone, — 
 And I have been alone, alone to-night ; 
 And dreams have flitted by me in their light, 
 
 And shadows have come on. 
 And now the crowd were welcome for a while, 
 "With cold and careless words and heartless smile. 
 
68 EVENING. 
 
 The crowd, the crowd were vain ! 
 The gloom is on my spirit, and the spell 
 Hath its allotted time ; it were not well 
 
 To break the fated chain. 
 Let it wear out its strength by slow degrees, 
 Till its links part, and leave the mind at ease. 
 
 The evening hours went by 
 Clad in their starlight beauty, and the scene 
 Looked as if all were peaceful and serene 
 
 Beneath the glittering sky. 
 The world seemed all at rest, but who could tell 
 O'er what dark sorrows the night's curtain fell. 
 
 The city is so still. 
 Its very calm is fearful ; as if fate 
 Had made it like my heart, all desolate. 
 
 Some destiny to fill. 
 But hark ! the watchman passes on his round, — 
 The clock peals forth its monitory sound. 
 
 The evening hours are past. 
 And it is midnight ! I have watched too long ; 
 I felt it was in vain, even while the throng 
 
 Were walking to the last. 
 For disappointment with each hope is joined, — 
 The cloud before, the shadow still behind. 
 
LIFE WITHOUT LOVE. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A GENTLEMAN WHO SAID HE WOULD NOT 
 LIVE, IF HE COULD NOT LOVE. 
 
 Life without love ! It were indeed 
 
 A being all unblest ! 
 A garden rifled of its flowers, 
 
 In wild weeds rudely drest ; 
 A solitude within the heart, 
 
 Uncheered by aught below ; 
 A desert of the mind, in which 
 
 No springs of pleasure flow. 
 
 Life without love ! 'T were like a ship 
 
 Its rudder lost at sea ! 
 Without hope's anchor for the soul, 
 
 Or charm for memory. 
 A vision cast in shadows ; thrown 
 
 Upon a tempest-wave ; 
 Borne onward by the eddying tide, 
 
 Into oblivion's grave. 
 
 Life without love ! Oh, it would be 
 A world without a sun ! 
 
 k 
 
70 LIFE WITHOUT LOVE. 
 
 Cold as the snow-capped mountain, dark 
 
 As myriad nights in one ; 
 A barren scene, without one spot 
 
 Of green amid the waste. 
 Without one blossom of delight, 
 
 Of feeling, or of taste. 
 
 Life without love ! 'T were not for one 
 
 With heart so warm as thine, 
 Where sweet affections make their home 
 
 Within its hallowed shrine. 
 Wliere kindly thoughts forever flow, 
 
 And social feelings dwell, 
 'Mid good or ill, 'mid weal or woe, 
 
 " The welcome or farewell." 
 
TO A FRIEND. 
 
 I DARE not think that when years depart 
 
 No change will be found in thee ! 
 I dare not believe there is yet one heart 
 
 That will still remain true to me. 
 I dare not hope that the future scene, 
 
 Which so fair in the distance appears, 
 Will be brighter than all the past has been 
 
 When joined to those vanished years ! 
 
 The visions that shed o'er my earlier days 
 
 A brilliant and beautiful light, 
 Were the visions oi friendship and love, and their 
 rays 
 
 Have set in the darkness of night. 
 Then why should I think that a later beam 
 
 Less transient and fading will be ; 
 Or why should I hope that a wilder dream 
 
 Will have more of reality. 
 
 It is that there seems such a promise of truth, 
 And candor and faith with thee, 
 
72 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 That I cannot doubt, though the lessons of 
 youth 
 
 Have been a sad warning to me. 
 But ah, I will yield to illusion still. 
 
 Or trust to the confidence 
 Which friendship's pure and unbroken spell 
 
 Has given for thy defence. 
 
 There is that in thy calm and open brow 
 
 That tells me I am not deceived ! 
 That assures me these thoughts and feelings now 
 
 Are by thee understood and believed. 
 Then fare thee well ; when the evening star 
 
 Shines over the deep blue sea, 
 Thou wilt think of thy home and thy friends 
 afar, 
 
 And oh, then remember me ! 
 
I LOOK FOR THEE! 
 
 Perchance we ne'er again may meet ! 
 
 Perchance thou hast forgotten me ! 
 Yet still along the crowded street 
 I look for thee ! 
 
 I tremble, lest the lapse of years 
 
 Has made thee strange unto my eyes ; 
 And watch more closely from my fears 
 Of Time's disguise. 
 
 And ofl upon some passing face 
 
 I gaze, and start with sudden thrill, 
 And seek thy lineaments to trace 
 With earnest will. 
 
 But Fate doth all my search defy ; 
 It is so long since we have met, 
 Unwitting I might pass thee by, 
 But ne'er forget. 
 
 For thou art guarded in my heart 
 By sentinels of hope and love ; 
 
74 I LOOK FOR TREE I 
 
 Those sentinels will ne'er depart, 
 Where'er I rove. 
 
 And still to Hope's frail barque I cling, 
 
 Which weathers life's tempestuous sea, 
 And sailing on with it I fling 
 Its dreams to thee ! 
 
 They may be false, they may be vain ! 
 
 They may be wrecked on life's wild waves ! 
 They have a thousand lives, and gain 
 A thousand graves. 
 
 And from the ashes of the past 
 
 They rise with each succeeding day ; 
 And still I look for thee and cast 
 Despair away. 
 
 Should I not know thee 'mid the throng ? 
 
 And wouldst thou not remember me ? 
 The marks of change are not so strong, 
 It cannot be. 
 
 I '11 watch along the crowded street 
 For one familiar glance of thine, 
 Perchance we once again may meet 
 That hope is mine. 
 
REFLECTIONS ON NEW-YEAR'S EVENING. 
 
 I LOOK back on the vanished year, and sigh 
 To think upon its changes ! Time has crushed 
 Hope's sweetest flowers in passing on his course, 
 And left them in their early bloom to die. 
 My heart foreboded it ! I knew for me 
 They could not blossom in their beauty long ; 
 I knew that disappointment's blight must come 
 Ere they had shed their fragrance o'er my path : 
 For it was ever thus ; and each new bud, 
 Blown by the breath of this cold world, still wears 
 A paler, sicklier hue. 
 
 I hear the words, 
 " A Happy Neiv- Year^' and I look for those 
 Whose once familiar voices seemed to thrill 
 Like echoes of sweet music on my ear. 
 I thought not that the change would come on ail, 
 Ml I have loved ! Ev'n he whom I had placed 
 Above all others in my silent thoughts, 
 Whose name I never classed with other names, 
 Whose friendship was to me a sacred thing. 
 Shrined in my inmost soul, and kept apart 
 
76 REFLECTIONS ON NEW-YEARS EVENING, 
 
 From other feelings, even he came not 
 
 As he was wont, to hail the opening year, — 
 
 To speak the hackneyed words of compliment 
 
 In custom's form, — and leave the passing wish 
 
 For me to separate in memory, 
 
 From blending voices, and to register 
 
 With unforgotten things. 
 
 He never dreamed, 
 Perhaps, that the omission would be felt. 
 He thinks but little of the etiquette 
 And idle ceremonies of the world. 
 Surrounded by admirers, he is still 
 A solitary being on this earth. 
 It is his destiny ! for he was born 
 To tread the lofty, and the lonely track 
 Of talent and of genius ; and the crowd, 
 "Who seem to hold companionship with him, 
 Have still in spirit no communion. Life 
 Will be to him but as a meteor-spark, 
 Which flashes its bright light on others. Thus 
 The magic of his brilliant converse bids 
 The sands of Time to glitter as they pass 
 Like fabled gold beneath Pactolus' waves. 
 His smile comes o'er the an>:ious, troubled heart. 
 Like moonlight on the ocean, and his glance 
 Seems ever like the first bright star of eve, 
 The harbinger of sparkling gems concealed. 
 
REFLECTIONS ON NEW-YEARS EVENING. 77 
 
 But it is past for me ! The 'parted year 
 Has borne its pleasures with it, and has left 
 Its marks of desolation on my heart. 
 "What is existence worth when earth's best hopes 
 Have proved a falsehood and a mockery ! 
 When its bright dreams have faded, and its joys 
 Are covered by the hand of ruin ! Few 
 Would cling to life when happiness is fled, 
 But that there still is spread such mystery 
 Over the " visioned future," that we wait 
 Unconsciously for something yet in store : 
 Some unknown good, some unimagined bliss, 
 Some green oasis 'mid the desert waste. 
 Where lovely, fragrant flowers may bloom again, 
 And form, like Paestum's roses for the year, 
 A second spring in life. 
 
NEGLECT. 
 
 I CANNOT bear neglect ! It turns 
 
 My very heart to stone, — 
 Each mystic chord on which it strikes 
 
 Loses its master-tone. 
 It stops the springs of feehng, 
 
 And the current backward flows, 
 Till in its own deep fount it lies 
 
 In cold and dead repose. 
 
 I cannot bear neglect ! It kills 
 
 Life's sweetest sympathies ; 
 Checks kindly thoughts, and weaves a chain 
 
 Of sterile memories. 
 It comes like winter o'er the soul, 
 
 An ice-bolt on the heart. 
 Which melts not in affection's streams. 
 
 But freezes on apart. 
 
 Oh no, I cannot bear neglect ! 
 
 My heart grows cold and strange 
 Beneath its power, and o'er my mind 
 
 There comes a sullen change : 
 
NEGLECT. 79 
 
 It is not grief, I cannot y^e?, 
 
 Nor is it apathy, 
 But something which o'ershadows all 
 
 With stern misanthropy. 
 
TO E. S. S. 
 
 If thou hast ever loved me, 
 
 Oh, why not love me yet ! 
 I know not what has moved thee 
 
 Past friendship to forget. 
 No cause to thee I 've given, 
 
 By coldness, slight, or wrong, 
 That thus the chain be riven 
 
 Which bound our hearts so long. 
 
 The silence which is stealing 
 
 Between us should not be ; 
 Far better the revealing 
 
 Of thought unchecked and free. 
 I adjure thee, by the treasures 
 
 In the spirit-chamber stored. 
 To recall again the pleasures 
 
 Which would brighten at a word ! 
 
 By each remembered token 
 
 Of affection in the past. 
 By the words of love once spoken, 
 
 And gone forth upon the blast ; 
 
TO E. S. S. 81 
 
 By the forest, and the mountain, 
 
 Where we together roved, 
 I know there is a fountain 
 
 In thy heart, which may be moved. 
 
 By all the summer flowers 
 
 Which sprung beneath our feet. 
 By all the happy hours 
 
 Which sped on wings so fleet ; 
 By the chill winds of December, 
 
 And the fragrant breath of May, 
 I entreat thee to remember 
 
 The seasons passed away. 
 
 By the autumn's brilliant painting 
 
 In the woodland and the vale. 
 By the wind-harp's music fainting 
 
 With " rude Boreas' " dying wail ; 
 By scenes I cannot number 
 
 Of nature and of art, 
 I wake thee from the slumber 
 
 Which lies upon thy heart ! 
 
 By the rocks and by the river. 
 Where we were wont to stroll, 
 
 By our thanks to the Great Giver 
 Of sentiment and soul ; 
 6 
 
82 TO E. S. S. 
 
 By all our former kindness 
 In the halcyon years of yore, 
 
 Oh, let us not in blindness 
 Be severed evermore ! 
 
 By the sailing mists at morning, 
 
 And the gorgeous clouds at eve, 
 The sunset sky adorning, 
 
 Thy truth I would believe. 
 By all that we would cherish 
 
 Of the beautiful and fair, 
 Let not our first love perish, 
 
 Like a leaf upon the air ! 
 
 If thou hast ever loved me. 
 
 Turn not thy heart away. 
 Until thou well hast proved me, 
 
 Whate'er the world may say. 
 The links are not all broken 
 
 In friendship's golden chain, 
 Then, by each valued token, 
 
 I call thee back again ! 
 
ON READING A POEM 
 
 SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY A FORMER FRIEND, 
 AFTER A LONG SEPARATION. 
 
 It may be I am wrong 
 In the fond fancy, that some lines I read 
 Were written by thy hand ; for years have fled, 
 
 Dreary and sad and long, 
 Since last we parted, — I, to dream in vain 
 That we but parted then to meet again. 
 
 Time has not yet effaced 
 The memory of that dream, though o'er the past 
 Heavy and darkening shadows have been cast, 
 
 And hopes have run to waste 
 Which bloomed at first luxuriant, bright, and free, 
 Planted and nurtured and sustained by thee. 
 
 Hast thou forgotten all, — 
 All the fresh thoughts of youth ? Have they 
 
 been hurled 
 Far from thy heart upon the giddy world. 
 
 Till they are past recall ? 
 Then have I strung my lyre with fruitless care 
 To breathe its numbers on the empty air. 
 
84 ON READING A POEM. 
 
 I 
 
 Voiceless and echoless 
 Have been the years between us, from the hour 
 In which thy last words lingered with a power 
 
 Beyond forgetfulness. 
 Unnumbered links in memory's chain are wound 
 Around my heart. Are all from thine unbound ? 
 
 Oh yes ! for it were strange 
 If thou 'gainst Nature's jfickleness shouldst strive, 
 Or aught save woman's 7nemo'^y should survive 
 
 The wreck of time and change. 
 Man's thoughts upon the world's wild waves are 
 
 cast, — 
 The oblivious tide rolls on and drowns the past. 
 
 Then let me bid farewell 
 To the vain hopes which haunt my memory. 
 Long crushed within my heart why should they 
 be 
 
 A theme on which to dwell ? 
 Let them pass on and mingle with the dreams 
 Which vanish from the mind with morning beams. 
 
 Life once was bright to me ! 
 Thou knowest how bright its scenes when first 
 
 we met ! 
 How darkly since its morning sun is set, 
 
 I need not tell to thee : 
 
ON READING A POEM. 85 
 
 Unwelcome were the tale of after-years, 
 The history of the faith washed out in tears. 
 
 'T is done ! I ask thee not 
 For sympathy or interest in the past ; 
 I ask thee not if clouds have ne'er o'ercast 
 
 What seemed thy brighter lot ; 
 There 's naught for us in common on life's stage, 
 Since youth has yielded to maturer age. 
 
 But ah ! if e'er again 
 Our paths should meet, I would the mystery, 
 Which hangs around our parting hour, should be 
 
 Explained, although in vain ; 
 For I have sought to read it till my mind 
 Was like a sea of chaos, undefined. 
 
 Yet it were idle now 
 To wish the past unravelled — 't is too late ! 
 The dark threads woven in my web of fate 
 
 Have long since marked my brow 
 With traces of deep feelings' inward strife. 
 And crossed with sombre lines my path of life, 
 
 The future ne'er can bring 
 Back to my heart its early confidence : 
 For blank and cold and dull indifference 
 
 Has checked the elastic spring 
 
86 ON READING A POEM. 
 
 Of joyous hopes, and fancy's dreams of truth 
 Have fleeted with the visions of my youth. 
 
 Oh, they but mocked my heart ! 
 Truth is not born of earth : — enthroned in light, 
 It dwells unchanged, forever pure and bright. 
 
 From the false world apart ; 
 Based on the Roch of Ages,&\immg clear, 
 Unhurt by unbelief, unmoved by fear. 
 
 And now my lay is o'er ; 
 Already all too long has been the strain 
 Which only echoed back those thoughts again 
 
 That should return no more. 
 Then sleep, ye restless thoughts, nor ever tell 
 How sadly breathes my harp this last farewell. 
 
SING ME THAT SONG AGAIN! 
 
 Sing me that song again ! 
 A voice unheard by thee repeats the strain ; 
 And as its echoes on my fancy break, 
 
 Heart-strings and harp-chords wake. 
 
 Sing to my viewless lyre ! 
 Each note holds memories, as the flint holds fire ; 
 And while my heart-strings in sweet concert play, 
 
 Thought travels far away. 
 
 And back on laden wings, 
 The music of my better life it brings ; 
 For years of happiness, departed long. 
 
 Are shrined in that old song:. 
 
 \ 
 
 Its cadence on my ear 
 Falls, as the night falls in the moonlight clear, — 
 The darkness lost in Luna's glittering beams, 
 
 As I am lost in dreams. 
 
 Sing on, nor yet unbind 
 The chain that weaves itself about my mind, — 
 A chain of images which seem to rise 
 
 To life before my eyes. 
 
88 SING ME THAT SONG AGAIN! 
 
 The veil which hangs around 
 The past is lifted by the breath of sound, 
 As strong winds lift the dying leaves, and show 
 
 The hidden things below. 
 
 I listen to thy voice, 
 Impelled beyond the power of will or choice ; 
 And to those simple notes' mysterious chime 
 
 My rushing thoughts keep time. 
 
 The key of harmony 
 Has turned the rusted lock of memory, 
 And opened all its secret stores to light. 
 
 As by some wizard sprite. 
 
 But now the charm is past, 
 My heart-strings are too deeply wrung at last ; 
 And harp-chords strained too much refuse to 
 play 
 
 Longer an answering lay. 
 
 Thy music spell is o'er ! 
 And that old song, oh, sing it nevermore ; 
 It is so old, 't is time that it should die ! 
 
 forget it — 50 will I. 
 
 Let it in silence rest, 
 Guarded by thoughts which may not be ex- 
 pressed ; 
 
SING ME TEAT SONG AGAIN! 89 
 
 There was a love which chiiig to it of old, 
 That love has long been cold. 
 
 Then sing it not again ! 
 The voice that seemed to echo back the strain 
 Has filled succeeding years with discords strange, 
 
 Which no sweet sounds can change. 
 
 I would not hear it more ! 
 Let it be lost on Time's receding shore 
 Sing new songs now, to which no memories cling : 
 
 Most memories have tlieir sting. 
 
SHE KNEW SHE WAS DESERTED. 
 
 She knew she was deserted ! and when once 
 The full conviction settled on her mind 
 That he had left her, she broke through the spell 
 Which had enchained her heart's strong energies, 
 And was herself again. No longer bound 
 By love's despotic power, she strove to fill 
 The aching void in life with her rich thoughts, 
 Which sprung again unfettered ; and essayed 
 With fancy's dreams to charm the weary hours, 
 And cheer the isolated solitude 
 Which he had left around her. She despised 
 His utter selfishness ; and yet 't was long 
 Ere her crushed spirits could revive with all 
 Their early elasticity and power. 
 
 She knew that they were parted, 'dnd forever, 
 As wide as though the broad Atlantic's waves 
 Between them rolled, or Death had formed a 
 
 gulf 
 Darker and deeper than the trackless sea. 
 She cared not that the sky of their own land 
 
SHE KNEW SEE WAS DESERTED! 91 
 
 Spread the same clouds and sunshine o'er them 
 
 both. 
 'T were all the same to her ; she only felt 
 That the heart's chain was broken, and that life 
 Were all alike in any place, or part 
 Of the vast universe ! It was a blank — 
 The future, nothing ; and the past, one thought 
 Of his inconstancy. This haunted her 
 With an undying memory, blighting hope, 
 And making the green earth a desert waste. 
 
 She asked not why he had forsaken her ! — 
 If wealth had bought his love, or beauty made 
 To his own conscience an apology 
 For broken vows ; — whatever it might be, 
 She deemed that hers was but the common lot, 
 And called on reason and philosophy 
 To dissipate her heart's first agony. 
 Philosophy and reason ! Oh, how vain 
 Their lessons to the feelings ; they but teach 
 To hide them deeper, and to show a calm, t 
 Unruffled surface to the idle gaze. 
 And yet she studied them till passion's force 
 Yielded to their cold precepts, and her mind 
 Surmounted woman's weakness. She had borne 
 To see his love decrease by slow degrees : 
 So slight the change at first, it was not seen, 
 But only felt, — a doubt, a dread, a pang. 
 
92 ^7/^' KNEW SHE WAS DESERTED! 
 
 Passing at intervals across her heart, 
 And waking many a dark and bitter thought 
 Of fickleness in man, — but when the truth 
 Flashed suddenly upori her, clear and full, 
 The anguish and tlie bitterness were past. 
 
 The fountains of affection in her heart 
 
 Were frozen at their source. She had not loved 
 
 As me7i love who love often. Hers had been 
 
 A single sentiment for one alone — 
 
 An all-engrossing passion, which had lived 
 
 On hope and faith, till hope — fond woman's 
 
 hope — 
 Fled from her heart, and faith, — vain faith in 
 
 man — 
 Slid from its resting-place ; and then she felt 
 That love which clung to aught of earthly mould 
 As well were cast on the unstable sea, 
 Or the inconstant winds. Change passeth on, 
 And toucheth all things human, as it sweeps 
 O'er Nature's face with ever-varying shades. 
 
 And so it came at last, at last to her, — 
 The change from her deep love to cold contempt; 
 For woman's heart, though it forgiveth much 
 And trusteth long, is stronger in its scorn, 
 As it has greatly felt its trust deceived ! 
 
AWAY, THEN, TO THY PLEASURES! 
 
 Away, then, to thy pleasures ! 
 
 Thou hast sacrificed thy heart 
 To the cold, selfish world, with all 
 
 Its treachery and art. 
 And thou hast worshipped at the shrine 
 
 Of flattery, far and wide, 
 Till all thy better self is lost 
 
 In vanity and pride. 
 
 Away, then ! I have loved thee far 
 
 Too truly and too well ! 
 I would not call those feelings back, 
 
 Within my heart to dwell. 
 No, lady, no ! in bitterness 
 
 I gather up again 
 The fond affection wasted long 
 
 On one so wholly vain. 
 
 Go, listen, while thy beauty lasts, 
 
 To adulation's voice ; 
 Go, court the idle multitude. 
 
 The hydra of thy choice. 
 But think not, when the dark days come, 
 
 (As come they must to all,) 
 
94 AWAY, TEEN, TO TEY PLEASURES! 
 
 That tliou canst thy neglected friend 
 Again to thee recall. 
 
 Love's dying embers may not be 
 
 Relighted with a breath ; 
 The heart's allegiance broken once, 
 
 Is broken until death : 
 It may forgive, but ne'er can feel 
 
 Again as once it felt, 
 Although returning kindness strive 
 
 Its ice-bound streams to melt. 
 
 Go, with the lesson on thy mind, 
 
 That thy own constancy 
 Must be the talisman to keep 
 
 Another true to thee. 
 Away, while fashion's votaries wait 
 
 To follow in thy train, 
 And if among them one be dear, 
 
 That one, at least, retain. 
 
 The world thou lovest may bow a while 
 
 To thy unrivalled powers. 
 And o'er life's thorny path may hang 
 
 A coronal of flowers ; 
 But they will wither on thy brow, 
 
 As Time moves fleetly on. 
 And thou shalt sigh in after-years 
 
 For their fresh beauty, gone. 
 
SHE MEANT NOT TO DECEIVE HIM! 
 
 She meant not to deceive him, 
 And she shunned the ardent gaze 
 
 Which told he had misunderstood 
 Her friendly, winning ways. 
 
 But her bland and gentle manner 
 
 Had cheated him so long, 
 She knew not how to break the spell 
 
 Which had become so strong. 
 
 She felt that while he loved her 
 
 With a love all unreturned. 
 His trusting heart was ill-prepared 
 
 To have its offering spurned. 
 
 He came in full assurance 
 
 Of the hope which lured him on, 
 
 With manly pride and confidence 
 To claim her for his own. 
 
 And when her lingering answer 
 Fell coldly on his heart, 
 
96 SHE MEANT NOT TO DECEIVE HIM! 
 
 He spoke a few reproachful words 
 Of her coquettish art. 
 
 He said she had misled him 
 With affection's idle show, 
 
 Then wildly urged his suit again 
 In eloquence of woe. 
 
 He told her wealth was worthless, 
 And the world a desert waste, 
 
 If she refused his lot to share, 
 His cup of bliss to taste ; 
 
 And asked her but to give him 
 
 A hope for future years ; 
 Then looked into her earnest eyes, 
 
 And marked the starting tears. 
 
 She wept that she had clouded 
 
 The sunshine of his life, 
 And struggled with regretful thoughts. 
 
 And warrinof feelins^s' strife ; 
 
 For gladly she 'd have saved him 
 From disappointment's dart, 
 
 With aught but the one sacrifice 
 Of an unlovinor heart. 
 
SHE MEANT NOT TO DECEIVE HIM! 97 
 
 He felt it, and he yielded, 
 
 For he knew the die was cast ; 
 
 There was no other hope for hmi, 
 But to forget the past. 
 
 And slowly he forgave her 
 
 For her sweet and winning ways. 
 
 And tlien they parted, — nevermore 
 To meet in after-days. 
 
THE MEETING. 
 
 Yet once again we met ! 
 And thou wert still unaltered ; and my heart 
 Forgave the world its fickl^eness, in which 
 
 Tliou hadst no part : 
 And I forgot that thou couldst never be 
 More than a thought — a memory to me ! 
 
 It matters not. Life's joys 
 Are half of hope and half of memory made, 
 And both are dreams ; and happiness itself 
 
 Is but a shade.: 
 Before us ever in the distant view, 
 We grasp it not, however we pursue. 
 
 And yet to meet thee thus, 
 After long months of absence, and to see 
 Thy smile the same, and feel that Time had 
 wrought 
 
 No change in thee. 
 Were something more than those unreal things, 
 Which hope oft promises and memory brings. 
 
THE MEETING. 99 
 
 But we have parted now ! 
 Thou to sail lightly on with fortune's tide, 
 With hope's bright colors spread before thy view; 
 
 And I, to chide 
 The lingering moments, with but memory's power 
 To cheer the gloom of each succeedhig hour. 
 
MIDNIGHT. 
 
 The noisy city's busy hum is o'er, 
 And man's unquiet spirit rests a while 
 From care, and the exciting scenes of day. 
 In sweet and soothing slumber. Not a sound 
 Breaks through the stillness, saving now and then 
 The distant echo of the watchman's tread, 
 Or the loud clock, which counts the weary hours 
 With warning voice, and tells us that old Time, 
 With unseen steps, is passing to the end 
 Of his long journey. On, and cnward still. 
 The hoary pilgrim moves with steady course, 
 Ceaseless as Ixion's wheel ; nor ever stops 
 For childhood's frolic sports, nor youth's bright 
 
 days 
 Of thoughtless pleasure. — 
 
 What are these to him ? 
 The hopes, the joys, the opening flowers of life. 
 Are annuals which daily bloom and die 
 Along his way ; and yet why should we grieve 
 At their brief reign, while still before us lies 
 A wide, untrodden path of novelty, 
 
MIDNIGHT. 101 
 
 Full of strange chances and unthought of turns, 
 Which often lead to some fresh bower of bliss, 
 More beautiful than all we 've left behind ; 
 Or some calm stream unruffled in its course, 
 Whose waves, charmed by the gentle Halcyon's 
 
 power, 
 Flow smoothly on amidst the gusts of life. 
 And fertilize the scene, till it becomes 
 A garden in the bleak world's desert, where 
 The seeds of happiness may strike their roots, 
 And blossom into amaranthine flowers. 
 
 What matters it that pleasure's colors change 
 Like the chameleon's hues ? The next may be 
 More brilliant than the last ; and is it not 
 The part of wisdom still to snatch the good 
 The present yields ? What are our vain regrets 
 For joys departed, but an aconite 
 Whose fatal influence lurks beneath the smiles 
 Of each new hojDC ? My heart convinces me 
 That this is true, but ah, I profit not ! 
 This summer night, this fairy moonlight scene. 
 The sparkling beauty of the azure sky, 
 Gemmed with the myriad throng of countless 
 
 stars. 
 Which seem the subjects of the Queen of night 
 Through her inconstant reign ; — this solitude. 
 So still, so desolate, where late the crowd 
 
102 3IIDN1GHT. 
 
 Passed o'er the spot ; and the few scattered trees 
 "Which spread their green, refreshing shade 
 
 above 
 The bare and heated pavements — all bring back 
 Thoughts of the past. — 
 
 Can this be summer too ? 
 Oh, how unlike the summers fled, to nie ! 
 The scene is changed, and yet it is the same. 
 The season and the midnight hour have come, 
 But something that belonged to them is lost. 
 The moon's unclouded beams still light the place 
 Where others sat with me, but none are there 
 To fill the picture now. I am alone, 
 Alone and yet content to be alone ! 
 I seek not the companions of the past ! 
 I do not hope what I have hoped, nor wish 
 What I have wished, nor love with the same 
 
 warmth 
 And depth of feeling all that I have loved ! 
 
 Late is the lesson learned, but it is learned, — 
 That deep affections have been wasted long, 
 Like music's voice upon the idle wind ; 
 But not like uttered sounds have they gone forth 
 Forever from my heart. They have returned 
 Unshackled to their isolated home, — 
 Free, but oppressed with the dark memory 
 Of their past bondage, as if not a thought 
 
MIDNIGHT. 103 
 
 Could ever rest with interest on the things 
 Or beings which compose this world ; but still 
 Some blot or stain is left. Follies and faults 
 Hang oii the mind, and something of the touch 
 Of human passions clings to the sad heart. 
 
 Why pass they not as from the evening sky 
 The clouds have passed, nor left one shade to dim 
 The brilliancy above ? It may not, cannot be ! 
 The clouds of life (like footsteps on the snow. 
 Which wear not out but with the snow itself) 
 Their traces leave upon the spirit still. 
 E'en when their shadowy gloom seems to have 
 
 vanished. 
 And oh, they change into a thousand shapes. 
 Some hue still catching from the changeful 
 
 world. 
 Till weary feeling with new longing turns 
 To seek relief in happier thoughts of heaven ! 
 
THE OLD, OLD STORY. 
 
 Her look was calm, but it was not 
 The calm of peace ; it rather seemed 
 
 Like resignation to her lot ; 
 
 And yet a stranger would have deemed 
 
 That she was blest, for all around 
 
 Showed wealth and power and luxury, 
 
 And nothing told the secret wound 
 Of inward misery. 
 
 Her dwelling was a place of pride, 
 
 Which stood in lofty grandeur ; wide 
 
 Its shadow fell o'er the rich green 
 
 Which formed a carjoet for the scene ; 
 
 And flowers of every name were there, — 
 
 The wild, the beautiful, the rare ; 
 
 The climbing vines supporters found 
 
 In bowers amid the fairy ground ; 
 
 The ancient elm-trees cast their shade 
 
 Along the gravelled walks, where played 
 
 The moonbeams through their spreading boughs, 
 
 A fitting place for lovers' vows. 
 
THE OLD, OLD STORY. 105 
 
 Tlie graceful larch, and locust too, 
 Gave varied beauty to the view ; 
 And near, where gushing waters streamed, 
 The cypress and the willow seemed, 
 Amidst the brilliance and the bloom. 
 The only things of grief and gloom. 
 
 And was it so ? No, there was one, 
 
 The heiress of that rich domain, 
 Who, while she basked in Fortune's sun, 
 
 Still felt that its cold light was vain. 
 She had been an enthusiast 
 
 In Nature's beauties ; o'er her heart 
 A spirit of romance had passed, 
 
 Which did to every scene impart 
 A charm unfelt by others. Still 
 She knew not that the gift to feel 
 Such pure and exquisite delight 
 Was a misfortune ; that the blight 
 Of sorrow falls most fatally 
 Upon the mind thus doomed to be 
 The home of deep refinement : there 
 Comes disappointment and despair, 
 The subtile and envenomed dart. 
 The deadly mildew of the heart. 
 She knew not this when her young eye 
 Saw so much beauty in the sky ; 
 So much of untold loveliness 
 
106 THE OLD, OLD STORY. 
 
 In the green earth in summer's dress ; 
 Or such wild grandeur in the waves 
 Which sparkle o'er old ocean's caves. 
 
 Her spirit drank too freely then 
 The draught of unimpassioned bliss, 
 
 As if such were a specimen 
 
 Of earth's best, truest happiness. 
 
 But life has brighter dreams than thesC; 
 
 And the heart warmer sympathies ; 
 
 And o'er the careless hours of youth 
 
 There comes a vision fair as truth. 
 
 And false as fair ; for many prove 
 
 There is no constancy in love. 
 
 To man it is a changeful mood, 
 
 A fitful feeling oft forgot ; 
 To woman, in her solitude, 
 
 It is the theme of every thought. 
 But few can feel its powerful thrill 
 
 LiJ^e her, the gifted one, who drew 
 Genius, and taste, and fancy still 
 
 From that deep passion : yet none knew 
 The cause which gently stole the mirth 
 
 From her bright smile, and to her eye 
 Gave an expression, not of earth, — 
 
 A something spiritual, high, 
 Which spoke of intellectual things 
 
THE OLD, OLD STORY. 107 
 
 Called forth by her imaginings. 
 But suddenly the dream was gone : 
 He left her, and she stood alone. 
 
 It seemed as if she heeded not 
 
 The cold neglect, and yet it wrung 
 The life-blood from her heart ; but wrought 
 
 No outward change. Her steps still sprung 
 Light in the dance ; and still her eye 
 
 With its mild, star-Hke beauty beamed ; 
 Her smile was given more pensively. 
 
 But yet on all around it gleamed. 
 And long with dignity she strove 
 To dwell on other themes, to love 
 The things she once had loved. 'T was vain ; 
 The faded vision came again. 
 And then her cheek grew pale ; but none 
 Could tell why youth's fresh bloom had flown. 
 They said it was consimipiton. True, 
 It WO.S, but that was all they knew. 
 
 Her parents watched the slow decline, 
 And vainly tried each healing art ; 
 
 They bore her to a foreign clime, 
 And wept to find their hopes depart. 
 
 A while she struggled with her fate, 
 
 That they should not be desolate. 
 
 But 't was in vain ; for where was he 
 
108 THE OLD, OLD STORY. 
 
 With whom " life was all poetiy ! " 
 Without him, it was valueless ; 
 And thus in her heart's loneliness 
 She died ; and soon her father's lands 
 And wealth passed into strangers' hands. 
 
LIFE'S FALLEN STAR. 
 
 A STAR rose on my early days, 
 
 A bright, and dazzling spark 
 Of light and hope ; its cheering rays 
 Shone o'er life's cold and thorny ways ; 
 It fell, and life was dark ! 
 
 I grieved to see it leave its sphere. 
 And sink from its high place ; 
 I watched it with a silent tear, 
 And deemed no other light could cheer 
 My path through this world's waste. 
 
 And oh, I turned in weariness 
 
 From Pleasure's siren call ! 
 Her voice had then no ix)wer to bless, 
 Her fairest scenes were valueless, 
 
 Nor could my heart enthrall. 
 
 But years have passed, — and Time will dull 
 
 The feelings' first keen edoe ; 
 And from the good and beautiful 
 Unconsciously some hopes we cull, 
 Of future peace the pledge. 
 
110 
 
 LIFE'S FALLEN STAR. 
 
 Yet still in hours of gloom I weep 
 
 Over that fallen Star. 
 There are some memories so deep, 
 They cannot fly, they may not sleep, 
 
 Though fixed in Time afar. 
 
 There are some thoughts that seem to cling 
 
 Forever round the heart ; 
 They come when hope is blossoming, 
 And live, e'en while 't is withering, 
 
 As if of life a part. 
 
 And there are shadows of the past 
 
 That will our steps pursue ; 
 The ghosts of joys which could not last, 
 Which oft a mourning mantle cast 
 
 O'er pleasure's sunny hue. 
 
 But there is only one short dream 
 
 Of love and happiness. 
 It floats in life's bright morning beam, 
 Then glides along Time's rapid stream 
 
 To fairer worlds than this. 
 
TO MY HARP. 
 
 Haep of the mournful strings ! 
 I cannot tune my numbers e'en to thee ! 
 There has a deep and skiggish lethargy 
 
 Crept o'er my spirits' wings ; 
 Some incubus is on them ; whence its birth 
 I know not, but it bears them down to earth. 
 
 My thoughts no longer soar 
 To Fancy's regions, when the mists of gloom 
 Gather in shadows o'er them, to relume 
 
 Their dying light once more. 
 Chained as by magic to one wildering dream, 
 They powerless lie, without e'en hope's faint 
 beam. 
 
 Canst thou not break the spell. 
 Once potent lyre, and bid them rise again ? 
 Is there no chord I may not touch in vain 
 
 Where song was wont to dwell ? 
 Awake, awake once more thy siren art ; 
 Give back thy distant echoes to my heart ! 
 
112 TO MY HARP. 
 
 Flow o'er the silent hour ! 
 For crowded thoughts lie dark and heavily 
 Upon my mind ; their weight oppresses me 
 
 With an unusual power. i 
 
 Let me cast off their galling bondage now, 
 And only to thy master-spirit bow. 
 
 Harp of the mournful strings ! ' 
 
 Thou hast a charm in every music-tone, 
 A soothing spell for every bright dream flown, 
 
 Giving to sorrow wings. 
 Friend of my better days, I turn to thee, 
 As the lone star, o'er life's dark destiny ! 
 
 All other lights depart. 
 Or prove but treacherous guides to happiness ; 
 Luring through dangers to some strange excess 
 
 Of feeling in the heart. 
 Kindling a while a wild and scorching fire, 
 Over the seared hopes' ruins to expire. 
 
 But thou, my harp, so long 
 Companion of my thoughts, canst change at will 
 The thronging memories on thy chords that 
 thrill ; 
 
 Till, yielding to thy song, 
 The past flings back a mild and softened glow. 
 Divested of its bitterness and woe. 
 
TO MY HARP. 113 
 
 Forsake me not, my lyre ! 
 I seek not fame in thy rude minstrelsy ; 
 Not in ambition do I ask of thee 
 
 My nmnbers to inspire. 
 But thou canst bring relief, and teach my heart 
 How with its idle dreams and hopes to part. 
 
THEY TELL ME HE IS CHANGED. 
 
 They tell me he is changed, — that time 
 
 Has thinned his hair, and marked his brow, 
 And altered him so much, that I 
 
 Should scarcely know him now. 
 It may be so ; yet it were strange 
 
 If time had left no trace behind 
 Whereby the memory of a friend 
 
 Might some resemblance find. 
 
 It may be so. They say that grief 
 
 Has stolen the bloom of health away, 
 Yet left a flush in either cheek, 
 
 As if to mock decay. 
 They say that busy care has been 
 
 At work wifhin his heart so long, 
 That the free thoughts of youth are lost 
 
 Its tangled web among. 
 
 They hinted that his early love 
 Was lingering in his bosom yet ; 
 
 Strange that in man faith should be found, — 
 That he should noi forget ! 
 
THEY TELL ME HE IS CHANGED. 115 
 
 It may be so ; but much I doubt 
 If such indeed the truth can be ; 
 
 'T is so unlike all that has passed 
 Within my memory. 
 
 They tell me he has toiled for wealth, 
 
 And found it in a foreign land ; 
 But Fortune's treasures have been bought 
 
 Full dearly at his hand. 
 For health is wrecked amid the hopes 
 
 Which float upon life's treacherous wave ; 
 And now they say his gold may buy 
 
 Perhaps — a stranger^ s grave ! 
 
 They speak of it in careless tones, 
 
 And idly breathe their prophecy ; 
 As if the thought of losing him 
 
 Were nothing but to me. 
 They do not know the loneliness 
 
 Death has already round me cast, 
 The gloom upon the future thrown, 
 
 The diflerence of the past. 
 
 But ah, they tell me he is changed ! 
 
 That memory would in vain recall 
 The looks, the smiles of other days, — 
 
 That he has lost them all. 
 
116 THEY TELL ME HE IS CHANGED. 
 
 It may be so. I cannot tell ; 
 
 The outward signs I do not see ; 
 An altered heart is all I fear, 
 
 For that were all to me. 
 
 ! 
 
A LIFE MEMORY. 
 
 There is one memory fastened on my heart ! 
 It lies far back among the earliest dreams 
 Which gave to life its beauty and its charm. 
 Years have rolled over it, and chance and 
 
 change 
 Have turned the scenes and visions of that time 
 To chaos in my mind, yet that remains ; 
 As separate and distinct, as if but now 
 It had gone by, — the last thing that had left 
 Its impress on my thoughts. 
 
 'T is like the rock 
 O'er which the dashing waves may foam and 
 
 break, 
 And leave it still the same ; still ever there, 
 Unmoved by Time ; and so that memory stays 
 Beyond oblivion's power, and brighter grows 
 As other things grow dim and pass away. 
 Shadows and clouds have gathered over it, — 
 Resentment, indignation, and the pride 
 Of injured feeling, — all, all have conspired 
 To smother or erase it, but in vain. 
 It pierces each new vail, chills each new hope, 
 And reigns alone triumphant ! Bursting still 
 
118 A LIFE 31 EMORY. 
 
 With overwhelming force on every scene 
 
 Of gayety and pleasure, till I turn 
 
 From present things to what has been ! It comes 
 
 With necromantic spell to conjure up 
 
 The spirit of the past, and lives with me 
 
 As if it held communion with the soul, 
 
 And borrowed from it immortality. 
 
 I cannot hear a voice of merriment, 
 
 But still that memory mingles in the sound ; 
 
 Nor a rich note of music on the air. 
 
 But 't is the echo to each floating tone ; — 
 
 In joy or sorrow, gladness, melancholy, 
 
 Something is blended still, which turns them all 
 
 To one unvarying, fixed, eternal thought. 
 
 I cannot look upon a woodland scene. 
 
 But every leaf is like a volume, filled 
 
 With that one recollection ; not a flower 
 
 But has it stamped upon its opening bloom ; 
 
 Nor brooks, nor streams, nor oceans, but have all 
 
 A voice to speak of it. A lonely thing 
 
 Is that deep memory ; for there cannot come 
 
 Another like it in one little life ! 
 
 J 
 
OUR FRIENDSHIP IS A VANISHED 
 DREAM. 
 
 Our friendship is a vanished dream, 
 
 Which time can ne'er restore us ! 
 For the dark waves of Lethe's stream 
 
 Are rushing on before us. 
 Our feet will soon its waters touch, 
 
 Our burning lips ^vill drink them. 
 And these wild thoughts which pain so much. 
 
 We ne'er again shall think them ! 
 
 A little while, and we shall meet 
 
 Without a trace of feeling ; 
 And coldly smile, and coldly greet. 
 
 With brow and heart congealing. 
 A little while I but ah, not yet ! 
 
 Some hours are still remaining, 
 Of deep and sad and vain regret. 
 
 No hope the soul sustaining. 
 
 Those hours are drifting to their doom 
 
 On life's unstable ocean. 
 Which, with its beating billows, soon 
 
 Will stifle all emotion. 
 
120 OUR FRIENDSHIP IS A VANISHED DEE AM. 
 
 Thpn, like the faithful carrier-bird, 
 ^ate will have done her mission, 
 
 And we may meet without a word 
 Or smile of recognition. 
 
 The cold, averted eye will chase 
 
 Each thought of soul-communion, 
 Each fleeting fancy that might place 
 
 New faith in love's reunion. 
 Strangers are not so far apart 
 
 In high and lowly station. 
 As we, with each an altered heart, 
 
 In this our separation. 
 
 Our friendship is a vanished dream ! 
 
 Its light no longer glowing, 
 Flashed o'er us like a meteor gleam, 
 
 A moment's brilliance throwing. 
 All things were in that light illumed. 
 
 All hopes in it united ; 
 Its burning rays itself consumed, 
 
 And left us all benighted. 
 
 There was a time when I believed 
 No change our hearts could sever : 
 
 How easily we are deceived 
 By that mistaken never / 
 
OUR FRIENDSHIP IS A VANISHED DREAM. 121 
 
 The cheated heart sighs o'er the past, 
 
 The words so falsely spoken, 
 And tacitly we feel at last 
 
 Our covenant is broken. 
 
THOU S AYE ST IT. 
 
 Thou sayest that I recall to mind 
 
 Those things which give me pain. 
 Ah, no ; unbidden they return, 
 
 Unconscious I complain ! 
 But if to speak of them to thee 
 
 Can one regret impart, 
 I '11 place a guard upon my words, 
 
 And keep them in my heart. 
 
 I would not bring one passing cloud 
 
 To shade thy brighter lot, 
 Nor wake again those deep-toned chords 
 
 Of feeling, now forgot. 
 Yet sometimes will these dark thoughts rush 
 
 Across the breathing wire. 
 Like the unfettered winds that sweep 
 
 The wild ^olian lyre. 
 
 Thou sayest I can do what I will ; 
 
 'T is well, — I will forget 
 That thou hast e'er to friendship owed 
 
 A deeper, holier debt. 
 
TEOU SAYEST IT. 123 
 
 And I will think of thee as one, 
 
 Not what he seems to be, 
 Whose words are like the empty air, 
 
 The bubble on the sea. 
 
 But for the sake of other days. 
 
 The visions of the past, 
 I fain would know that thou art blest, 
 
 Where'er thy lot is cast. 
 And yet I smile, for Fate has placed 
 
 Between our destinies 
 A gulf, that soon will swallow up 
 
 These idle memories. 
 
 Thou sayest it ! And though the change 
 
 To fancy's eye appears, 
 I cannot in a moment lose 
 
 The interest felt for years. 
 We part reluctantly with thoughts 
 
 Long cherished in the heart. 
 And sigh, as one by one the dreams 
 
 Of life's bright morn depart. 
 
 Vain shadows all ! I would not now 
 
 That they returned to me. 
 In their first golden colors drest, 
 
 Their early brilliancy. 
 
124 THOU SAFEST IT. 
 
 For ah, this world, however fair, 
 Has nothing worth regret, 
 
 Except the wasted feelings spent 
 On some that we have met ! 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 WRITTEN IN AN UNKNOWN LADY'S ALBUM AT THE BEQUEST 
 OF A GENTLEMAN. 
 
 'T WAS a beautiful thought in the annals of tinie 
 That suggested the Album to man — 
 
 In which to display the enchantments of rhyme, 
 Or the precepts of reason to scan ; 
 
 In which to paint gayly the colors of hope, 
 Leaving years the illusion to prove ; 
 j To give to the wild wings of fancy free scope 
 I In the regions of friendship and love. 
 
 1 To fasten a link upon memory's chain, 
 
 I Which shall strengthen and brighten with age ; 
 
 I To call back the absent, and see them again 
 
 ' In the magical light of each page. 
 
 Then go, little book ! — win the Muses to smile 
 While the flowers of poetry spring ; 
 
 From the deep mine of thought draw forth 
 treasures the while. 
 And bid talent its offerings bring. 
 
126 STANZAS. 
 
 With silent persuasion ask gifts of each friend 
 
 To hoard in the far-coming years ; 
 As cherished mementos their names to defend 
 
 'Midst the rising of future compeers. 
 
 Go forth on thy mission. Tell Genius and Taste, 
 On these pages their gems should be laid, ' 
 
 Which Morris and Woodworth and Wetmore have 
 graced 
 With a beauty that never can fade. 
 
PARTING OF THE SPANISH LOVERS. 
 
 In the clime where fruits and flowers 
 
 Spring spontaneous to the hand, 
 Where the fairy-footed hours 
 
 Measure time with golden sand, 
 Where Castilia's breezy mountains 
 
 Bound a region of romance. 
 There, from out the soul's deep fountains, 
 
 Wells the love that life enchants ; — 
 
 Love, that from its wildest dreaming 
 
 Ripens in the youthful heart. 
 Till the noon-sun's brightest beaming 
 
 Could not half such warmth impart ; 
 Nor the rose, with fragrance laden, 
 
 And as beautiful as sweet, 
 Rival now that Spanish maiden 
 
 Sitting at her lover's feet 
 
 On the light guitar, her fingers 
 Tremble as she strikes the chords ; 
 
 Plumed and spurred, Alvarez lingers 
 For Enrica's parting words. 
 
128 PARTING OF TEE SPANISH LOVERS. 
 
 See ! her music notes unheeded 
 
 On the balcony remain ; 
 Written music is not needed ; 
 
 Love and grief dictate the strain. 
 
 " Oh, ask me not to sing thee 
 The song that won thy heart ! 
 
 Dark visions only bring me 
 The thought that we must part. 
 
 " How can the notes of gladness 
 
 Reecho to my hand, 
 When fears, akin to madness, 
 
 Resist my will's command ? 
 
 *' Tell not the war's sad story, — 
 That duty calls thee hence ; 
 
 Boast not the soldier's glory ! 
 Say, where 's thy life's defence ? 
 
 V Ah, could I live without thee ? — 
 Believe not aught so vain ! 
 
 Wrap but tliis thought about thee, 
 / die if thou art slain / 
 
 " Hast thou not twined the flower 
 Of memory in my hair, 
 
PARTING OF THE SPANISH LOVERS. 129 
 
 And bid me at this hour 
 
 The ' forget-me-not ' to wear ? 
 
 " Forget thee / If suspicion 
 
 One moment rest with thee, 
 I yield thee to ambition ! 
 
 Alvarez thou art free ! 
 
 " If my true soul has never 
 
 To thee itself revealed, 
 Then let it now forever 
 
 In mystery be concealed. 
 
 " But no : I dare not cherish 
 These dreamings dark and dire ; 
 
 For love, with doubt would perish. 
 And life with hope expire. 
 
 " Faith springs again, unblighted 
 
 By wayward fancy's powers ; 
 In heart and soul united. 
 
 One memory shall be ours. 
 
 " And hope, in light bark sailing, 
 
 Unfurls her banner bright. 
 As morning breaks unfailing: 
 
 Above the darkest night." 
 
180 PARTING OF THE SPANISH LOVERS. 
 
 Now silence weaves a holier spell 
 
 Upon the twilight hour ; 
 The spirit only breathes farewell 
 In many a wild, tumultuous swell, 
 
 Betraying love's deep power. 
 
 Enrica's harp has lost its tone, 
 
 The strings no longer sound ; 
 The dove unto her nest has flown, 
 The orange -trees have darker grown, 
 The shadows fall around. 
 
 The castle-turret, far away. 
 
 Looks dimly o'er the scene ; 
 The dew-drops gather on the spray, 
 Fit nectar for the midnight fay, 
 
 "While sporting on the green. 
 
 Not yet the first pale star above 
 
 Gleams on a moveless leaf; 
 Soft twilight falls on flower and grove, — 
 Sweet, dreamy twilight, true to love. 
 
 Perchance, because so brief. 
 
 O Love ! acknowledged everywhere, 
 
 And felt in every clime ; 
 Subtle and deep ! the young heart's snare. 
 
 1 
 
PARTING OF THE SPANISH LOVERS. 131 
 
 Dwelling in earth, breathing in air, 
 And living through all Time. 
 
 Yet never comes but once the dream, 
 
 So magical in youth, — 
 The fairy sparkle on life's stream, 
 The mystic, brilliant, spirit-gleam 
 
 Of ever changeless truth. 
 
THE SISTERS AND STEP-MOTHER. 
 
 Two sisters — one a little child, 
 The other but half grown — 
 
 Together watched the setting sun 
 Which through the casement shone. 
 
 They waited in their lonely home, 
 Where late their mother died. 
 
 Their father's coming, who had gone 
 To wed another bride. 
 
 And thus they stood, their twining arms 
 
 About each other wound, 
 In token of affection's ties 
 
 By which their hearts were bound. 
 
 The bridal company arrived, 
 And they went forth to meet 
 
 Their father and their father's wife, 
 With slow and lingering feet. 
 
 A beauteous and a gentle dame, — 
 They gazed upon her face, — 
 
 And then the elder sister spoke 
 With sweet and native grace : 
 
THE SISTERS AND STEP-MOTHER. 133 
 
 " A welcome for my father's sake 
 
 I fain would give to thee ; 
 Oh, for his sake, be kind to us, — 
 
 This little one and me ! " 
 
 The younger clasped the lady's neck, 
 
 And smilingly she said : 
 " Mother, I 'm glad you 've come again ; 
 
 They told me you were dead." 
 
 These simple greetings touched a chord 
 
 In that fair lady's heart. 
 And inwardly she made a vow 
 To act the mother's part. 
 
 Her promise she has well fulfilled 
 
 Unto those sisters twain : 
 The mother lost has been in her 
 
 Restored to them again. 
 
TO A FRIEND. 
 
 Thou art not happy, or else why 
 That thoughtful brow and frequent sigh ? 
 Thou art not happy, though that smile 
 May less observing eyes beguile. 
 But me thou canst not thus deceive ! 
 Thou art not happy, and I grieve 
 That thou art not ; for ah, I know 
 Thou fain wouldst have us think thee so I 
 
 But if thou wert as happy here 
 As thou wouldst to tliy friends appear ; 
 And if that smile which still must please, 
 Were emblem of a heart at ease ; 
 Or if we could, with anxious care, 
 Dispel that thoughtful look and air, — 
 Oh, we would use our best endeavor 
 To keep thee at our vale forever ! 
 
THE VISIT. 
 
 'T WAS like a sunbeam glancing bright 
 Through clouds and summer showers ; 
 
 For thus it threw a sudden light 
 O'er dark and lonely hours. 
 
 It broke the dull monotony 
 
 Of life's unvaried scene ; 
 Oh, such the visits doomed to be 
 
 Too " few and far between ! '* 
 
 With eagle speed the moments flew 
 On wings which joy had plumed ; 
 
 And still to joy the wings were true, 
 By flying while it bloomed. 
 
 The smile of welcome o'er the brow 
 Scarce lit a transient gleam 
 
 When came the parting hour ; and now 
 The whole is like a dream. 
 
REMINISCENCES. 
 
 There 's a longing wish that will sometimes 
 
 come 
 For the first bright scenes of my childhood's 
 
 home! 
 For the level fields, and the buttonwood trees, 
 And the pm-e, fresh rush of the ocean-breeze ; 
 The robin that woke me at break of day, 
 And the fragrant scent of the new-mown hay, 
 And my own loved rose-bush, that bloomed to 
 
 dress 
 My window with its rich loveliness. 
 
 I think of the flowers which blossomed there, 
 And I seem to breathe the untainted air ; 
 "Wild fancy flies o'er the wide-spread plain, 
 And I would that I were a child again ! 
 Gazing at eve on the star-lit skies. 
 Or the sunset clouds with their gorgeous dyes, 
 Changing as night drew her dusky line : 
 Oh, what changes of feeling have since been 
 mine! 
 
REMINISCENCES. 137 
 
 How the traceless years, as they swiftly fly, 
 Crush hope's fair blossoms, and leave them to 
 
 die! 
 How the blights of the world, as they fall on the 
 
 heart, 
 Spread ruins around it which never depart ! 
 Yet memory still lingers along that shore 
 Where the glorious waves roll up evermore ; 
 And I sigh as I think that no visions can come 
 Like those which encircled my youth's happy 
 
 home ! 
 
 They can never return, those bright hours, again ! 
 O'er the gleamings of pleasure rest shadows of 
 
 pain. 
 The summer may seem, as in past seasons, gay ; 
 The roses bloom full through the long June day ; 
 The snow-drop and daisy may spring in the grass 
 Round the footsteps of strangers who carelessly 
 
 pass ; 
 The sun his broad beams may cast over the sea ; 
 But all things are altered — oh, all things to me ! 
 
SOUTHAMPTON. 
 
 I 'm here again in my early home, 
 
 By the broad Atlantic's shore ; 
 Again through familiar paths I roam, 
 
 Still dear as in days of yore. 
 
 Again on the waves of memory cast, 
 
 I forget that my youth is flown ; 
 Though the hand of change has slowly passed 
 
 O'er the face of the ancient town. 
 
 But it mattei-s not that the outward scene 
 
 Is altered here and there, — 
 That where some gray old house had been 
 
 Now stands a fabric fair. 
 
 Nor care I much that from the street 
 
 Old landmarks are removed, 
 While still I find that true hearts beat 
 
 In the bosoms of friends beloved. 
 
SOUTHAMPTON. 139 
 
 And I listen once more to the sounding sea, 
 
 With its mournful monotone, 
 Till with friends and sea, all the same to me, 
 
 I forget that my youth is flown. 
 
 But the fairy dream must soon unfold 
 
 Itself in the sterner tmth, 
 Which whispers ever, " I'm growing old" 
 
 Though I look on the scenes of youth. 
 
 And now farewell to my early home, 
 
 To friends, and village dear ; 
 Wherever my future steps may roam, 
 
 My heart will linger here. 
 
MY GERANIUM. 
 
 " I never loved a tree or flower. 
 But 'twas the first to fade away." 
 
 Oh, no, it will not flourish 'neath my hand ! 
 
 It grew in beauty rare while unobserved 
 
 And left neglected ; but when suddenly 
 
 I saw its full and rich luxuriance, 
 
 Its thick and crowded leaves, as green and bright 
 
 As England's boasted forest foliage, 
 
 I took it from its hiding-place, and cast 
 
 An eye of love upon it. Better far 
 
 Had it remained forgotten in the shade, 
 
 And died " the death of flowers," when winter's 
 
 blast 
 Pierced through the sheltering vine, whose ten- 
 drils twined 
 Around its slender stems. 
 
 Why did I break 
 So beautiful a union ? why unwind 
 The graceful, clasping vine, that in its place 
 My waste affections might entwine themselves ? 
 Oh, they have been but hke the deadly night- 
 shade, 
 
il/r GERANIUM. 141 
 
 Killing what they embraced ! It is in vain 
 I watch and nurse and cherish it ; it droops 
 And withers and decays ; 't would almost seem, 
 As by a strange and mystic sympathy, 
 It felt the chill which circles round my heart, 
 And knew that the seared feelings could alone 
 Claim with the yellow leaf, affinity. 
 
 Perhaps its freshness had too much the air 
 
 Of the first Paradise, still to thrive on 
 
 Where human passions come like darkling clouds, 
 
 To mar, full often, nature's loveliness ; 
 
 Or it might be that its green beauty wore 
 
 Too much the coloring of hope and joy. 
 
 To flourish long where they so frequent die, — 
 
 Too much the hue of the young thoughts, whose 
 
 themes 
 Are brighter than the brightest thing on earth ! 
 Or else it was that I had found in it 
 Something to love, — something on which to 
 
 dwell 
 In confidence, that, as it grew more dear 
 From habit, or association's power, 
 It would not leave me. How could 1 forget 
 That all things are unstable ; that to hope, 
 Is to be disappointed ; and to love. 
 Is but to spend the feelings' force and life 
 Upon a wild and speculative dream ! 
 
TO DR. F : 
 
 ON HEARING HIM RELATE A PORTIOX OF HIS HISTORY 
 UPON WHICH HE REMARKED, 
 
 " It has cast a Rlooin over my whole life." 
 
 Oh, say not that a gloom is cast 
 
 O'er all thy future hours ! 
 It cannot be, e'en should the past 
 
 Have had few of life's flowers. 
 
 Regret it not : an early doom 
 The spring's fair buds pursue ; 
 
 The autumn-flowers the longest bloom, 
 And wear the brightest hue. 
 
 And there are some now blossoming 
 
 o ■ 
 
 To make thy pathway bright, — 
 To form a garland fresh as spring, 
 And beautiful as light. 
 
 These are fame, honor, friendship, love, — 
 
 The fairest flowers on earth, 
 Which bloom for man ; oh, may they prove 
 
 To thee their fullest worth ! 
 
THE CLOUDS. 
 
 The clouds, how beautifully now 
 
 They tint the evening sky ! 
 Eesting upon the mountain's brow, 
 
 Or floating gently by. 
 The light mists gathering o'er the trees 
 
 Their dusky colors lose. 
 And fancy many an image sees, 
 
 As thought her train pursues. 
 
 I love to watch their varying forms, 
 
 Their castles raised in air. 
 Or picture out the magic swarms 
 
 Of armies meeting there. 
 I see the bow, the spear, the sword, 
 
 Engaged in mimic fight. 
 Till all dissolves, as with a word, 
 
 And changes to the sight. 
 
 A panorama still it seems 
 
 Of living Nature here ! 
 Through forests thick the opening gleams 
 
 With axe and pioneer. 
 
144 THE CLOUDS. 
 
 Then villages and towns arise, 
 
 And busy works go on ; 
 But while imagination flies, 
 
 Again the vision 's gone. 
 
 I look, and ships upon the seas 
 
 Are tossing to and fro, 
 As if contending with the breeze, 
 
 And swelling waves below. 
 The white foam rises o'er their masts, 
 
 And hides them from the eye, 
 As yet another tableau casts 
 
 Its image on the sky. 
 
 The spell is on my spirit now : 
 
 My fascinated gaze 
 Beholds the field, the scythe, the plough. 
 
 The woody winding maze. 
 And then, grotesque and strange, 1 view 
 
 The king in purple clad. 
 The golden crown, and sceptre too. 
 
 The visage stern and sad. 
 
 It passes on : the colors fade, 
 Fantastic shapes are flown. 
 
 The evening mists increase their shade. 
 The night's thick veil is thrown. 
 
TEE CLOUDS. 145 
 
 Yet beauteous clouds ! where are ye now ? 
 
 Your magic power is o'er ; 
 For darkness gathers here below, 
 
 And I can gaze no more. 
 
 10 
 
TO AN AUTHORESS 
 
 WHO ADDRESSED A LOVE-POEM TO A STAR. 
 
 LovEST thou a Star, fair friend ? 
 " A bright particular Star" — and dost thou fix 
 Thy thoughts on it, while earthly shadows mix 
 With Hfe's bewildering scenes ? Oh, may it 
 send 
 Its gleam into thy heart with steady aim, 
 And light thy watching eyes to future fame ! 
 
 A guiding star to thee 
 Be that which claims thy worship ! It were well 
 To " look aloft," while striving to excel, 
 
 And catch a ray from heaven ; though mys- 
 tery 
 Hang o'er the spangled sky, the searching mind 
 Still seeks for knowledge, though its path be 
 blind. 
 
 The bright ideal, thou 
 Convertest to the real ; with the power 
 Of alchemy, to change the fragile flower 
 
 To fruit of gold, — Thou only hiowest how. 
 Star-gazer ! Be thy hopes as sure, as high. 
 Fulfilled at last above the starlit sky ! 
 
TO MARY. 
 
 WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM. 
 
 Who could refuse the wreath to twine 
 
 Of poesy, for thee ? 
 The Muse, won by a wish of thine, 
 
 Would almost smile on me. 
 
 And though I 've oft essayed in vain 
 
 Parnassus' mount to climb, 
 There is a charm in Mary's name 
 
 That may inspire my rhyme : 
 
 That may awake within my mind 
 
 Wild fancy's sportive train, 
 And every floating feeling bind 
 
 In friendship's fairy chain. 
 
 Young friendships are as pure as sweet, 
 And if they fade with years, 
 
 'T is but the fate all pleasures meet 
 Here in this " vale of tears." 
 
148 TO MARY. 
 
 But life as yet to thee is bright, 
 Nor has the world's dark wiles 
 
 One cloud cast o'er the sunny light 
 That sparkles in thy smiles. 
 
 The gilded beams of hope and joy 
 
 Reflect their dazzling rays ; 
 Ah, why must envious Time destroy 
 
 These fair and happy days ? — 
 
 Why all the gay illusions break 
 Of youth's enchanted hours. 
 
 And bid the care-worn mind forsake 
 Its early blooming flowers ? 
 
 Such are the wasting works of Time, 
 And sad the thoughts they bring ; 
 
 Nor will they wait for life's decline. 
 But often cloud its spring. 
 
 Yet long with thee may years roll by, 
 Ere with their treacherous art 
 
 They steal the brightness from thine eye. 
 The gladness from thy heart. 
 
 And sometimes in thy hours of bliss, 
 
 When sorrows are forgot. 
 Oh, turn one happy glance on this, 
 
 And read, " Forget me not ! " 
 
CLEANTHE. 
 
 " Why weepest thou, Cleanthe ? Tell me why 
 This passionate burst of feeling ? Can it be, 
 
 That, with a mind so noble and so high, 
 Thou canst not bear the sting of poverty ? 
 
 " I 've watched thee through the changes of thy 
 fate. 
 
 And seen thee rise, as I believed, above 
 Adversity, with fortitude so great, 
 
 I marvel now what thus thy heart can move." 
 
 " And art thou then deceived ? " Cleanthe said, 
 " And thou, e'en thou, dost ask me why I weep ! 
 
 Thou dost not know the tears in secret shed, — 
 My wakeful nights of woe, while others sleep. 
 
 " Think'st thou there is no bitterness to me 
 In this my altered lot ? — that, while I smile. 
 
 And seem so gay, there is not misery 
 
 Gnawing upon, my heartstrings all the while ? 
 
150 CLE AN THE. 
 
 " I thought that thou didst look into my soul, 
 And see the crushed hopes blighted, wither- 
 ing there ; 
 That thou did'st mark my strivings to control 
 The spirit, galled, with scarce the power to 
 bear. 
 
 " Misfortune's tide has been too swift and strong, 
 For one so weak as I, its waves to stem ; 
 
 I grieve not for the fickle, flattering throng, — 
 Oh, no, my friend, I do not weep for them ! 
 
 " But there are moments when I deeply feel, 
 In spite of all thy kindness and thy praise. 
 
 The loss of station ; words may not reveal 
 How I have struggled with my toilsome days : 
 
 •' How I have loathed to court the patronage 
 Of wealth and fashion, in the dazzling sphere 
 
 By birthright mine^ — a brilliant heritage, 
 
 Snatched from my grasp when it became most 
 dear. 
 
 " Ah, think'st thou it is nothing to descend 
 So suddenly from life's high eminence ? 
 
 I cannot brook the change ; I cannot bend 
 To Fortune's favorites with indifference. 
 
CLEANTHE. 151 
 
 « Now I have told thee all. Go, let me weep ! 
 
 My heart would break without these bitter 
 tears ; 
 Leave me alone — but still my secret keep, 
 
 For Time will number soon my hapless years ! " 
 
 Such was Cleanthe's tale. Ah, do not chide, 
 Fair daughters of Prosperity, that she, 
 
 Nurtured, like you, in all the world's false pride, 
 Should writhe beneath the stroke of Poverty! 
 
A PORTRAIT. 
 
 Ambition rules his soul I 
 It is his master-passion, though his heart 
 Answers spontaneously the frequent calls 
 Made by compassion and humanity, 
 And from his hand the ready tribute flows. 
 Nature designed him not for selfish things : 
 He was not formed to coldly calculate, 
 And weigh each rising feeling in the scale 
 Of policy and prudence ; but the world 
 Has done its work on his aspiring mind. 
 There are some traits of innate nobleness, 
 Some gleams of natural feeling, which break 
 
 forth 
 At intervals when he is off his guard. 
 Although such things he counts but weaknesses. 
 He hides his virtues, as he hides his faults, 
 In artificial manners. 'Tis his aim 
 To have no enemies, — and it may be 
 •That he has fewer than his fellow-men ; 
 For, to obtain sweet " popular applause," 
 He indiscriminately smiles on all, — 
 Forgetful, in his strong desire to please, 
 That 't is not for a smile to win the heart. 
 
TEE PORTRAIT. 153 
 
 Moments there are, when it may be the dupe 
 Of its own fancy, in life's young romance ; 
 Moments, when by imagination's aid 
 The heart invests its idol with the charms 
 And qualities it loves ; till in the world 
 Some rough collision with reality 
 Dispels the fair illusion, and once more 
 The mind is thrown back on itself to seek, 
 In its fantastic range, some new conceit, 
 To form a new ideal, — which, in turn. 
 Enslaves the willing spirit, for a while 
 Unconscious of the cheat. But dreams like these 
 Are not inspired by him. 
 
 His is the power 
 To please the eye and ear, and fill the mind 
 "With images of beauty, — not to hold 
 The silent thoughts in bondage. Would he thus 
 Unlock the springs of feeling, he must/eeZ, — 
 And yet what matters it, while still he bows 
 At fashion's shrine ? — many its votaries ! 
 And while he mingles in the giddy train, 
 What need is there of Nature ? 't is enough 
 To learn the lesson and to act the part. 
 He is not what he might be : he withholds 
 The confidence which could impart a charm 
 To conversation, and reflects too much 
 On what his heart dictates before he speaks. 
 He trusts no word on the free winds, but such 
 
154 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 As might be safely blown throughout the world ; 
 And when we seek for candor, we but find 
 Caution and cold resei^e, — and friendship feels 
 Her warmth congealed, and, calm and passionless. 
 Loses beneath his glance her strength and 
 
 power. 
 Honor and principle and truth are his. 
 And polish and refinement and good sense ; 
 But everything is studied ; and in vain 
 We seek to read the heart ; each avenue 
 Is closely guarded with a vigilance 
 Unequalled. Art is baffled still by art. 
 Prudence stands sentinel at every turn. 
 And those who know him best still know him not. 
 His step is on the ladder which leads up 
 To fame and fortune, nor will he descend 
 Till he has climbed the highest step, and won 
 The destined goal. 
 
 Bright are thy gilded dreams, 
 O vain ambition ! but too soon they break, 
 Like ocean's sparkling waves upon the shore. 
 Yet still thy ignis-fatuus light lures on 
 Unnumbered followers, who spend their youth 
 In grasping at a shadow ; till at last, 
 Eluding every hope, it flits away 
 Beyond their reach forever ; when, unnerved, 
 And sickened and disgusted and surprised. 
 They turn and find the phantom they pursued 
 Was Disap'pointmenL 
 
AUTUMN VIEW FROM MY WINDOW. 
 
 I GAZE with raptured eyes 
 Upon the lovely landscape, as it lies 
 Outstretched before my window ; — even now 
 The mist is sailing from the mountain's brow ; 
 For it is early morning, and the sun 
 
 His course has just begun. 
 
 How beautiful the scene 
 Of hill on hill arising, while, between, 
 The river like a silvery streak appears, 
 And rugged rocks, the monuments of years, 
 Resemble the old castles on the Rhine, 
 
 Which look down on the vine. 
 
 No clustering grapes, 'tis true, 
 Hang from these mountain-sides to meet the view 
 But fairer than the vineyards is the sight 
 Of our luxuriant forests, which, despite 
 The change of nations, hold their ancient place 
 
 Lost to the Indian race. 
 
156 AUTUMN VIEW FROM MY WINDOW. 
 
 Untiring I survey 
 The prospect from my window day by day. 
 Something forgotten, though just seen before, 
 Something of novelty or beauty more 
 Than yet discovered, ever charms my eyes, 
 
 And wakes a fresh surprise. 
 
 And thus, when o'er my heart 
 A weary thought is stealing, while apart 
 From friends and the gay world I sit alone, 
 With life's dark veil upon the future thrown, 
 I look from out my window, and there find 
 
 A solace for the mind. 
 
 The Indian summer's breath 
 Sighs gently o'er the fallen leaflet's death, 
 And bids the frost-king linger on his way 
 Till Autumn's tints have brightened o'er decay. 
 What other clime can such rich paintings show ? 
 
 Tell us, if any know ! 
 
NIAGARA. 
 
 A VIEW FROM TABLE KOCK. 
 
 Niagara ! Niagara ! 
 
 How beautiful art thou ! 
 With grandeur and with majesty 
 
 Throned on thy royal brow. 
 How, passing human intellect 
 
 In all its strength and pride, 
 The wonders of thy mighty course, 
 
 Thy ever-rushing tide ; 
 The thundering of thy rolling flood, 
 
 As, pouring down the steep, 
 It plunges to its cavern depths, 
 
 And answers " deep to deep ! " 
 
 Niagara, where were thy bounds 
 But for thy Maker's will, 
 
 Who only to thy angiy voice 
 Can whisper, " Peace^ he still ! " 
 
 Thou bearest on thy noble front 
 An impress all divine ; 
 
158 NIAGARA. 
 
 The great Creator's hand is traced 
 
 In evei*y powerful line. 
 How do thy foaming rapids chase 
 
 Each other in their rage, 
 Till headlong down the precipice 
 
 Their idle war they wage ! 
 
 Imposing is the battle-field, 
 
 And glorious the array. 
 As onward the wild combatants 
 
 Dash through their watery way. 
 Magnificent their snow-white plumes, 
 
 Pomp on each flying crest, — 
 Niagara ! Niagara ! 
 
 Oh, when wilt thou have rest ? 
 When will thy wondrous course be run 
 
 Oh, who shall dare portend ? 
 Time cannot thy beginning tell. 
 
 Time shall not know thy end ! 
 
MY DREAM. 
 
 "I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls." 
 
 I DREAMT that I dwelt in my childhood's home 
 
 With the loved ones of early days ; 
 And one by one I saw them come 
 
 By the light of the visioned rays. 
 And I dreamt that the spring's rich blossoms shed 
 
 Their perfume upon the air, 
 That flowers sprung up from their grassy bed, 
 
 And were blooming in beauty there. 
 
 I felt no fear of the waking hour 
 
 Which should drive the charm away, 
 For the blissful dream had all the power 
 
 Which circles the brightest day. 
 I dreamt of sweet music in field and grove, 
 
 The robin and whippoorwill, 
 And of dearer voices attuned to love, 
 
 Which were breathing around me still. 
 
 I thought that my life had renewed its youth, 
 That I lived in the past again ; 
 
160 MY DREAM. 
 
 And I dreamt that I found the pearl of truth 
 In the hearts of the gay world's train. 
 
 I forgot the years which had onward sped 
 Over paths of pain and care, 
 
 For I dreamt that the grave had restored the 
 dead, 
 And I blessed them in silent prayer. 
 
MOONLIGHT. 
 
 I CANNOT, oh, I cannot sleep 
 Beneath the full-moon's beams ! 
 
 For busy thoughts their vigils keep, 
 And sport 'mid waking dreams. 
 
 Just such a moon, one summer night, 
 
 Long lost in Time's abyss, 
 Shone o'er a scene as lovely, bright. 
 
 And beautiful as this. 
 
 Just such a moon looked down and smiled, 
 
 With rays as soft and clear, 
 On a broad stream as free and wild 
 
 As the glad Delaware, here. 
 
 There was no cloud upon that sky. 
 
 Nor in my heart a care ; 
 Where'er I turned my raptured eye, 
 
 Hojpe met the vision there. 
 
 She wrought her golden hues among 
 
 The images of earth. 
 And mingled with the starry throng, 
 
 Like them, of heavenly birth. 
 11 
 
162 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 The leaves slept on the moveless trees 
 All through those night-long hours, 
 
 For e'en the gentle summer breeze 
 Had fainted on the flowers. 
 
 As if with perfume rich oppressed, 
 
 Or wearied with the day, 
 Which with its turmoil and unrest 
 
 Had dragged its weight away. 
 
 The whippoorwill's wild chorus rung, 
 
 And echoed from afar ; 
 And listening, on their orbits hung 
 
 Full many a brilliant star. 
 
 Dark mountains in the outline lay, — 
 
 I seem to see them now, 
 Uprising, as to meet half-way 
 
 The moonbeams on their brow. 
 
 Contemplative and stern they stood. 
 
 In eastern shadows cast ; 
 Their tops high crowned with forest-wood, 
 
 The growth of ages past. 
 
 Years have departed, — and those scenes 
 No more may meet my view. 
 
 Yet still life's sweet poetic dreams 
 Unwearied I pursue. 
 
MOONLIGHT. 163 
 
 I love in musing mood to trace 
 
 Creati6ns of the brain, 
 And give them in my heart a place 
 
 The world holds naught so vain ! 
 
 And when the moon, as now, is high, 
 
 And Nature's charms are full, 
 Earth's shadows pass unheeded by, 
 
 Lost in the Beautiful. 
 
 The pale exotics of the mind 
 
 Transplanted here I bring. 
 And new delights essay to find 
 
 In their fresh blossoming. 
 
 The buds more slowly may unfold, 
 The flowers may be more frail, 
 
 But in my heart, as oft of old. 
 Their sweetness will exhale. 
 
 Here in the country's calm retreat, 
 
 God in his works appears. 
 And objects beautiful and sweet 
 
 Seem types of brighter spheres. 
 
 The wild bird to his Maker sings, 
 
 Tall forests wave in air. 
 And whisper of the King of kings ; — 
 
 Oh, poetry is there ! 
 
164 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 'T is Nature's language, and the heart 
 Which rises not to heaven, 
 
 But claims alone on earth its part, 
 How can it he forgiven ! 
 
APRIL SNOW-STORM. 
 
 The snow-flakes fall soft on the evergreen-trees, 
 And in fanciful beauty ride light on the breeze ; 
 The vale, which was bright with the carpet of 
 
 spring, 
 Now wears the white robe which the snow-spirits 
 
 fling. 
 The scene is too pure for the spirits of earth, 
 Too fair in its coldness ; yet what is it worth 
 In its coldness to me ? Oh, 't is like to the chill 
 Which has fallen on hearts that are dear to me 
 
 still ! 
 The snow will soon melt with the sun's warm ray, 
 But the ice in those hearts will freeze deeper 
 
 each day. 
 Then let me gaze on while the snow-flakes 
 
 descend, 
 For they look not so cold as the face of a friend 
 When it turns mih. a careless and altered brow, 
 The change of affection and feeling to show. 
 Let my eye still rest on the icicle bright, 
 'T will not freeze my soul like that chilling sight ; 
 
166 APRIL SNOW-STORM. 
 
 For the thought will be on it that Spring is here, 
 That May with her blossoms and flowers is near, 
 That Nature will smile in her beautiful dress, 
 And speak to the heart of happiness ; 
 And the hope will cling to the trusting heart 
 That the storms of life like the snow will depart. 
 
TO A POETESS, 
 
 ON HEARING HER SAY SHE DID NOT LOVE MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Not love the moonlight ? thou 
 Who hast a poet-heart, a poet-eye ! — 
 
 Not love the pensive brow 
 Of night's fair Queen, when through the vaulted 
 
 sky 
 She moves in quiet beauty on her way, 
 And cheers the earth as sinks the god of day ? 
 
 Why is it that to thee 
 Pale Cynthia's beams cannot a charm impart, 
 
 Nor wake thy sjinpathy ? 
 Thou of the poet-eye and poet-heart ! 
 Perchance thou better lov'st the stars, which 
 
 wait 
 And watch, 't is said, to guide the hand of Fate. 
 
 Versed in a deeper lore. 
 With astronomic art and musing mind 
 
 Thou mayest discover more 
 In the mysterious planets, to unbind 
 
168 TO A POETESS. 
 
 The chain of thought, and give it wider range, 
 Till it encircles wonders new and strange. 
 
 But turn thou from the page 
 Of cold philosophy, it cannot bring, 
 
 Witli all its precepts sage 
 And dear-bought knowledge, ere so bright a thing 
 As the unclouded moon, whose lonely glance 
 Invests all Nature's scenes with sweet romance. 
 
 Not love the moonlight, then ? 
 Thou, who dost draw the breath of poetry. 
 
 And with a diamond pen 
 Stamp on the heart, in numbers fresh and free, 
 Fancies more brilliant than the sun-bright noon ? 
 Alas, alas, why lov'st thou not the moon ! 
 
TO J. G. AVHITTIER. 
 
 ON READING HIS POEM ENTITLED " THE STARS." 
 
 Bard of the soul-entrancing lyre, 
 
 The Muses' favored son ! 
 Thine is the true Promethean fire 
 
 That lights the spirit on. 
 
 There is a pathos in thy lays, 
 
 A purity of thought, 
 A depth, a power, o'erreaching praise, 
 
 By wealth of worlds unbought. 
 
 " The Stars " their language tell to thee, 
 While they in splendor shine, 
 
 And thou dost read the destiny 
 Of others. — What is thine ? 
 
 It is, to wear thy life away ^ 
 
 In aspirations high, 
 To grasp the shadow Fame, and pay 
 
 For it with many a sigh ; 
 
170 TO J. G. WHITTIER. 
 
 To gain with eagle wing the height 
 Of famed Parnassus' mount, 
 
 And leave behind thee in thy flight 
 E'en those who sipped the fount 
 
 Of Castaly, perhaps with thee. 
 
 Think'st thou thou wilt not feel 
 The breath of envy silently 
 
 Across thy pathway steal ? 
 
 And thou wilt mingle with the crowd, 
 
 And feel thy spirit rise, 
 Above the wealthy and the proud, 
 
 To things beyond the skies. 
 
 Thine is a charmed harp, whose notes 
 
 Of angel-melody 
 Upon each deep-toned feeling floats 
 
 Whene'er 't is touched by thee. 
 
 A charmed harp, whose magic chords 
 Breathe but at thy command ; 
 
 Which wakes its echoing tones and words 
 But to its master's hand. 
 
 Then on with thy imaginings, 
 Press onward in thy course I 
 
 And spread thy fancy's glittering wings 
 O'er thought's unfathomed source. 
 
TO J. G. WHITTIER. 171 
 
 Tlie world's frail pleasures cannot check 
 
 To glory thy career, 
 While hues, caught from the rainbow, deck 
 
 Thy far more dazzling sphere. 
 
 On, on ! Deserve yet more the name 
 
 Which men have given thee. 
 As still upon each effort, Fame 
 
 Writes imjnortality. 
 
POETRY. 
 
 It sparkles in a sunbeam, 
 
 It ripples on a wave, 
 It flashes from a lustrous eye, 
 
 Or hideth in a cave. 
 
 It risetli o'er a mountain, 
 
 And reacheth to the skies ; 
 It pierceth through the gathering clouds, 
 
 However dark they rise. 
 
 It whispers in the breezes 
 
 Which stir the forest-leaves, 
 And lingers in the reaper's field 
 
 Amid the harvest-sheaves. 
 
 It shineth in the gleaming 
 
 Of myriad stars at night, 
 Or wanders with " the young May moon " 
 
 Through silvery tracks of light. 
 
 It hangs upon a rain-drop 
 
 Which meets the tender vine ; 
 
POETRY, 173 
 
 It hovers o'er a beetling cliff 
 Alonof the ocean's line. 
 
 It walks the earth in beauty, 
 
 And resteth on a rose ; 
 Or scents the violet in the grass 
 
 Before its leaves unclose. 
 
 It breathes upon the daisy 
 
 "Which by the wayside springs, 
 
 And steals into the humble cot, 
 Or palaces of kings. 
 
 It worships in the temple 
 
 By heaven's blue arch o'erspread, 
 Which circles round the living world 
 
 And o'er the silent dead. 
 
 It hath no outward limit 
 
 The power of poetry, 
 But stretches to the utmost verge 
 
 Of earth and sky and sea. 
 
 Thus the poet has a blessing 
 
 Forever in his heart ! 
 His life is in a brighter world 
 
 Created by his art. 
 
JUNE. 
 
 Bright, beautiful June ! sweetest month of the 
 
 year ! 
 Again in thy annual round thou art here ! 
 Thou comest in beauty, with sunshiny hours, 
 The rose in thy bosom, the queen of the flowers ; 
 Thy presence sheds fragrance o'er hill and o'er 
 
 dale, 
 Thy voice sends forth music through wood and 
 
 through vale ; 
 The bird blends its notes with the hum of the bee. 
 And the leaf-covered trees look a welcome to 
 
 thee. 
 The fields are all fresh in their spring-robe of 
 
 green. 
 Or rich with the culture which gladdens the scene. 
 The waters' blithe notes are unequalled by art. 
 And nothing is sad save the sin-darkened heart. 
 
 Bright, beautiful June ! I have loved thee full 
 
 well. 
 When my life was as bright as thy blossoms 
 
 which fell 
 
JUNE. 175 
 
 On the gay smiling green which lay spread to my 
 
 view, 
 As it pillowed the sunbeams, or cradled the dew. 
 My heart had no blight in those sweet summer 
 
 days, 
 I cared not for fame, and I sighed not for praise : 
 It was bliss to sit idly, and muse in the shade. 
 While around me the light breezes sportively 
 
 played ; 
 Or to gaze forth on Nature's luxuriant dress, 
 Till my dreams were o'erburdened with loveli- 
 ness, — 
 Till quick-changing fancies rushed over my brain, 
 Uncalled by deep study, unmingled with pain. 
 Unbroken by thoughts of the dark coming years, 
 Unchecked by their trials or sorrows or tears. 
 There rested a charm in each bright blooming 
 
 flower. 
 Each leaf had its language, each petal its power. 
 Each scene had its beauty, rock, mountain, and 
 
 glen,— 
 Oh, when will they look to me lovely as then ? 
 Or when shall I watch for the ebb and the flow 
 Of the tide, which runs up where the sweetbriers 
 
 grow? 
 Or walk 'neath the blossoming locust-trees' shade. 
 Where many a loved one and lost one has 
 
 strayed ? 
 
176 JUNE. 
 
 Sweet June ! thou art lovely as e'en in those 
 
 hours 
 When I traversed the wild wood, and gathered 
 
 thy flowers ; 
 Thy paths are as green, and thy roses as bright, 
 While my life's waning summer has lost half its 
 
 light. 
 Now I muse with the feelings which prompt the 
 
 sad sigh 
 Even where the magnificent Hudson rolls by ; 
 And gaze on a prospect enchantingly fair, — 
 But where are the friends of past seasons, oh 
 
 where ? 
 I wander alone through the garden and grove, 
 And hear the birds sing as I recklessly rove. 
 But I miss the glad voices which answered to 
 
 mine, 
 And worship in silence at Memory's shrine. 
 
SUNSET REFLECTIONS. 
 
 Oh, there are moments when I feel 
 
 As if ni}/ harp again could tell 
 The dreams which o"'er my senses steal, 
 
 The early visions loved too well ! 
 And then I seek its chords to wake 
 
 With echoes from the hollow past, 
 And sigh as fancy's flashes break 
 
 Like meteors on the biting blast. 
 
 But I "will tune its strings once more. 
 
 Friend of departed years, for thee ! 
 And the deep mine of thought explore. 
 
 Till answering words flow fresh and free ; 
 Fresh from the language of the soul, 
 
 Free as the spirit's unchecked flight, 
 Wh'lch owns not the cold woi'ld's control 
 
 To freeze its warmth^ or quench its light. 
 
 I know not why, but at this hour, 
 When sinks the glorious sun to rest, 
 12 
 
178 SUNSET REFLECTIONS. 
 
 I turn with strange, impelling power 
 A searching glance within my breast ; 
 
 And in the day's receding light 
 The veil falls from my heart anew, 
 
 While all grows dim to human sight, 
 And but one Eye its faults can view. 
 
 This sunset hour is dearer far 
 
 Than all the dazzling glare of noon ; 
 I love to watch the first faint star, 
 
 And gaze upon the crescent moon. 
 Then thought flies high, and memory 
 
 Sleeps in the quiet of the scene, 
 Till in the future far I see 
 
 A land of beauty bright and green. 
 
 The western beams are fading now, 
 
 The golden-tinted clouds are gone, 
 The noble Hudson seems to flow 
 
 More gently, in my fancy, on. 
 The deep repose so sweet and calm. 
 
 Which twilight's softening shades impart, 
 Might soothe, methinks, like Gilead's balm. 
 
 The weary or tlie wounded heart. 
 
 Tis fancy all ! Earth has no rest ! 
 Life's busy throng, with reckless air, 
 
SUNSET REFLECTIONS. 179 
 
 Press on, while hidden in each breast 
 Lies eager hope and anxious care ; 
 
 Till worn with turbulent desires, 
 
 Which rise o'er disappointments past, 
 
 And spent with passion's fevered fires. 
 Life's sunset hour is closed at last. 
 
KATYDIDS. 
 
 Night is coining, night is coming ! 
 
 Katydids begin their song ; 
 Summer 's going, summer 's going ! 
 
 Autumn will be here ere long. 
 
 Katydids, your voices warn us 
 Of the summer's passing flowers, 
 
 As we listen to your music 
 
 In the night's increasing hours. 
 
 Now, oh now, your nightly concert 
 Keeps my busy thoughts awake, — 
 
 Bears them to the distant valley, 
 And the lovely, lucid lake. 
 
 Fancy sees the scenes so charming 
 In my youth's bright summer dream, 
 
 Willows drooping near the water, 
 Lilies bathing in the stream. 
 
 Clustering cedars on the hill-tops. 
 Brooklets from the mountain-sides, 
 
KATYDIDS. 181 
 
 Wilding roses by the hedges, 
 Where the frightened squirrel hides. 
 
 Snow-drops opening in the meadows, 
 Violets, with their soft blue eyes 
 
 Peeping out, like ministering spirits, 
 Through the quaint and sweet disguise. 
 
 White sails spreading to the breezes, 
 
 Wont so gracefully to glide 
 Far into the ocean's outlet 
 
 With the water's ebbing tide. 
 
 Every vision still is peopled 
 
 With the forms which once were dear ; 
 Katydids, your voices bring them 
 
 In their spirit-presence here. 
 
 Darkness hides the scenes around me, 
 Memory flies on wings of light ; 
 
 I can fancy ye are singing 
 
 Near my old loved home to night. 
 
 Katydids, ye all are sisters ! 
 
 Know ye not those sylvan shades ? 
 Come ye hither now, to tell me 
 
 Change on all things there invades ? 
 
182 KATYDIDS. 
 
 Would that I could hear your music 
 Even as I heard it there, — 
 
 On the self-same spot reclining, 
 Breathing the same balmy air. 
 
 IVooing thoughts of earth and heaven, 
 Scarcely conscious which were best, 
 
 While the world appeared an Eden 
 In its pristine beauty dressed. 
 
 Time is passing, time is passing ! 
 
 Years have fled, and changes come, 
 Since I heard the same wild chanting 
 
 Round my long deserted home. 
 
 Ah, my feelings have grown sadder ! 
 
 Though your notes are still the same j 
 Heaven seems only now worth winning. 
 
 Earthly joys are but a name ! 
 
 Katydids, oh, ye are sounding 
 Still your deep and solemn knell 
 
 O'er the young hopes which have fleeted, 
 Whither, oh, ye cannot tell ! 
 
 Nightly ye repeat your chorus 
 
 Through the dark and silent hours, 
 
KATYDIDS. 183 
 
 Nightly ye return to warn us, — 
 Life is passing like the flowers. 
 
 May we heed the sad monitions 
 
 Which so loudly ye proclaim ; 
 May we turn from earthly visions 
 
 And the shade of earthly fame. 
 
 Gaining from your voices wisdom, 
 While your little breath ye spend, 
 
 May we seek the better portion 
 Of the bliss which has no end. 
 
MOONLIGHT AGAIN! 
 
 Moonlight again ! Oh there 's a charm for me 
 In the pale beams which o'er the city fall ; 
 
 Moonlight again ! moonlight o'er spire and tree, 
 A beauty and a mystery to all ! 
 
 The river sparkles with its watery gems, 
 
 And rolls in liquid majesty along ; 
 More fair, more pure than royal diadems. 
 
 More sweet its music than the minstrel's song. 
 
 Moonlight upon the water ! 't is a sight 
 To wake the fairy dreams of life anew ; 
 
 When every wave was like Pactolus bright, 
 Freighted with golden sands to fancy's view. 
 
 Moonlight upon the hills ! moonlight to roam 
 Across their breezy summits, far away ; 
 
 Would I could see them round my once loved 
 home, 
 Crowned with the laurel blossoms of the May. 
 
MOONLIGHT AGAIN! 185 
 
 Moonlight in the greeii valley ! at the hour, 
 The witching hour of midnight ; it is then 
 
 The spirit breaks the thrall of worldly power, 
 And loves the silence of the lonely glen. 
 
 Sweet vale ! I stop to muse — for thou hast been 
 Life's greenest spot to me — where sun and 
 moon 
 
 Have both shone brightest over every scene, 
 And left to memory the fairest boon. 
 
 Moonlight upon the city ! over all 
 
 Its spires and marble columns and paved 
 streets ; 
 Gently around them now its soft beams fall, 
 
 While thus my humble lyre the theme repeats. 
 
 It dwells upon my heart like early love ! 
 
 And yet unlike it, in its light unchanged ! 
 It bids me turn my thoughts from earth, above. 
 
 Where truth is found and friends are ne'er 
 estranged. 
 
LITTLE BARBARA. 
 
 How lovely is that face, 
 In nature's simple grace, 
 With those full orbs of deepest blue, 
 
 And hair, of neither brown nor gold, 
 But just a shade between the two ; 
 And she is yet but four years old, — 
 Beautiful Barbara ! 
 
 So modest is her air, 
 So gentle and so fair, 
 With such a soft and winning smile. 
 
 Its 'witching charm may not be told, 
 And manners all so free from guile, 
 While yet she is but four years old, — 
 Innocent Barbara ! 
 
 She is not like a child. 
 So earnest and so mild 
 Is the expression of her eyes ; 
 
 As if her heart deep thoughts might hold, 
 And she were for her years too wise ; 
 For she is yet but four years old, — 
 Sweet, pensive Barbara ! 
 
FATHER HEINRICH. 
 
 " TVTieii I compose music now," he says, " it is almost always with 
 the image of Death before my eyes ; for my sun is setting : I am an 
 old minstrel, — diminuendo e tnorendo." 
 
 Old art thou, minstrel ? What though time 
 
 Be fleeting swiftly by ! 
 Music and Poetry are old, 
 
 And yet they never die ! 
 
 Old art thou, with a soul inspired 
 
 Harmonious notes to blend ? 
 Thy heart is young, though silvery hairs 
 
 Upon thy years attend. 
 
 Genius outlives the transient days 
 
 To man allotted here : 
 The " Spirit of Beethoven " smiles 
 
 Thy setting sun to cheer. 
 
RAIN AT NIGHT. 
 
 I LOVE to listen in the silent hours 
 
 Of night and solitude, when none are near, 
 
 To the soft, soothing rain which gently pours 
 Its liquid, dreamy music on my ear. 
 
 It wakens pensive thoughts ; a shadowy train 
 From the ideal world, — extending fast 
 
 In spirit-linkings to an endless chain, 
 
 Outstretching and encircling all the past. 
 
 The sunbeams have no power in day's broad light 
 To raise these subtle fancies in the mind, — 
 
 Oh no ! they sleep when outward things look 
 bright, 
 And leave the eye its new delights to find. 
 
 But when the dropping rain with murmuring 
 sound 
 Breaks through the midnight's still and deep 
 repose. 
 The heart's low whispers seem to breathe around 
 And bid the portals of romance unclose. 
 
RAIN AT NIGET. 189 
 
 beautiful Ideal ! much I owe 
 
 To thy beguiling charm ! without its power 
 Life surely would have had too much of woe, 
 
 Too many a weary and a lonely hour ! 
 
 But I have wandered in thy paths so long, 
 They have become to me like native air, — 
 
 Breathing a healthful influence o'er my song. 
 And chasing every shade of gloom or care. 
 
 O beautiful Ideal ! Is there augrht 
 
 Amid the fairest scenes of life so brisfht ? 
 
 Is there a cloudless day with pleasure fraught, 
 Which wears thy golden and ethereal light ? 
 
 Not one. Then let me be a dreamer still, 
 In paths of sweet entrancing poesy ; 
 
 Roaming the visionary world at will, 
 
 Borne on the soul's broad pinions, ever free. 
 
 Loving, as now, the soft and gentle rain, 
 Amid the darkness of the midnight hour, 
 
 Which brings creative fancy's mystic train, 
 And mingles dewy hope's illusive power. 
 
 Bright, bright Ideal ! In thy fairy land 
 
 Spring ever blooming joys, which know no 
 blight 
 
190 RAIN AT NIGET. 
 
 From cold neglect, or disappointment's hand : 
 Dear and unfailing source of pure delight ! 
 
 Be thou my solace through the years which haste 
 With rapid flight on Time's unerring wing ! 
 
 Be thou the green Oasis in the waste, 
 
 The Rock of Meribah, the Desert Spring ! 
 
 Be thine the visions of celestial light, 
 
 Whose rays shall pierce through yon blue vault 
 of heaven, 
 
 Beaming in full where there shall be " no nigJtt" 
 And trusting in the hope of sins forgiven. 
 
TO THE OLD OAK-TREE BY THE GATE. 
 
 How many years hast thou seen, old oak, 
 
 With thy spreading arms so wide ? 
 Hast thou heard the axe, with its sounding stroke, 
 Ere our woods were freed from the EngHsh yoke, 
 Cut thy fellows from thy side ? 
 
 And thou wert spared in thy strength to grow, 
 
 Till the stately mansion rose, — 
 Thy shade o'er the cultured flowers to throw, 
 Wliere often, perchance, the Indian's bow 
 
 "Was drawn at his powerful foes. 
 
 What tales hast thou in thy prime to tell 
 
 Of thy first young sapling days, 
 When the forest winds, with their chiming swell 
 Were heard in place of the church-going bell. 
 
 With their many-toned voices of praise ? 
 
 Hast thou seen how the fair Susquehanna flowed 
 
 Through a wild and wilderness vale. 
 Ere civilized man in these haunts abode, 
 Or the horseman bold the swift charger rode 
 Which snuffed up the scented gale ? 
 
192 TO THE OLD OAK-TREE BY THE GATE. 
 
 Hast thou looked upon bright Chenango's face 
 
 As its tribute waves it cast, 
 The fair Susquehanna's tide to grace, 
 And run with it in its rapid race, 
 
 While the bark canoe shot past ? 
 
 Or witnessed the strife of the stranger-band. 
 
 Who came from beyond the seas. 
 To possess the Indians' wide-spread land. 
 And drive them hence from their river's strand, 
 
 And the shade of their native trees ? 
 
 And hast thou marked 'mid the lonely wood. 
 
 How the hand of art came in, — 
 And the town sprung up in the solitude. 
 Where only the scattered wigwams stood, 
 
 And altered the savage scene ? 
 
 All this, and more, thou hast seen, old tree, 
 
 In thy life of uncounted years ! 
 A hundred pounds would not purchase thee 
 From the place where thou standest firm and 
 free, — 
 
 The place which thy shade endears. 
 
 Thy branches spread to the east and west. 
 
 Toward the risinor and settins: sun ; 
 Thou breakest the north-wind's force with thy 
 breast, 
 
TO THE OLD OAK-TREE BY THE GATE. 193 
 
 And liidest the robin's south-built nest, 
 And thy work is never done. 
 
 But thou standest here in thy strength alone, 
 
 P^'or no other oak is near 
 Young locusts have lately around thee grown, 
 And blossoms have on rich fruit-trees blov/n. 
 
 And tdieir fruit has crowned the year. 
 
 Yet still art thou more prized than all, 
 
 With thy spreading arms so wide, 
 And head uprising straight and tall, 
 And green leaves, golden ere they fall, — 
 
 The forest's wealth and pride ! 
 
 13 
 
MY FADED ROSE. 
 
 I 'll look into thy leaves, my faded rose, 
 
 And read the volume there, 
 Brought from the land where thou didst first 
 unclose 
 
 Thy sweetness on the air. 
 
 Thy parent bush grew on Old England's shore. 
 
 Nursed 'neath her humid sky, 
 Till its green stem thy blooming beauty bore, 
 
 Doomed to be loved, and die. 
 
 Yet blended with thy fragrance thou dost bring 
 
 The breath of thy far clime. 
 Which wafted o'er me, strikes a spirit-string, 
 
 And wakes a voice from Time. 
 
 Hast thou within thy withered leaves concealed, 
 
 With strange mysterious art, 
 My lost and missing thoughts, and, unrevealed, 
 
 Restored them to my heart ? 
 
31 Y FADED ROSE. 195 
 
 Thy rose-hue o'er my prisoned visions cast, 
 
 And free them from thy hold : 
 The light reflected from the beaming past 
 
 Shall memory's flowers unfold. 
 
 I sail in fancy o'er the sea again, 
 
 I step upon thy shore ! 
 I feel my di-ecwi of life accomplished then. 
 
 To slumber nevermore ! 
 
 Remembered feelings crowd upon my soul 
 
 And bear it far away, 
 And I behold, as shadows backward roll. 
 
 The abbeys old and gray. 
 
 The statues raised to men of might and mind, 
 
 Whose like we may not see, 
 The stately castle-walls with pictures lined. 
 
 And time-worn tapestry. 
 
 Thine is a noble land, my faded rose, 
 
 With history's treasures rife, 
 And centuries their pages may disclose 
 
 Of wild and stirring life. 
 
 Thy tiny leaves cannot the scroll contain 
 
 Which o'er the world is spread ; 
 Thou canst not tell the ancient Roses' reign, — 
 
 The White Rose and the Red. 
 
196 MY FADED ROSE. 
 
 My eyes alone can search thy hidden lore ; 
 
 A " sealed book " art thou 
 To all beside : but I can read thee o'er, 
 
 Though dead and withered now. 
 
 I love thee for the thoughts which thou dost brin< 
 
 Forever unto me ! 
 I love thee for the memories that cling 
 
 Forever unto thee ! 
 
EASTON. 
 
 r VE looked on many a scene where Nature's 
 hand 
 
 Has clothed this transient earth in loveliness ; 
 But in my spirit's dreams of fairy land 
 
 Ne'er fancied I a fairer scene than this. 
 
 O, I have gazed from Easton's hills, and felt 
 That God had made this world so beautiful, 
 
 That all should worship Him ! — whose love thus 
 dwelt 
 On creatures of his gifts insensible. 
 
 The darker passions of the human heart 
 
 Are lulled to sleep amid the wonders wrought 
 
 By the Omnipotent ; and works of art, 
 
 With their vain pageantry, sink into nought. 
 
 What human mind can comprehend the plan 
 Of the vast Universe ! or even here. 
 
 This little spot, far as the eye can scan. 
 Now in the glory of the waning year. 
 
198 EAST ON. 
 
 The Autumn hues, magnificently gay, 
 
 Have tinged the forest, and each sloping hill 
 
 Glows with the gorgeous colors, which display 
 The matchless painting of Almighty skill. 
 
 Between the parted mountains on each side, 
 In lofty grandeur shadowing a vale 
 
 Bright as Ovoca's, the soft rivers glide. 
 And meeting, to each other tell their tale. 
 
 Bold is my Muse to touch upon a theme 
 Long linked to the immortal poet's song, — 
 
 Yet by these meeting waters here I dream 
 Such things as but to poetry belong. 
 
 Sweet scenes of beauty ! well may ye inspire 
 My humble efforts ; and were feelings words, 
 
 How would I breathe them o'er the speaking lyre, 
 And wake to melody its simple chords. 
 
 Easton, I love thy rocks and hills and streams. 
 The great Creator's works ! I love to gaze 
 When the bright sun spreads out his glorious 
 
 beams, 
 Or the pale moon sheds forth her milder rays. 
 
 At morn, at eve, or at the twilight hour. 
 
 When rainbow hues pass o'er the changeful 
 sky, 
 
EAST ON. 199 
 
 Or when red lightnings flash, or storm-clouds 
 lower, 
 Or glittering stars look from their throne on 
 high: 
 
 All times, all seasons, beautiful thou art ! 
 
 In Spring's green mantle robed, or gayly clad 
 In Summer flowers, which yield as they depart, 
 
 To Autumn's splendid livery — bright, though 
 sad. 
 
 Sweet Easton, I must leave thee ! Pleasures fade, 
 And changes o*er the tide of time must swell. 
 
 This world, alas ! was but for partings made. 
 And soon familiar grows the word, farewell. 
 
TO E. S. S. 
 
 ON READING A POEM FR05I HER PEN, ADDRESSED TO A 
 MUTUAL, FRIEND. 
 
 Hast thou no thought for me ? 
 No tuneful note breathed on thy sylvan lute, 
 No chord within thy heart, not yet grown mute 
 
 In the sweet symphony 
 Of life's remembered music ? No spare flowers 
 For me, me also, in thy Eden's bowers ? 
 
 The fair young buds of spring 
 Are bursting into beauty. Thou shalt be 
 My Queen of May, and I will weave for thee 
 
 A mystic offering 
 Of Sihyl leaves, the violet and the rose, 
 And snowdrop pure, bright meanings to disclose. 
 
 The summer hastens on : 
 The glowing sunbeams warm each lengthening 
 
 day. 
 And balmy breezes o'er the rivei's play, 
 
 And greener grows the lawn ; 
 But ah, the city's noise and revelry 
 Drowns the '• heart-iohi supers of sweet poesy ! " 
 
TO E. S. S. 201 
 
 Hast thou no welcome then 
 For me, 7ne also, to thy loved retreat ? 
 Where we may feel the " pulse of Nature beat," 
 
 On mountain or in glen ? 
 Where the " star-flower" of hope blooms wild 
 
 and free, 
 Thy prized " forget me not " — Forget not me ! 
 
TO A CAGED SKY-LARK. 
 
 Bird of freedom, thou art lonely 
 In thy small and latticed home ! 
 
 Wood-notes wild like thine should only 
 Swell beneath the heavens' blue dome. 
 
 Sky-lark, thou art caught and fettered, 
 And thy wings can rise no more ; 
 
 But, perchance, thy state is bettered, 
 'T is not always safe to soar. 
 
 In thy prison thou art tended 
 
 With affection's fondest care, 
 Music-strains with thine are blended 
 
 Sweetly from the young and fair. 
 
 Little captive, would'st thou leave them 
 
 If thy door were open left ? 
 No, oh no ! thou could'st not grieve them, 
 
 Though of liberty bereft. 
 
 Love may make thy bondage lightly 
 Rest upon thy folded wings, 
 
TO A CAGED SKY- LARK. 203 
 
 Life may pass with thee as brightly 
 As with any bird that sings. 
 
 Thou art safe from gun, or snaring 
 
 Set for thy unwary feet, — 
 Food and flowers are thine, unsparing ; 
 
 All but slavery is sweet ! 
 
 But is not thy lot as favored 
 
 As the lot of mortals here ? 
 Is there one whose life is savored 
 
 Only with the things most dear ? 
 
 Are there not desires implanted 
 
 Ever in the human breast ? 
 Who, but has some wish ungranted, 
 
 Who is here supremely blest \ 
 
 Sky-lark, thine is but the story 
 Of a world by sin enchained, — 
 
 Youth is blighted, age grows hoary. 
 With some hope that 's ne'er obtained. 
 
 Then content thee with the blessing 
 Which is still bestowed on thee ; 
 
 Love, the boon best worth possessing, — 
 Were it better to be free ? 
 
ii04 TO A CAGED SKY-LARK. * 
 
 Would'st thou mount at early morning 
 
 Far into the upper air ? 
 All the pet-UrcVs honors scorning, 
 
 If thou only could'st be there ? 
 
 Would'st thou soar o'er rock and mountain, 
 Sending forth thy notes of praise ? 
 
 Would'st thou skim o'er lake and fountain, 
 Pouring out thy grateful lays ? 
 
 Ah, if hope to birds is given. 
 
 Tune thy gladsome song each day ! 
 
 Still thy voice shall reach to heaven, 
 Though thou may'st not fly away. 
 
 Friends are near to praise thy singing. 
 Joyous ones the echo swell — 
 
 Fluttering, chirping, pecking, springing, 
 Sky-lark, Sky-lark, fare thee well ! 
 
TO THE WILLOW OPPOSITE MY WINDOW. 
 
 Willow, why forever droop 
 Through the summer days ? 
 
 Why to earth so lowly stoop 
 'Neath the glad sun's rays ? 
 
 Do thy weeping boughs conceal 
 Some dark, nameless grief, 
 
 Which thou fearest to reveal 
 By a rising leaf? 
 
 Or has silent, secret love 
 
 For some shrub or vine 
 Taught thy branches from above 
 
 Downward to incline ? 
 
 Or with voiceless language filled, 
 Would'st thou preach to me 
 
 Lessons, till vain pride is stilled, 
 Of humility ; 
 
 Till the listening ear is stirred 
 In its inmost cell. 
 
206 TO THE WILLOW. 
 
 With an eloquence but heard 
 By the spirit's spell ? 
 
 Yet benevolent as sad, 
 
 In thy loneliness, 
 Thou dost spread a cooling shade, 
 
 Many a heart to bless. 
 
 Old men sit at sunset there, 
 Freed from toil and strife. 
 
 Smoking, with contented air. 
 Thus enjoying life. 
 
 Envying neither rich nor great 
 Placed in higher sphere. 
 
 Feeling in their tranquil state 
 Far more happy here. 
 
 Matrons, with indulgent smiles, 
 But with earnest eyes, 
 
 Watch the merry urchins' wiles, 
 As Time onward flies. 
 
 Careless childhood ever gay. 
 
 Age of frolic mirth ! 
 Full of pleasure, full of play. 
 
 Loveliest sight on earth ! 
 
OPPOSITE MY WINDOW. 207 
 
 From my window's calm retreat 
 
 I delight to gaze, 
 Till the day and evening meet 
 
 In the twilight rays. 
 
 Watching in the fading light, 
 
 "Vyiiile sweet fancies press 
 Many a living picture bright 
 
 With life's happiness. 
 
 Willow, thou art ever there, 
 
 Graceful, drooping tree ! 
 Bowing in thy beauty rare 
 
 To thy destiny. 
 
 Filling thine allotted part 
 
 In great Nature's plan, 
 Emblem to the human heart 
 
 Of sympathy with man. 
 
THE FORKS OF THE DELAWARE. 
 
 WRITTEN AT EASTON, PA 
 
 Oh, ever beautiful, oh, ever new ! 
 
 These rushing waters pass before my view ! 
 
 Cahnly the Lehigh glicleth on to meet 
 
 The Delaware, whose waves advancing greet 
 
 With hurried motion the more quiet stream 
 
 Which flows into its bosom, as a dream 
 
 Of love and hope oft mingles with the strife 
 
 Of wilder passions on the waves of life. 
 
 How many eyes upon this scene have gazed ! 
 
 How many voices have its beauty praised ! 
 
 How many steps have sought this spot, and 
 
 strayed 
 Along its banks, and lingered in the^hade 
 Of the old sycamores in ages past. 
 Uprooted now, save one, the lone, the last. 
 No more their shadows o'er the waters play, 
 Kissing each wave which sighing hastes away 
 To the great ocean, murmuring in each swell 
 To this sweet spot a wild and sad farewell. 
 No more the names, recorded year by year. 
 On their huge trunks in lettered pomp appear, 
 
THE FORKS OF THE DEL A WARE. 209 
 
 Rude tablets carved by many an humble hand, 
 Perchance at friendship's or at love's command ; 
 Which for their memory sought a firmer base 
 Than the deceitful heart's vain resting-place. 
 Well fitted seemed these giant trees to bear 
 Each fond memorial engraven there ; 
 As in their strength they looked up to the sky, 
 Nor felt Time's still and treacherous tide roll by. 
 But wind and wave in a destroying hour 
 Laid low their beauty, and o'erthrew their power. 
 
 The mighty freshet came ! * remembered well ; 
 
 The rivers rose to a terrific swell ; 
 
 The pent-up floods broke bounds, and from their 
 
 source 
 Rushed madly on with a resistless force ; 
 Till their wild, swollen waves o'erflowed the land 
 And bore away their spoils; — a conquering band 
 Of many waters risen from the deep. 
 And like an untamed lion, roused from sleep, 
 Roaring and leaping, as from bondage freed, 
 They broke all barriers in their furious speed : 
 And houses, mills, and bridges in their path 
 Were swept away by their unsparing wrath. 
 The Lehigh, from its wonted, sluggish course 
 Lashed into rage by the tremendous force 
 
 * Great freshet in the Delaware and Lehigh rivers in Jan- 
 uary, 1840. > 
 
 14 
 
210 THE FORKS OF THE DELAWARE. 
 
 Of the strong current, threw its angry waves 
 O'er the green banks which now it gently laves : 
 Till the old trees, torn from their long-held place, 
 In the mad waters' terrible embrace, 
 Were thrown into the gulf — and now perchance 
 Are sailing o'er Atlantic's wide expanse ; 
 Breasting the billows, hiding 'midst their foam 
 The sculptured names borne from their native 
 home. 
 
 The ancient hills which on these streams look 
 
 down. 
 In modern times by classic names are known. 
 On the smooth Lehigh, like a mirror bright. 
 Mount Ida lies reflected to the sight ; 
 And o'er the Delaware rising rough and steep, 
 Parnassus frowns above the restless deep. 
 
 Still may the adventurous bard essay to climb, 
 
 And from its summit view the scene sublime, — 
 
 Above, below, around on every side, 
 
 And fancy that tlie 3fuse must there abide 
 
 To inspire the lay, where all is poetry 
 
 Made visible by Nature's imagery ; 
 
 Living and breafhing, speaking to the heart 
 
 A language which no words can e'er impart. 
 
 Imagination must resign her flight 
 
 And fold her wings upon Parnassus' height. 
 
THE FORKS OF TEE DELAWARE. 211 
 
 Reality exceeds her utmost power, 
 
 And holds the ruling sceptre o'er the hour. 
 
 Thence may the eye survey a landscape fair, 
 
 Far as the sight extends through space and air. 
 
 Mountain on mountain rising to the view, 
 
 The distant range behind its veil of blue 
 
 Thin as the gossamer, the misty screen 
 
 Contrasting with the bright and living green. 
 
 And mingling with the azure of the sky, 
 
 As if the humid vapor caught its dye. 
 
 The winding Delaware steals through brake and 
 
 dell, 
 Between the heights from which wild echoes 
 
 swell 
 Across its sweet toned waters, as they bound 
 In leaping waves, and answer to the sound. 
 And oft the bugle-horn at sunset hour 
 Sends forth its notes with a bewildering power 
 Of strange romance, to charm the listening ear, 
 And blend with Nature's music far and near. 
 How beautiful that harmony refined. 
 Which wiles discordant feelings from the mind. 
 And wakes the thoughts to more ennobling 
 
 themes 
 Than such as fill too oft our earthly dreams. 
 How far more beautiful those things which 
 
 breathe 
 Of the Creator's power, and thus enwreathe 
 
212 THE FORKS OF THE DELAWARE. 
 
 A spirit-spell upon the yielding heart, 
 To linger on when life's vain hopes depart 
 Oh, who could look upon these scenes, nor feel 
 That Nature's God had surely set his seal 
 On his own works ! where river, hill, and dale 
 Together picture forth the wondrous tale. 
 
 Tradition tells how once the Indians roved 
 In native freedom through these haunts beloved ; 
 How oft their council-fires lit up the glade, 
 And their wild chiefs sat in the forest shade ; 
 How on these banks in peace their wigwams rose, 
 And o'er these waters skimmed their light canoes. 
 The white men came ; and as their numbers 
 
 grew, 
 Reluctantly the Indians withdrew. 
 Leaving their much-loved home to seek a place 
 As yet untrodden by the stranger-race. 
 Slowly they disappeared till all were gone. 
 So says the legend, — all, excepting one 
 Who lingered still, preferring here to die, 
 Amidst these scenes so lovely to his eye. 
 And often he was seen at eventide 
 Along the sparkling Delaware to glide, 
 Gazing in silence on the rippling waves. 
 While strangers trod upon his fathers' graves. 
 Kindred and nation he forsook, and none 
 Returned to claim the solitary one. 
 
THE FORKS OF THE DELAWARE. 213 
 
 But he was missed at length, — his wonted track 
 Remains for others, — he will ne'er come back. 
 His weary spirit burst its prison-clay, 
 And on immortal pinions soared away. 
 The white men buried him, and raised a mound 
 To mark the spot as consecrated ground — 
 The lonely Forest-son's last resting-place, 
 Far from the remnant of his exiled race. 
 
 Years pass on years, — man follows man, — 
 
 while here 
 Slight are the changes which in Time appear. 
 Still lovely are the earth, the sky, the sun, 
 The meeting waters mingle still in one, 
 And onward flow, while glancing in the light 
 Each crested wave seems prowned with diamonds 
 
 bright ; 
 Unaltered in their beauty, day by day, 
 Though still the watery gems roll far away. 
 Oh, life, how like these shifting waves thou art ! 
 How swiftly glide thy treasures from the heart ! 
 How hope cheats on with ever sparkling rays, 
 While memory turns upon the past to gaze. 
 And gather up the withered flowers, which fell, 
 As Love, or Joy, or Friendsliip bade farewell ! 
 
I LOVE TO HEAR THE BIRDS SING. 
 
 I LOVE to hear the birds sing ! 
 
 I listen with dehght 
 Their welcome to the sweet Spring 
 
 At morning's dawning light. 
 The chanting of their wild lays. 
 
 So joyous and so clear, 
 As heralding their glad praise 
 
 To God, that Spring is here ! 
 
 I How lovely loolis the hill-side, 
 
 As sloping to the stream, 
 Where, just below, the waves glide 
 
 And catch the sun's first beam. 
 The smoke is curling up, too, 
 
 From many a dwelling round, 
 And seems unto my charmed view 
 
 A fairy scene to bound. 
 
 I love to hear the birds sing ! 
 
 All free from thought and care. 
 Before the blossoms rich fling 
 
 Their fragrance on the air. 
 
/ LOVE TO UEAR TEE BIRDS SING. 215 
 
 For not yet have the leaves come 
 
 To clothe the naked trees, 
 Nor yet the busy bees' hum 
 
 Come forth upon the breeze. 
 
 But Nature has new life now 
 
 With promise of the Spring 
 That earth shall to her reign bow, 
 
 And bloom and beauty bring. 
 The evergreens are bright yet, 
 
 The cedar and the pine. 
 And soon with morning dews wet 
 
 The Avilding flowers will shine. 
 
 I love to hear the birds sing ! 
 
 The harbingers to me 
 Of joys to which my thoughts cling 
 
 In fancy's re very. 
 The chanting of their wild lays, 
 
 So joyous and so clear, 
 Accords with my own heart's jDraise 
 
 To God, that Spring is here ! 
 
SPRING. 
 
 'T IS Spring again ! I feel it — Spring is here ! 
 I feel its gladsome influence in my heart ! 
 Its cheering presence in the earth and sky. 
 And in all Nature's renovated life. 
 Its breath is in the air ! each whispering breeze 
 Keeps time to joyous thoughts, which rise and 
 
 swell 
 In harmony with the low murmuring tones, 
 Which blend their cadence with sweet promises 
 Of bloom and freshness to the opening year. 
 It tells of hope ; of early memories 
 Linked with the spring of life. It tells of home 
 In a sequestered spot, 'midst shady trees 
 Long lost in Time's sad changes, — of the hours 
 When none were missing from that happy home. 
 Past are those blessed seasons ! yet my harp 
 Still breathes its song of welcome to the Spring. 
 
 'T is Spring again ! I feel it — Spring is here ! 
 It comes with its bright gifts of buds and flowers 
 To beautify the earth ; and ofler up 
 The incense of their fragrance to the skies. 
 
SPRING. 217 
 
 It comes to break stern Winter's ice-bound 
 
 chains, 
 And free the prisoned streams, and wake the 
 
 voice 
 Of gushing rivulets, till music pours 
 Its " concord of sweet sounds " to listening trees 
 Which seem to bend their branches to the strain. 
 
 Youth's spirit lives again in Spring's fresh garb 
 
 Of new-created verdure. Such the dress 
 
 Of Eden in its pristine loveliness ; 
 
 Ere sin had marred its beauty, and destroyed 
 
 The first fair Paradise of man, and brought 
 
 The curse upon the earth. But ah, its wrath 
 
 Is tempered still with mercy ! Spring returns 
 
 With each revolving year, and to the mind 
 
 Restores a glimpse of young Creation's charms. 
 
 It comes to bring new vegetation forth 
 
 In smiling valleys, and through wide-spread 
 
 plains. 
 To change the russet coverinsf of the earth 
 For Nature's verdant carpet, and to cast 
 Over the sloping hills a mantle bright, 
 Gemmed ^vith gay wild flowers peeping through 
 
 the grass 
 To meet the wann rays of the genial sun. 
 It hastes to clotlie the naked trees with leaves 
 And spread sweet blossoms on their boughs, and 
 
 draw 
 
218 SPBING. 
 
 The feathered songsters out, and bid them tune 
 Their untaught notes to the Creator's praise. 
 But ah, it may not stay ! it will depart 
 When heightened to its full perfection, — when 
 Its glory crowns the forest and the field, 
 And all things seem rejoicing in its reign. 
 In vain the love that wooes it, or the lyre 
 That sounds its praises, — vain tlie idle wish 
 That lingei^ on its beauties ; — it is born 
 Of Time, and must move onward, onward still, 
 Its sceptre yielding to the Summer here. 
 And Summer still to Autumn in its gloom. 
 And Autumn to the Winter, — while -with each 
 In its successive course is borne along 
 Full many a soul to its immortal home. 
 
 How beautiful were famed Olympus' height 
 In its perpetual Spring ! Coidd mortal feet 
 But reach its towering summit, there to stray 
 Amidst its fabled groves, beyond tlie power 
 Of wmd or cloud or storm. 
 
 But lovelier fai' 
 The dreams of that blest land, in which no change 
 Can ever come ! whose bowers celestial, bloom 
 In everlasting beauty ! and whose streams 
 Mingle in one broad river, pure and clear. 
 Which while it flows forever tlirough the midst. 
 In its full tide dispenses life and bliss. 
 
SPRING. 219 
 
 How sweet the visions of that brighter world 
 
 In its perennial green ! Free from the blight 
 
 Which withers in the noonday, and the blast 
 
 Which kills at night ! Free from the curse of sin, 
 
 The fear of evil, and the dread of death. 
 
 Oh, its exceeding glory who can tell ! 
 
 Its boundless regions, glomng in the light 
 
 Of the Almighty's presence ! and its stores 
 
 Of wondrous and imperishable wealth ! 
 
 Its treasures, such as " eye hath 7iever seen " / 
 
 Its music, such as " ear hath 7iever heard " / 
 
 " Nor hath it entered in the heart of man," 
 
 Its blessings to conceive or to describe ! 
 
 For though 'twere given \\\\h angels' tongues to 
 
 speak, 
 Imagination still must faint and die ! 
 Faith only reaches to that " better land," 
 And enters in its portals, and descries 
 Its many mansions for the blest prepared. 
 Hope only sees that Paradise afar. 
 With its broad tree of life, and healing leaves, 
 And fruit of perfect joy untasted here. 
 Its gardens sown with seeds of heavenly bliss, 
 And quickened by the great Omnipotent 
 To bloom forever in eternal spring. 
 
I THINK OF THEE! 
 
 I THINK of thee when the morning breaks 
 
 Through the dark and silent night, 
 When the stirring and busy world awakes 
 
 To the blithesome and cheering light. 
 I think how thou art sleeping on 
 
 In thy deep and tranquil rest, 
 With the sunbeams glancing on thy tomb, 
 
 And the cold sod on thy breast. 
 
 I think of thee at the noontide hour. 
 
 When the crowded streets look gay. 
 And I know that our steps can meet no more 
 
 In the light of an earthly day. 
 And again, again when the moon is high. 
 
 Over hill and vale and sea, 
 When stars look down from the midnight sky. 
 
 My spirit communes with thee ! 
 
 I look back then on the dreamy past. 
 
 And raise the misty veil 
 Which forgetfulness was spreading fast 
 
 Over memory's untold tale. 
 
I THINK OF THEE! 221 
 
 And I think of thee, as remembered scenes 
 
 Come thronging from the waste, 
 As they gather thick in the flashing beams 
 
 From which the shadows haste. 
 
 But more, my friend, in the days of gloom, 
 
 In hours of doubt and fear, 
 When sorrows and dark repinings come, 
 
 I weep that thou art not here ! 
 When weary, and sick at heart, I feel 
 
 Impatient and unresigned 
 To life's disappointments, then will steal 
 
 Thy image across my mind. 
 
 1 think how often thy counsels swayed 
 
 My troubled thoughts to rest, 
 How half the weight of each grief I laid 
 
 Upon thy faithful breast. 
 And memory turns through a path of tears 
 
 To count up her treasured store, 
 For thy love is lost with the vanished years, 
 
 And can come to me no more. 
 
 I think of thee, as the leaves come out. 
 
 And the blossoms on the trees, 
 When music dwells in the air, afloat 
 
 On each stirring and changeful breeze. 
 
222 1 THINK OF THEE! 
 
 When Nature smiles with the vernal sun, 
 And life returns to each flower, 
 
 I think how thou art sleeping on 
 Bound by Death's tyrant power ! 
 
 I think of thee in the brilliant room, 
 
 Where the circles of fashion meet, 
 Where smiles and beauty the scene illume, 
 
 And flattery's voice is sweet. 
 But more, where mind is tried with mind. 
 
 And talent the test must bear, 
 Where feeling and sentiment grow refined, 
 
 I think, how they miss thee there ! 
 
 And again, again when ambition comes, 
 
 Like a wild and fevered dream. 
 Across my soul, and each vision roams 
 
 Till it breaks in a meteor gleam, — 
 Then I think of thee, and the voice of fame 
 
 Seems a hollow and empty breath 
 Blown o'er thy tomb with its proud acclaim. 
 
 While all beneath is death. 
 
INQUIRY AFTER HAPPmESS. 
 
 Are the young happy ? Answer ye 
 
 Who are yet in youth's early bloom. 
 Are your gay and elastic spirits free 
 
 From the clouds of grief and gloom ? 
 They may gather, perchance, in deeper shades, 
 
 With the number and weight of years, 
 But ah ! ere the Spring's first blossom fades, 
 
 It is wet with the dew-drop's tears. 
 Or the storm passes o'er it with might and power, 
 And crushes or withers the tender flower ; 
 Or the blight may come ere the bud is blown. 
 Or it dies in the heat of the scorching sun. 
 
 Are the rich happy ? Mark ye well 
 
 How the lines of thought and care 
 Have furrowed the rich man's brow, and tell 
 
 If ye think that bliss is there. 
 There may come with wealth high dreams of life 
 
 And swelling feelings of pride. 
 But there 's many a scene of sorrow and strife 
 
 To fortune's gifts allied. 
 And where diamonds glitter and sparkle the 
 most. 
 
224 INQUIRY AFTER HAPPINESS. 
 
 The eye has full often its lustre lost, 
 
 And the cheek is pale, and the heart is cold, 
 
 For happiness cannot be bought with gold. 
 
 Are the wise happy ? Turn to those 
 
 Wlio are wasting their lives in vain 
 From the morning's dawn to the evening's close, 
 
 By the midnight lamp again. 
 They will tell you Castalia's stream is cursed, 
 
 That its bottom no mortal can find, 
 That the draught repeated still leaves the thirst 
 
 Unslaked in the restless mind ; 
 They mil say that the light in their path is dim, 
 That it shines not in fulness of glory for them, 
 That the spirit is wearied with themes too high. 
 And the knowledge of man cannot satisfy. 
 
 Are the good happy ? Seek the few 
 
 Wliose lives are the test of their worth. 
 And inquire if they must be subject too 
 
 To the troubles and trials of earth ? 
 But ye need not ask, — 't is enough to gaze 
 
 On outward and visible things ; 
 'T is enough to know there are manifold ways 
 
 Whence the fountain of misery springs. 
 Is happiness thus but an idle dream. 
 In a world so lovely as this would seem ? 
 It must be, then, that the dream was given 
 To lead the aspirant up to Heaven. 
 
SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 How calm and peaceful breaks the Sabbath 
 morn, 
 After the tm'moil of the week is o'er ; 
 The world seems in its quietude new born, 
 And thought turns upward from the earth to 
 soar. 
 
 No sound disturbs the stillness, save the bells 
 Which call to church, and echo loud and clear 
 
 O'er vale and mountain, till their deep voice tells 
 That God is worshipped in his temples here. 
 
 How passing beautiful this tranquil scene ! 
 Where Summer smiles in Nature's foliage 
 bright, 
 And spires arise amidst the living green. 
 
 To jDoint the spot whence breaks the Gospel- 
 light. 
 
 Thrice blessed Sabbath ! In thy welcome rest 
 The 'poor rejoice, from toil released a while. 
 
 15 
 
226 SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 Thy rising sun comes o'er the weaiy breast 
 With healing influence and with gladdening 
 smile. 
 
 The God who " giveth his heloved 
 
 To chase life's dark and troubled thoughts 
 away, 
 And close the sorrowing eyes which wake to weep, 
 
 In equal mercy made the Sabbath day. 
 
 O Thou to whom in trial man resorts. 
 
 When dangers jDress or earthly friendships fail, 
 
 *' Let all the people praise Thee " in thy courts, 
 Through all the nations let thy truth prevail. 
 
 On this Thy Sabbath be Thy name adored, 
 Where gathering throngs in city churches 
 meet ; 
 
 Or in the country where Thy works are stored, 
 Thy hand undoubted, and Thy reign complete. 
 
I'M WEAKY WITH THINKING! 
 
 1 'm weary with thinking ! I'm weary and sad, 
 "With the deep weight of thought on my mind ; 
 
 that now, 
 
 From the garden where long since they flourished, 
 
 1 had 
 
 A chaplet of poppies to bind on my brow. 
 
 Full often I dream of that garden afar : 
 It lies in the past like a bright sunny spot, 
 
 Still blooming as first beneath life's morning-star. 
 Unaltered by time, by my heart unforgot. 
 
 I 've wandered in gardens more fair to the eye, 
 "Wliose rich flowers yielded their sweets to the 
 bee, 
 But the gorgeous dressed poppies looked bright- 
 er — and why ? 
 O, that was the garden of Eden to me ! 
 
 I 'm weary with thinking ! with visions that pass 
 So thickly and gloomily over my brain. 
 
 In which are reflected, through memory's glass, 
 The lost scenes of youth which return not 
 
228 I'M WEARY WITH THINKING! 
 
 now I look back and remember the hours 
 When I wished that a time of sweet leisure 
 might come, — 
 Wlien, freed from employments and studies, the 
 powers 
 Of thought were all loosened in fancy to roam. 
 
 That time has arrived ! Care nor business con- 
 spire 
 To restrain the mind's freedom, nor press on 
 the heart; 
 No stern prohibition hangs over the lyre 
 To bid all its bright inspirations depart. 
 
 But how has it come ! Oh by breaking the ties 
 Of affection and kindred, and snatching away 
 
 The beloved from around me, whose praise were 
 the prize 
 Which allured me in poesy's pathway to stray. 
 
 The leisure that leaves me in idleness now 
 Brings a pressure of thought, till I 'm weary 
 and sad ; 
 
 And I sigh for the poppies to bind on my brow. 
 The poppies of old in their gorgeous hues clad. 
 
 Fain, fain would I sleep with their charm on my 
 mind. 
 To lull me with dreams of my youth ever blest. 
 
I'M WEARY WITH THINKING! 229 
 
 The girdle which presses my brain to unbind, 
 For I 'm weary with thinking, and longing for 
 rest. 
 
 But why should I seek it in aught of this earth ? 
 
 Know I not that its charms and its opiates are 
 
 vain ? 
 
 Oh have I not proved the extent of their worth, 
 
 That while they cry ^^ peace, there 's no peace " 
 
 in their train ! 
 
 Then let me look upward, where only is rest. 
 Where thought never wearies, nor sadness 
 appears, 
 Where reunion with friends in the land of the 
 blest 
 Is eternal, and God wipes away all our tears. 
 
THE SABBATH EVE. 
 
 " Those evening bells, those CTening bells. 
 How many a tale their music tells, — 
 Of youth and home, and that sweet time 
 When last I heard their soothing chime." 
 
 The Sabbath eve is come with soothing power, 
 To shed its influence o'er the twilight hour. 
 Hushed are the worldly cares of life ; — the,scene 
 Is sweet and solemn, tranquil and serene. 
 The toils of business and the " hum of men " 
 Wait for the morning sun to rise again. 
 Suspended are the things of carnal care, 
 The spirit of devotion 's everywhere. 
 Pride shrinks into itself within the heart, 
 Ambition dares not its wild hopes impart. 
 While in the chiming of the " evening bells " 
 The echoing voice of pure religion dwells. 
 Religion, were our aspirations given 
 To thee, with less of earth and more of heaven, 
 How should we feel the vanity that lies 
 On all this world's best, highest destinies ; 
 How lessened would the consequence ajDpear 
 Of what the heart most loves, most values here ; 
 
THE SABBATH EVE. 231 
 
 How trivial fortune's glittering things would seem ; 
 How fame and praise would melt into a dream ; 
 How passing short the longest life would be, 
 Held up to view with an Eternity ! 
 
 This Sabbath eve ! how sweetly mild its power 
 
 Over my spirit's melancholy hour ! 
 
 Wliile the deep quiet of the city, falls 
 
 On each stray thought, and back the memory 
 
 calls 
 Of childhood's years : when in the village bell 
 There seemed a calm and ever holy spell. 
 The ancient church, where the whole village went 
 "With one accord, in thought and heart intent 
 Upon their Sabbath duties. Oh those days 
 Of peace and innocence ! how bright their rays 
 Shine through the gathered clouds of after-years, 
 And number long past smiles with later tears. 
 
 This Sabbath eve ! how gently does it come 
 With its benignant influence o'er my home ! 
 How does it bring, with memories mixed with 
 
 pain, 
 Assurance of the blessings that remain. 
 Again I listen to the " evening bells," 
 Again their sad and solemn music swells 
 Far upwards on the breeze, as if to bear. 
 Amidst their tones which float upon the air. 
 The hopes, the \\ishes, and the thoughts above, 
 
282 TEE SABBATH EVE. 
 
 Like the pure incense offered up of love. 
 Away, vain dreams of unforgotten things, 
 To which my mind so fondly, closely clings ! 
 Away ! my proud, unyielding spirit turns 
 From past regrets, and the heart's murmurings 
 
 spurns ! 
 let the Sabbath my wild thoughts control. 
 And Lethe's dark oblivious waters roll 
 O'er some few years, that thus- the future scene 
 Bear not the deep impress of what has been ! 
 
TRIBUTE TO LEARNING AND ELOQUENCE. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A CLERGYMAN AFTER HEARING HIM 
 PREACH FROM THE FOLLOWING TEXT. 
 
 " For I determined not to know anything among you, save Jesus 
 Christ, and him crucified." — 1 Cor. ii. 2. 
 
 WHO could list to thee ! 
 Nor feel the spirit bonie away 
 Beyond the confines of the clay 
 
 Which chains it to the earth, — 
 On wings of hope triimiphant rise, 
 Far, far above the outward skies, 
 
 To claim its heavenly birth. 
 
 O who that hears thy voice, 
 The merits of a Saviour plead. 
 Would dare avow the skeptic's creed. 
 
 In hardened folly bold ; 
 Nor rather from the dim light flee 
 Of reason and philosophy, 
 
 The Christian's hope to hold. 
 
 Where is the heart so dead 
 That would not glow with sacred fire, 
 And check each vain and wild desire 
 
 With earthly hopes entwined ; 
 
234 TRIE UTE TO LEARNING AND ELOQ UENCE. 
 
 Making them all a sacrifice 
 Too small to win the glorious prize — 
 Redemption to mankind! 
 
 What are the poet's dreams, 
 Which roam through fancy's boundless 
 
 sphere, 
 A visioned world creating here, 
 
 With wonder-working power. 
 What is his boasted hard-earned fame, 
 But the mere shadow of a name, 
 
 The glory of an hour ! 
 
 What are all human arts ! 
 The mysteries which the wise explore, 
 Who, versed in scientific lore. 
 
 Press onward in their coarse ; 
 Thou knowest all — and yet dost find 
 Fresh themes for thy all-powerful mind. 
 
 Drawn from the gospel-source. 
 
 And from the sacred book 
 Thou bringest such deep wisdom forth 
 As shames the knowledge of this earth. 
 
 And to thy eloquence, 
 Supplied from that rich fountain, thou 
 Dost make the proud and learned bow 
 
 In humbled impotence. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 ON HEARING AN OLD TUNE SUNG IN CHUKCH. 
 
 That old familiar time ! it struck a chord 
 Deep in my inmost heart ! A thrilUng chord 
 Of memory, which vibrated to the sound 
 Of each slow, measured note, and bore away 
 My spirit to the old oak church afar, 
 Where oft in youth I listened to that tune. 
 The vision rose at once before my mind, 
 The scene before my eyes. — The veil of Time 
 Seemed lifted from the past. — My heart went 
 
 back 
 "With the charmed music, till my fancy saw 
 My father in his pulpit ; and around. 
 The old white-headed men (his early friends) 
 Seated before the massive table, which 
 A century had stood unaltered there. 
 But they who occupied those seats are gone 
 To worship in the higher courts above ! 
 And the old oaken table is displaced. 
 And all the church new- modelled. But to me 
 It seemed in fancy all as once it was. 
 
236 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 I saw the imciishioned benches filled with those 
 
 In middle age, — {They now are old and gray !) 
 
 And the long galleries crowded with the young, 
 
 Whose voices seemed to echo on my ear 
 
 In that familiar time so often sung 
 
 There by that happy choir. The unbidden tears 
 
 Rose to my eyes, and as I brushed them off. 
 
 The vision vanished — for I looked around 
 
 Upon a splendid temple, beautified 
 
 With all the art of man ; and there was none, 
 
 Perhaps, within it who had known the scenes 
 
 Or images called up by that old tune. 
 
 Yet there were many there who knew in youth 
 
 The pastor of that village-church, for here 
 
 In this great city was his early home. 
 
 Here first he chose the way of truth and life ; 
 
 Here first he preached ; and some may recollect 
 
 The power with which he spoke, nor deem it 
 
 strange 
 That old white-headed men with minds acute, 
 And wisdom gathered up from many years, 
 Should hang upon his words, and yield esteem 
 And love and confidence unchanged till death. 
 But he, he too, is gone ! to meet again 
 The souls he won to Christ, and join his voice 
 With angel-choirs in nobler strains of praise. 
 Father and mother both have left this earth ! 
 And I must tread, witliout their guidance now. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 237 
 
 The thorny paths of life ! Great God, I bow 
 Submissive to thy will ! Be Thou my guide ! 
 Thine eye the pillar of the cloud by day 
 To lead my heart aright ; and in the night, 
 The fiery pillar shining from afar 
 To light my spirit upward to the skies. 
 
JAIRUS' DAUGHTER. 
 
 Low at the feet of Jesus, Jaiiiis bowed, 
 
 A suppliant for his child ! 
 He heeded not, though round him jDressed the 
 crowd, — 
 
 His heart with grief was wild. 
 
 " My daughter — oh, she is my only one ! — 
 
 Is lying at death's door : 
 Come, lay Thy hands upon her — Thou alone 
 
 Canst life and health restore. 
 
 " Thou workest miracles ; Thy power is great ; 
 
 For help to Thee I fly ; 
 Oh, hasten, hasten, ere it be too late ! 
 
 Let not my daughter die ! " 
 
 But while the father with the Saviour plead, 
 And hundreds thronged the spot, 
 
 Came messengers and said, "77??/ child is dead ; 
 The Master trouble not." 
 
JAEUS' DAUGHTER. 2S9 
 
 But Jesus tirnied not back — He knew the soul 
 
 Was waiting His command : 
 Stern death itself was under His control, 
 
 Its keys were in His hand. 
 
 And gently thus He checked the wail of grief 
 
 Which met Him at the door : 
 " Have faith, and this your mourning shall be 
 brief, — 
 
 Believe, and weep no more." 
 
 With majesty He spoke — " Show me the child? 
 
 Sleep only seals her eyes." 
 And while the sconier's lips His words reviled, 
 
 He bade the maid " arise." 
 
 wondrous sight ! O miracle of grace ! 
 
 The dead to life restored ! 
 Strength, motion, health, all in a moment's space, 
 
 Came at the Saviour's word. 
 
 But, " Tell it not,'' He said, and went His way, 
 While still the news was spread, 
 
 And shall be told until Time's latest day. 
 How Jesus raised the dead. 
 
 Greater His mercy now, which all may share ; 
 Redeemer of mankind : — 
 
240 JAIRUS' DAUGHTER. 
 
 The dead in sin He raises from despair, 
 Eternal life to find. 
 
 Rock of our safety, still to Thee we cling 
 In each distressful hour, — 
 
 Messiah, Saviour, Universal King, 
 We own Thy sovereign power. 
 
CHRIST EEFUSTNG THE REQUEST OF 
 
 THE MOTHER OF ZEBEDEE'S 
 
 CHILDREN. 
 
 Among Ins followers Jesus stood. 
 
 His chosen ones around, 
 Disciples of the living God, 
 
 In heart together bound. 
 
 Unwearied on His words they hung 
 With many a wondering thought. 
 
 For ne'er before had mortal tongue 
 Such heavenly wisdom taught. 
 
 But two were absent. "\"\Tiere were they ? 
 
 Behold them near at hand ! 
 With hurrying steps upon their way 
 
 To join the faithful band. 
 
 The mother with her sons appeared, 
 
 Believing in His name ; 
 The Saviour's presence they revered, 
 
 And worshipped as they came. 
 
 16 
 
242 CHRIST REFUSING A REQUEST. 
 
 " What would'st thou ? " Jesus said, though well 
 
 He knew that mother's heart, — 
 " What would'st thou ask ? thy wishes tell, 
 
 Ere I from hence depart." 
 
 With kind and gentle voice He spoke, 
 
 And on her listening ear 
 His soothing accents sweetly broke, 
 
 And took away her fear. 
 
 " Grant, Lord, that, when of these bereft. 
 
 My sons, so dear to me. 
 That on Thy right hand, and Thy left, 
 
 These two may sit with Thee." 
 
 Thus of His earthly kingdom still 
 
 Did their ambition dream, 
 While seeking at His Sovereign will 
 
 For honors most supreme. 
 
 Ambition lurked within the souls 
 
 Of those unlettered men ! 
 But hark ! how Jesus' voice controls 
 
 Their inward thoughts again. 
 
 But while He pityingly reproved 
 The brothers at His side, 
 
CHRIST REFUSING A REQUEST. 243 
 
 The ten, with indignation moved, 
 Rebuked them for their pride. 
 
 Not so the Master. " Can ye drink," 
 
 He said, " my bitter cup ? 
 Ye know it not, or ye would shrink, 
 
 And pray to yield it up. 
 
 " Say, can ye in my pathway tread, 
 
 And be baptized with me ? " 
 " Yea, we are able, Lord," they said, 
 
 « To follow after Thee." 
 
 And Jesus answered : " Be it so : 
 
 My baptism shall be yours. 
 My cup upon you I bestow, — 
 
 See that your strength endures ! 
 
 " But ah, the boon ye would receive, 
 
 The place on right and left. 
 It is not mine on earth to give. 
 
 Of kingly power bereft. 
 
 " But be not troubled who shall sit 
 
 The highest at my side ; 
 My Father will, as He sees fit. 
 
 Your seats in Heaven provide." 
 
THE GRAVE. 
 
 The grave ! How solemn is the thought ! 
 
 No knowledge, nor device is there ; 
 In its dark cell no work is wrought, 
 
 There is no season there for prayer. 
 
 No wisdom follows the descent 
 Into the chambers of the tomb : 
 
 Within that narrow house is lent 
 No ray of hope to cheer its gloom. 
 
 The immortal spark which warmed the clay, 
 And gave it life and thought and light, 
 
 On viewless wings has passed away, 
 Beyond the reach of mortal sight. 
 
 And earthly hopes and earthly fears 
 Are lost in " dumb forgetfulness," — 
 
 The grave has neither smiles nor tears, 
 The heart to lighten or oppress. 
 
THE GRAVE. 245 
 
 Love, hatred, envy, are forgot ! 
 
 'Perished on Time's oblivious wave ; 
 TJie dead know nothing, — Earth has not 
 A portion for them, but the grave ! 
 
 Philosophy can charm no more ; 
 
 And Science casts her brightest beam, 
 To sink on that mysterious shore 
 
 Which borders Jordan's fearful stream. 
 
 « 
 
 And none who touch that river's brink 
 Turn e'er again on earth to tread ; 
 
 happy, if before they drink 
 The living fountain at its Head ! 
 
 Then calm and peaceful is the tomb, 
 And welcome that last resting-place, 
 
 Although no rising sun illume, 
 
 Nor moon, nor stars its shadows chase. 
 
 No terrors 'midst its darkness dwell, 
 If the blest gospel-light have shon% 
 
 To cheer the way, its mists dispel. 
 And guide the weary traveller home. 
 
THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 It was a humble temple, and it stood 
 In the enclosure of a quiet wood. 
 The forest-trees o'ershadowed all the place, 
 And mountains round it added a rude grace 
 To charm the eye and bid the thoughts arise 
 Amid their towering summits to the skies. 
 The valley lay below half hi4. from view 
 By clustering bushes on its banks that grew ; 
 , And in its depths a winding streamlet strayed, 
 Of crystal water murmuring through the glade : 
 An emblem of that living water, given 
 To quench the thirst of spirits bound for heaven. 
 
 Sweet was that rural scene of deep repose, 
 And bright the sun that o'er the Sabbath rose, 
 When we, as strangers, sought that house of 
 
 prayer. 
 And joined the few who met to worship there. 
 We crossed the open doorway, sure to meet 
 A welcome entrance and a willing seat. 
 
THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 247 
 
 Amid the scant and scattered flock, that came 
 Their own familiar places there to claim. 
 Free access to that dome was none denied, 
 Nor outward show of fashion or of pride 
 Checked the devotion of the solemn hour, 
 Nor took from truth its deep, momentous power. 
 
 No studied eloquence was there displayed, 
 
 Nor poetry of language lent its aid ; 
 
 But plain the words which from the preacher 
 
 came, 
 A preacher young, and all unknown to fame ; 
 While youth and age a listening ear inclined 
 To learn the way the pearl of price to find. 
 The solemn hymn, to ancient music set, 
 In many a heart response of memory met. 
 To me, it seemed departed Sabbaths hung 
 Upon those notes, which gave the past a tongue 
 To speak again in voices from the dead. 
 And wake an echo from their silent bed. 
 
 Oh, what a power hath music ! how it sinks 
 Into the spirit's fountain-depths, and drinks 
 Familiar thoughts perchance long buried there. 
 And blends the scenes that ivere with scenes 
 
 that are. 
 All Nature seemed to hail that Sabbath morn 
 With sight and sound religion to adorn. 
 
248 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 The hills, with verdure crowned, majestic stood, 
 The watered valley, and the verdant wood, 
 Whose leaves, stirred by the breezes' viewless 
 
 wings, 
 Whispered in worship of the King of kings ; 
 While birds in freedom chanted forth their lays. 
 Untaught, unwritten, to their Maker's i^raise. 
 
 So calm, so beautiful that lonely spot, 
 
 'Twere well that there the world should be 
 
 forgot. 
 And every thought attuned to sacred themes, 
 Cast off a while life's vain distracting schemes. 
 I love a country church, where'er it be ! 
 It brings back happy memories to me ; 
 It cancels years — and shadows pass away, 
 And forms beloved, now mingled with the clay, 
 By memory's touch recover life and breath. 
 And I forget that they are thine, oh Death ! 
 Still tenants of the grave, to rise no more, 
 Till the last trmiip shall sound and Time be o'er. 
 
SUMMER IN E ASTON. 
 
 Summer, bright summer! where art thou so 
 
 bright 
 As here 'mid Easton's circling hills ? from whence 
 The eye, unsated, wanders over scenes 
 Of varied loveliness. I stand on one, 
 High on the summit of a bright-green mount, 
 Studded with rocks, and here and there a tree 
 Casting its lengthened shadow on the grass, 
 And stretching its dimensions there, each hour, 
 To more gigantic size ; as onward still 
 The sun unwearied journeys on his course 
 To the "far west," thus bringing home the 
 
 thought 
 Of life's increasing shadows, as its sun 
 Declines toward the darkness of the tomb. 
 Even on this spot, with all Creation's fresh 
 And glorious images on every side, . 
 The thought of death intrudes with fearful power. 
 
 Beneath this eminence a graveyard lies. 
 Rearing its sculptured monuments, to tell 
 
250 SUMMER m EAST ON. 
 
 The names of its unconscious tenants, who 
 Compose a vast and " silent multitude." 
 All claiming there one common heritage, 
 Room for their weary limbs beneath the sod. 
 Wealth can no more, and poverty no less 
 Than this last narrow home, in which must end 
 All vain distinctions of the living world, 
 All friendships, and all animosities, 
 All hopes, and fears, and doubts, and memories ; 
 For in the grave, oblivion rests profound, 
 And solitude unbroken holds its reign. 
 Sleep on, ye quiet throng ! no idle dreams 
 Shall evermore disturb your tranquil state, 
 Or wake excited thoughts, such as now strive 
 For mastery in my heart. But let me change 
 The pictured scene. 
 
 Low at the mountain's base 
 A narrow stream pursues its " winding way," 
 Mingling its soft-toned music with the noise 
 Of busy mills and tinkling cow-bells' din. 
 Yet not even sounds like these can break the 
 
 spell 
 Of wild romance so wedded to the spot 
 By Nature's hand : its spirit still pervades 
 The lowly vale, and marks it for its own ; 
 The river keeps its light fantastic course 
 In serpentine meanderings far away 
 Beyond the longing gaze ; while either side. 
 
SUMMER m EAST ON. 251 
 
 Bordered with drooping trees, invites the steps 
 To wander on its margin, till the mind, 
 Wearied with crowded images, is lost 
 In vague and undefined emotions. Wlio 
 Could be insensible to sights like these ? 
 Who, having eyes to see, would still pass on 
 Blindfolded through the world, and lose the 
 
 power 
 Which makes up half the happiness of life ? 
 
 Cold is that heart that would not glow with love 
 
 And adoration to the unseen God, • 
 
 And offer up involuntary praise 
 
 From the pure well-springs of the spirit here. 
 
 What ternple made by man is like to this ? 
 
 The canopy of heaven above the head. 
 
 And the green earth beneath ! How does the 
 
 mind 
 Faint with the weight of thought, and seek in 
 
 vain 
 To fathom the deep mysteries which lie 
 Beyond its highest powers ! I love to gaze 
 In silence and in solitude around. 
 Without an eye to watch me, or a voice 
 To speak away the visions of the hour. 
 I see the forest-covered mountains, now. 
 Seeming to touch the clouds ; and at their feet 
 The shininor Delaware roUino^ on between, 
 
252 SUMMER IN EA8T0N. 
 
 As if 't were but a silvery streak of light 
 Reflected from the sky. 
 
 Another view. — 
 The cunning hand of man has reared the town, 
 Whence the ascending smoke high upward curls 
 In graceful beauty on the summer air. 
 A living panorama meets the eye : 
 Embowered in trees, by rivers girdled round, 
 Forming almost an island ; compassed, too. 
 By mountains which o'erlook from every point 
 The peopled valley, lying in the midst, 
 Displaying all the " pomp and pride of life." 
 Tall steeples rise, fair emblems of the land 
 For which was won " Freedom to worship God." 
 A college, like a light upon a hill, 
 Stands forth preeminent, as if to show 
 That Learning's fountain is unsealed, and flows 
 Unchecked around to fertilize the scene. 
 
 I love the summer hours ! the lengthened days, 
 And glorious sunset clouds, which fill the mind 
 "With wonder passing words. The royal hues 
 Of crimson, purple, gold, and scarlet blend 
 And change and fade into the azure light 
 Which heralds forth the stars, — a countless 
 
 throng 
 Of watchers o'er the destinies of man. 
 Watchers indeed they may be — Angels' eyes. 
 
SUMMER IN EAST ON. 253 
 
 Perchance, to look down on the world below, 
 But powerless all ; One Eye alone can guide, 
 One Spirit move the darkened spirits here, — 
 The God who gave them immortality. 
 
 Here end my maisings. Twilight lingers yet 
 
 To light my homeward steps, ere darker shades 
 
 Give warning of the sable monarch's reign. 
 
 Fain would I linger still, and still indulge 
 
 In reveries of fancy, ever dear. 
 
 But I must onward with the steps of Time 
 
 Which knows no backward tread. Another day, 
 
 A summer's day, is added to my life ! 
 
 And summer, too, is hastening to its close ; 
 
 Already its first freshness and rich bloom 
 
 Have faded from the earth. Thus all things 
 
 here. 
 However beautiful, however bright 
 Or lovely in their nature, still must bear 
 Earth's common sentence — mutability. 
 
TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF REV. 
 JOHN KNOX, D. D. 
 
 Ere his path of life grew dreary, 
 
 Or his footsteps slow, 
 Ere his heart was worn or weary 
 
 With his work below, 
 The crown of righteousness was ready 
 
 To adorn his brow. 
 
 In a moment he departed 
 
 To his heavenly rest. 
 We, the mourners, stricken-hearted, 
 
 Know that he is blest. 
 Freed from earthly sin and sorrow, — 
 
 Surely it were best ! 
 
 Yet no more on earth to meet him. 
 
 Oh, how deep the pain ! 
 Ne'er with mortal tongue to greet him 
 
 'Mid the haunts of men, — 
 Never, never more to meet him 
 
 On this earth again ! 
 
TRIBUTE TO REV. JOHN KNOX, D. D. 255 
 
 Clear as day, his history 
 
 A seraph's pen might write, 
 Pure and stainless and harmonious, — 
 
 Even passing bright. 
 As a jewel set in glory, 
 
 Shone his Christian light. 
 
 Standing on the heights of Zion, 
 
 On Christ's battle-tower. 
 In the fulness of his vigor 
 
 And his mental power, 
 Never putting off his armor 
 
 Till his dying hour. 
 
 Suddenly his work was ended, -^ 
 
 All completed here ; 
 In a moment He ascended 
 
 To a higher sphere. 
 And the pearly gates unfolded 
 
 To admit him there. 
 
 By the golden harps of angels 
 Welcomed to the courts above. 
 
 And with 'songs of bright evangels 
 Hailed with joy and sacred love, — 
 
 Welcomed by the saints and angels, 
 Nevermore from heaven to rove ! 
 
ON THE DEATH OF A BEAUTIFUL 
 YOUNG LADY. 
 
 Oh, why should we mourn when the beautiful 
 
 die? 
 Ere a cloud hath passed over life's shadowless 
 
 sky, 
 Ere the well-spring of hope by the world has 
 
 been drained, 
 Or the freshness of youth by dark years has been 
 
 stained. 
 Not for her, not for her, the beloved and the 
 
 blest, 
 Who has passed from this earth to a heaven of 
 
 rest, — 
 Not for her should we weep, but for those that 
 
 remain 
 To miss her, and feel that their tears are in vain. 
 
 She is gone from among us ; and lonely and sad 
 Is the home of her fathers her presence made 
 
 glad. 
 She is gone, and a star in its brilliance is set, 
 But the light of its beauty we may not forget. 
 
OIV TEE DEATH OF A BEAUTIFUL LADY. 257 
 
 In her favorite haunts we shall seek her in vain, 
 She spoke no " farewell," but she '11 come not 
 
 again ; 
 Her place will be vacant in hall and in bower, — 
 The fairest and sweetest and loveliest flower. 
 
 Her voice is now silent which minsrled so sweet 
 In the unwritten music which none may repeat ; 
 The music of Nature's mysterious choir 
 The viewless winds waking their own wild lyre ; 
 Earth's low murmuring notes, and the many- 
 toned streams 
 Stealing over the heart like the memory of 
 
 dreams. 
 Her voice amid these is forever at rest. 
 For Death his deej) seal on her lips has im- 
 pressed ! 
 
 17 
 
DEAE LITTLE GEORGE. 
 
 "Not lost, but gone." 
 
 He was so very dear ! 
 We could not loosen from our hearts the ties 
 That would have chained him to an earthly 
 sphere, 
 
 Bright cherub of the skies ! 
 Sweet, gentle dove ! to heaven ordained to soar, 
 And live in bliss ineffable forevermore ! 
 
 Our mortal sight is dim ; 
 Nor sees the glory on his infant brow : 
 Earth had no portion fair enough for him, 
 
 A white-winged angel now ! 
 Tuning his golden harp in courts above. 
 With those small, dimpled hands clasped here 
 in fondest love. 
 
 We saw them motionless, 
 And placed fresh flowers in their unconscious 
 hold; 
 We could not love him less, 
 
DEAB LITTLE GEORGE. 259 
 
 Because the fingers were so still and cold : 
 We fancied that his spirit-glance might see 
 Those emblems beautiful of frail mortality. 
 
 And grief grew still more deep ; — 
 So lifelilce laid he, without pulse or breath, 
 The long, bright lashes, veiling, as in sleep, 
 
 The sweet eyes closed in death. 
 Fair child of many hopes ! we knew him blest ! 
 While, like the flowers, our crushed hopes with- 
 ered on his breast. 
 
 " Even so, Father ; — for it so seemed good " 
 
 To Thee and in Thy sight. 
 All that is dark will yet be understood, 
 
 The cloud will break in light. 
 A blessing and a sunbeam, he was given ! 
 Of such, of such as he the kingdom is of heaven. 
 
IRENE MAY. 
 
 The flowers fade from the earth ! 
 And thus the young and lovely pass away, 
 
 Like thee, Irene May ! 
 It matters not their beauty or their worth, 
 Death is the heritage of mortal birth. 
 
 The blossoms fair and bright 
 Come in the sweet and joyous month of May, 
 
 And soon, full soon decay ; 
 For Spring still brings the blossom and the 
 
 blight, 
 The morning sun, and chilling blast by night. 
 
 A spring-time life was thine ! 
 A glorious summer now, Irene May ! 
 
 Where flowers fade not away, 
 But bloom eternally in growth divine 
 With Christ the husbandman and living vine. 
 
 And thou hast gained that peace 
 Which can be taken nevermore away 
 
 From thee, Irene May ; 
 While thy remembered name will never cease 
 The thought to bring of its blest meaning, peace. 
 
JULIA P. DE WITT. 
 
 " Youth is not rich ia time ; it may be poor." 
 
 From the thoroughfare of life, 
 From its trials and its strife, 
 
 Some may pass away unheeded ; 
 But the lovely and the good, 
 Standing, as our young friend stood, 
 Pure amidst the multitude, 
 
 Ever in the earth are needed. 
 
 And though some few weeks have fled 
 Since we left her with the dead, 
 
 In a solitude unbroken, 
 
 Not the less we mourn her now, 
 Than when first upon her brow 
 
 Death's dark angel set his token. 
 
 In the freshness of her youth, 
 
 In her earnest faith and truth. 
 She has found her home in heaven ! 
 
 Early chosen, early blest, 
 
 Called to her eternal rest, 
 Ere the shadows of life's even. 
 
262 JULIA P. DE WITT. 
 
 Graces of tlie heart and mind, 
 Manners gentle and refined, 
 
 Gave her character a beauty 
 Still increasing day by day, 
 As she walked her steadfast way 
 
 In the path of Christian duty. 
 
 We shall see her face no more 
 On Time's fast receding shore ; 
 
 Voice and smile and presence vanished 
 Yet our severed earthly ties 
 Draw us nearer to tlie skies 
 
 Till rebellious thoughts are banished. 
 
EUGENIE. 
 
 THE IDOL DAUGHTER. 
 
 «* The child is not ! " 
 
 An infant voice is hushed, — 
 Or only echoes to the ear in thought ! 
 A bud of promise ere its bloom is crushed, — 
 
 « The child is not ! " 
 
 Where is she ? Look above ! 
 The light of heaven is beaming on her brow ; 
 Eternal life, eternal peace and love, 
 
 Surround her now. 
 
 Sweetly she went to sleep, 
 Fearless of ill, upon her Saviour's breast : 
 And yet we know they could not choose but weep, 
 
 Though she was blest. 
 
 They could not choose but mourn ! 
 Though to the world 't was nothing that she died, 
 The loss was all to them who saw her borne 
 
 Forever from their side. 
 
264 EUGENIE. 
 
 She was the star that shone 
 On that fair home which now is darkened o'er, 
 The jewel from its earthly casket gone 
 
 Forevermore ! 
 
 Grief cannot bring her back ! 
 Love could not save her, or she had been saved ! 
 Her spirit now pursues its blissful track. 
 
 In life's pure waters laved. 
 
 Angels rejoicing view 
 The radiant crown upon the little one. 
 Redeemed and taken ere the early dew 
 
 Of innocence was gone. 
 
 Redeemed from sin and death ! 
 On earth she has no longer part or lot : 
 And thus they say who watched her failing 
 breath, — 
 
 ''The child is not!" 
 
LITTLE HAROLD, 
 
 THE FIKST-BORN". 
 
 " The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away." 
 
 He was a gift from heaven, our darling boy ! 
 So fair, so beautiful, in life's young morn, — 
 Our lovely and too much heloved first-born, — 
 Our daily hope and joy ! 
 
 Earth has one tie the less. Heaven one the 
 more. 
 And love has now another broken band, 
 Since he was borne from Time's receding strand 
 To the eternal shore. 
 
 Child-angel ! with his radiant sunny smile, 
 Shedding along life's path a track of light, — 
 An emblem of the pure effulgence bright 
 Dawning for him the while. 
 
 And suddenly it burst upon his view ! 
 As the faint light below flickered and died, 
 And left our grieved hearts lingering at his side, 
 While he no sorrow knew. 
 
266 LITTLE HAROLD. 
 
 No love nor care his precious life could save, 
 Nor skill prevail, or he had still been here ! 
 For liim, this world with its extended sphere 
 Had nothing but a grave ! 
 
 Room for the little one ! yes, there is room 
 In heaven's bright realms above ! the shining 
 
 crown, 
 His glorious heritage, is surely won, — 
 The Saviom' calls him home. 
 
 Room on the earth for the vast shadow, too, 
 Which falls where he is missing, — space to hold 
 The yearning love which never can be told, — 
 So limitless, so true. 
 
 And room within the hearts o'ercharged with 
 grief, 
 For due submission to the IMaster's will ; 
 For faith to trust, for courage to fulfil 
 
 The duties which alone can biino- relief. 
 
IN ME^IORY OF LITTLE THERON, 
 
 THE DAELING OF THREE YEARS. 
 •' Suffer little children to come unto me." 
 
 A THREE years' sojourner on earth : it was meet 
 That Heaven should claim one so lovely and 
 
 sweet ! 
 But ah, there was sorrow where perished the 
 
 flower, 
 The pride of the household, the charm of each 
 
 hour! 
 
 It was meet that his life, in its brilliance and light, 
 Should go out while the leaves of the autumn 
 
 were bright, — 
 As the rich glowing tints of the sunset sky 
 Which curtains the golden gates on high* 
 
 There was joy with the angels commissioned to 
 
 bear 
 His pure little spirit, the child-crown to wear : 
 The portals of heaven wide open were thrown, 
 And Jesus stood ready to welcome his own. 
 
268 JN MEM OB Y OF LITTLE THEE ON. 
 
 Take comfort, ye mourners ! Your loved one is 
 
 blest ! 
 In the anns of his Saviour forever at rest : 
 Ineffable glory encircles his brow 
 With a halo immortal. Weep not for him now. 
 
 Weep not that the promise his young dawn gave 
 Of a nobler manhood, is quenched in the grave ; 
 But rejoice that his blissful estate is above 
 All the gifts of this world, all its honors and love. 
 
THEODORE F. DE WITT. 
 
 " For so He giveth his beloyed sleep." 
 
 The only son I 
 Oh ! what a wealth of love is garnered up 
 In those three words ! How bitter then the cup 
 Wliich with a world of sorrow now is fraught 
 To those whose treasure Death untimely sought. 
 
 He stood alone 
 As son and brother : none but he to bear 
 His father's name ; the child of hope and 
 
 prayer ! 
 His life encircled by the o'erflowing tide 
 Of full and fond affection : yet, he died ! 
 
 The Master called, 
 And at His voice the spirit passed away 
 From his last sleep on earth, — night turned to 
 
 day; 
 And in the light eternal he awoke, 
 How long, we know not, ere our morning broke. 
 
270 THEODORE F. DE WITT. 
 
 Calmly his head 
 "Was resting on the pillow, and his face 
 Serene and placid in its youthful grace ; 
 As though his heart still kept its measured time 
 To health's sweet music in life's early prime. 
 
 No sign was there 
 Of struggle or of suffering : he had gone 
 From the green earth in silence and alone ; 
 But gone where brighter green, with beauty rife, 
 Shall meet his vision on the tree of life. 
 
 Father above ! 
 In the mysterious workings of Thy will, 
 Increase oiu* faith, and bid our lips be still ! 
 Teach us the blessing to accept, that hides 
 From us the future, which Thy wisdom guides. 
 
 Sustain, God ! 
 The hearts that mourn for him, — the only son / 
 Sufficient be Thy grace to cheer them on 
 Till Time's brief journey shall be travelled o'er, 
 And they shall meet a^ain, to part no more. 
 
LOUISE, 
 
 OUR ANGEL-CHILD. 
 
 " She is not dead, but sleepeth. 
 
 We laid her down to sleep 
 In her young beauty, innocent and fair, 
 And fresh and sweet as morning dews that weep 
 
 Upon the summer air. 
 
 We saw her sink to rest, — 
 Our treasure and our blessing from her birth ! 
 We laid spring flowers upon her quiet breast, 
 
 And gave her form to earth. 
 
 She was the sweetest flower 
 That ever bloomed for us ! our wayside rose, — 
 Shedding sweet fragrance on each passing hour 
 
 Until her short life's close. 
 
 The sunbeam ever bright. 
 The angel dwelling with us in disguise ! 
 We knew it not until she took her flight 
 
 Beyond the starry skies. 
 
272 LOUISE. 
 
 The wealth of worlds untold 
 Were all too poor to win her back to earth ; 
 In safety now she walks the streets of gold, 
 
 And knows heaven's priceless worth. 
 
 To her no fears shall come ; 
 No tears, no sorrows, no more death, no night; 
 Secure of bliss in her eternal home, — 
 
 An heir of life and light. 
 
 We watched her while she smiled 
 Even in death's embrace, — our cherished one, 
 Our household joy, our little angel-child ! 
 
 She is not lost, but gone ! 
 
 We know her loving eyes 
 Are closed forever on all things below ! 
 Oh ! sad experience that so dearly buys 
 
 Such knowledge with such woe ! 
 
 No more her pleasant voice 
 Shall sound for us, as on through life we roam, 
 Nor her sweet presence bid our hearts rejoice, - 
 
 Sole daughter of our home ! 
 
 Yet all will be the same 
 Around us in the world : children will play. 
 And go and come, as erst they went and came 
 
 Ere she was called away. 
 
LOUISE. 27 B 
 
 To us alone the change, — 
 The shadowed days, the lonelmess, the grief, 
 The difference ever felt, the void so strange, 
 
 With naught to bring relief. 
 
 But she will still sleep on 
 Beneath the green turf gemmed with living 
 
 flowers : 
 Not dead^ but sleeping there I not lost, hut gone ! 
 
 Alas, no longer ours ! 
 
 18 
 
THE LOST THOUGHT. 
 
 I 'vE lost a thought which came to me last night; 
 And seeming then so new and bright, 
 I fancied I could keep it in my heart 
 And make it of my very dreams a part ; 
 And in the morning write it down : 
 But now 't is lost amid the noisy town. 
 
 I cannot call it back with all my skill, — 
 Oblivion's power has conquered will. 
 I know not whether to my mind it brought 
 The burden of spring flowers with fragrance 
 
 fraught, 
 Or singing-birds in woodlands wild, 
 Or love-dreams such as once my heart beguiled. 
 
 I cannot tell what might have filled my page, 
 Whether a subject grave or sage, 
 Or some light theme from regions of romance. 
 Or brain-built castle in the air, perchance, 
 Doomed at the world's rude touch to fall, 
 As beautiful ideals perish, all. 
 
THE LOST THOUGHT. 275 
 
 But why should I that single thought regret, 
 
 So many others I forget ! 
 
 Imaginations come and pass away, 
 
 Ere the heart's lyre is put in tune to play ; 
 
 And, wearied o'er the silent strings, 
 
 The Muse's spirit sleeps with folded wings. 
 
 I look back on the years all unimproved, 
 
 Through which in idleness I 've roved ; 
 
 And feel that I have lost Time's tide, and cast 
 
 Full many a chance on the retumless past ; 
 
 And life's unwritten poetry 
 
 Will come no more in fancies bright to me. 
 
 I 've lost the first fresh novel thoughts of youth. 
 
 The fond belief of love and truth ; 
 
 The power on brilliant images to seize 
 
 Has all been yielded to inglorious ease. 
 
 I 've been a loiterer in the chase, 
 
 While others have pressed on and won the race. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 My heart has felt the spirit of romance, 
 And loved the silent and the lonely glen, 
 Secluded from the haunts of busy men ; 
 
 Where I might muse in fancy's magic trance, 
 O'er visioned joys which oft inspired my pen. 
 
 And I have roamed amid the forest's gloom, 
 Or sought the solitary mountain's brow. 
 Or lingered in the peaceful vale below. 
 
 And gazed upon the first spring violet's bloom, 
 Or watched the gushing waters' rapid flow. 
 
 Then have I turned to trace the winding stream. 
 Whose devious course new beauties oft displayed, 
 And led my feet to some sequestered shade. 
 
 Where I have sat in life's first blissful dream. 
 While fancy's pencil fairest scenes portrayed. 
 
 There rested ever in the wildest place 
 A secret, fascinating charm for me, — 
 It seemed as it might like enchantment be, — 
 
 For solitude alone was happiness, 
 
 And hope sung round me with sweet melody. 
 
280 >S0L1JUDE. 
 
 Her song was warbled on the " harp of love," 
 And in each note a thrilling sweetness spoke ; 
 But soon the chords were snapped, — the strings 
 were broke — 
 
 Too delicate, too complicate to move 
 
 In harmony with rough or careless stroke. 
 
 And now the scene is changed : I find no joy 
 In roaming through the wilderness alone, 
 For all my visions of delight are flown, — 
 
 And darker, sadder feelings now destroy 
 
 The pleasing, pensive charm my heart has known. 
 
 No more I climb the mountain's steep ascent, 
 To view the varied landscape stretched below, 
 Or see the dusky shadows floating slow, 
 
 Or picture in the clouds with gaze intent 
 
 Strange forms, and images grotesque and new. 
 
 No more I wander through the flowery vale, 
 And find a charm in every blossom wild, 
 As when an unsophisticated child 
 
 Of Nature, still her beauties would prevail 
 O'er every scene or spot where art had smiled. 
 
 No longer now I seek the shady wood. 
 
 To sit and muse beneath some spreading tree, 
 And dream of pleasures which were not for me, — 
 
 No, — I would fly from thought and solitude, 
 And drown the past in mirth and gayety. 
 
TO ESTELLE. 281 
 
 The rushing waters fall as gracefully 
 
 As when at first they met my wondering sight, 
 And still they sparkle in the sun as bright, 
 
 Or rise, and foam, and swell in majesty, 
 
 When stormy winds awaken all their might. 
 
 But where have fled those feelings which could dwell 
 Unwearied and delighted on each scene, 
 So innocent, so pure, and so serene ? 
 
 My wayward heart has bid them all farewell, 
 And grieves it cannot be what it has been ! 
 
 ESTELLE. 
 
 The preceding piece on Solitude, published many years ago 
 in the New Yorh Mirror over the signature of " Estelle," 
 gave rise to the following correspondence in the same paper, 
 and afterward continued, at intervals, in other papers; the 
 fciittous " Estelle " being mistaken by the correspondent 
 " J. H. H." for a former friend of the same name. The first 
 piece is addressed, under that supposition, by J. H. H. 
 
 TO ESTELLE. 
 
 Though years have flown since last we met, 
 Though many a grief has been my share. 
 
 Still never can my heart forget 
 
 The bright and cloudless days that were. 
 
 Perchance, Estelle, the humble tone 
 
 Of this untutored lyre, revives 
 Joys that once smiled, or visions flown, 
 
 And tells thee that thy bard still lives. 
 
282 TO J. H. H. 
 
 *Twas hard, and yet I bore it well, — 
 The blow was swift and surely dealt ; 
 
 Fate did her worst, and who can tell 
 The anguish that my bosom felt ? 
 
 Like waves that meet and cling together, 
 Till, shook by storms, they part in twain, 
 
 So parted we, — we knew not whether 
 We 'd ever meet on earth again. 
 
 In vain I seek the festive hall, 
 
 Or court the din of mirth and folly, — 
 
 I 'm still alone, — a tear will fall. 
 The offspring of sweet melancholy. 
 
 But, fare thee well ! The willow wreath 
 Which thou hast sadly twined for me, 
 
 I '11 wear, until the hand of death 
 Tears me away from earth and thee ! 
 
 J. H. H. 
 
 TO J. H. H. 
 
 I KNOW thee not ! nor do thy rhymes 
 One ray of light o'er memory throw. 
 
 Although they speak of former times. 
 And thou would'st seem Estelle to know. 
 
 In vain thy harp is strung for me, — 
 
 A stranger's voice speaks in each tone, — 
 
 Nor could its sweetest melody 
 
 Revive one thought of visions flown. 
 
TO ES TELLE. 283 
 
 For vanished years have left no trace 
 Of aught thy mystic verse implies, — 
 
 No mystery has with me had place, 
 The past holds nothing worth disguise. 
 
 The friends to whom I 've said farewell, 
 
 My heart has never yet forgot ; — 
 In memory still the absent dwell, — 
 
 Thou art not there ! Iknow thee not ! 
 
 ESTELLE. 
 
 TO ESTELLE. 
 
 Thou knowest me not ? So be it then, — I knew 
 
 One of thy name in happier days, who threw 
 
 O'er her rich harp a sorrow-soothing spell. 
 
 So like to thine that it were hard to tell 
 
 Which charmed the most, or which could soonest twine 
 
 A wreath of love, — her fingers bright, or thine. 
 
 She had an eye black as the jet, — it shone 
 
 Like the first star of eve, when the blue zone 
 
 Breathes those mysterious melodies, which guide 
 
 The harkening planets onward, side by side. 
 
 Her face was lovely as the new-blown rose. 
 
 When young Aurora sprinkles it with dews 
 
 Fresh from her paradise of flowers. To trace 
 
 The workings of her soul I read her face : 
 
 Each character was truth ; and when she smiled, 
 
 A halo shone so beautiful, so mild. 
 
 That it did seem a rainbow, when it peers 
 
284 TO J. E. H. 
 
 Brightly and softly through a shower of tears. 
 Music breathed from her lips, — music that hung 
 Thrilling upon the listener's heart ; she sung 
 As seraphs sing in the bright courts above, 
 Such notes as teach the savage heart to love ! 
 
 Thou knowest me not ? Lady, perhaps the one 
 Whose gentle minstrelsy (so like thine own) 
 Once wrapt my soul in more than mortal bliss, 
 Sleeps in the grave. Perhaps the icy kiss, 
 Which sorrow printed on her cheek, has nipped 
 The tender flower just as its petals dipped 
 Into the fount of joy. Ah ! were it so, 
 Life were to me a heavy load of woe. 
 I know thee not, if thou art not the same 
 Whose lyre is heard in thine, — whose name 
 Thou bearest, and whose last notes fell 
 Heavy upon my soul. Awake, Estelle, 
 The fairy dream again. Oh, tune thy lyre. 
 And pour out soul from every trembling wire, 
 And I will hear and feel, and every strain 
 Shall bring Estelle to Hfe and light again ! 
 
 J. H. H. 
 
 TO J. H. H. 
 
 Oh, breathe on thy harp 
 Ere the spring breezes die ! 
 
 Thy strains are not lost, 
 
 Though they meet not the eye 
 
 Of her whom thy memory 
 
TO J. H. H. 285 
 
 Has pictured 90 well, — 
 A picture too bright 
 
 To resemble Estelle. 
 I did not deceive thee ! 
 
 I could not forget 
 Life's poetry thus. No, 
 
 AVe never have met ! 
 Yet breathe on thy harp 
 
 When the summer winds sigh, 
 And the spirit of sympathy 
 
 Still shall reply. 
 
 Awake thy sad l}Te 
 
 When the autumn leaves spread 
 O'er the spot where the once 
 
 Blooming roses lie dead ; 
 And if mute be the music 
 
 Which mingled Avith thine, 
 There 's an ear for each note. 
 
 There 's an eye for each line ; 
 Though less brilliant, indeed. 
 
 Than the eye which has shone 
 " Like the first star of eve " 
 
 On the years that have flown. 
 Yet awaken thy lyre 
 
 When the winter storms rage, 
 And each wandering thought 
 
 Shall be fLxed on thy page. 
 
 ESTELLE. 
 
TO ESTELLE. 
 
 « 
 Again, again, my raptured ear 
 
 Catches the notes of other days ! 
 Again, again, the trembling tear 
 
 On Memory's hallowed record lays ! 
 It cannot, oh I it cannot be, 
 
 That thou art not the same who flung 
 Over my youth that witchery 
 
 So cherished by the Queen of Song. 
 
 Dear to my heart are notes like thine. 
 
 Maiden ! again revive thy lay. 
 And I will hear and feel and pine. 
 
 Till heart and soul are stolen away. 
 Then, if on earth there be a spot 
 
 Where joy's bright eye hath never shone, 
 There will I say, " She knows me not ! " 
 
 And die — as I have lived — unknown ! 
 
 J. H. H. 
 
 TO J. H. H. 
 
 The thought which hovers o'er thy mind 
 
 Of some one thou hast known, 
 Has lent my simple verse a charm, — 
 
 A beauty not its own. 
 It has for thee a witchery, — 
 
 But not that it is wine, — 
 A strange delusion bids thee bow 
 
 At tliine own fancy's shrine. 
 
TO J. H. H. 287 
 
 Imagination leads thee on, 
 
 A willing votary, 
 To seek, amidst her garden wild, 
 
 Life's flowers and poetry. 
 There only are the roses found, 
 
 Of all their thorns disarmed. 
 And iliere the siren harp is heard, 
 
 That once thy spirit charmed. 
 
 But cold reality will break 
 
 Thy Aasionary dreams. 
 They 'll./ade in this bleak, desert world 
 
 Like pleasure's transient gleams. 
 Thou need'st not wish to find a spot 
 
 " Where joy hath never shone," 
 'T is far more desolate to feel 
 
 'Mid happy crowds, alone. 
 
 The earth is bright and beautiful, 
 
 And lovely to the eye ; 
 But to the heart 't is all a waste 
 
 Where hope's fair blossoms die. 
 Affection withers, and the buds 
 
 Of feeling Time destroys. 
 And there 's an early blight that falls 
 
 On love's and friendship's joys. 
 
 That blight, perchance, has reached thy heart, 
 
 And Fame's proud chaplet now, 
 However brightly twined for thee, 
 
 May crown an aching brow. 
 
288 TO ES TELLE. 
 
 Or if capncious Fortune pour 
 
 Her treasures at thy feet, 
 In weariness thou still may'st feel 
 
 That wealth and misery meet. 
 
 Dark thoughts are these of life's best scenes, 
 
 They rise unconsciously ; 
 For why should I life's picture paint 
 
 So dark, so sad for thee ? 
 I know not but thy path may lie 
 
 O'er sweet and thornless flowers ; 
 I know not but thy days may be 
 
 Made up of joyous hours. 
 
 I only know thy harp has breathed 
 
 A melancholy lay, 
 So like to sorrow's song, it seemed 
 
 Thy heart could not be gay. 
 But I have seen that Fancy's hand 
 
 The cypress-wreath could weave, 
 While round it roses twined, to mock 
 
 The gloom that would deceive. 
 
 ESTELLE. 
 
 TO ESTELLE. 
 
 ^' Alone ! alone ! — a thousand times alone ! " 
 
 Spirit of air ! thy purple wings 
 
 Bend fleetly hither ; thou hast fanned 
 
 With gentleness the golden strings 
 That sighed beneath her fairy hand. 
 
TO J. H. H. 289 
 
 Breathe in my eager ear the strain 
 
 I used to love in moments gone ; 
 Sigh out the soul of song again, 
 
 And then I will not feel alone. 
 
 Spirit of dreams ! my pillow bless ; 
 
 Work, work again the wizard spell ; 
 Paint her in all her loveliness. 
 
 The child of song, — the fair Estelle. 
 Brighten the waste of Memory 
 
 With eyes that once so joyous shone. 
 Sister of sleep ! tarry with me. 
 
 And then I will not feel alone. 
 
 Spirit of song ! thy harp I hear. 
 
 It whispers from a northern clime ; 
 Its chords are wet with memory's tear — 
 
 The dew-shower from the wings of Time. 
 I called thee to my wildered lyre, — 
 
 Away ! there 's madness in its tone, — 
 Estelle, touch tliou the trembling wire, 
 
 And then I will not feel alone. 
 
 J. H. H. 
 
 TO J. H. H. 
 
 Art tliou " alone ! " amidst a world so gay, 
 And seemingly so happy ? Are there none, 
 
 Of all the young and beautiful, Avho stray 
 Around thee, like thy fancy's cherished one ? 
 19 
 
290 TO J. H. H. 
 
 And where is she ? Why comes she not to claim 
 The music of thy sweetly-sounding lyre ? 
 
 Estelle possesses nothing but the name 
 Of her who seems thy verses to inspire. 
 
 To me thou art a stranger ! Time has flown 
 O'er many a parting scene not yet forgot, 
 
 And some are far away whom I have known, 
 
 And some have long been changed, and some are 
 not! 
 
 But thou — who art thou ? I have sometimes thought 
 That memory was false, — for while thou hast 
 
 No name upon her page, thy harp has caught 
 Its echo from the Spirit of the past. 
 
 Dost thou remember a lovely vale, 
 
 Where the earliest buds appear. 
 And are blown into beauty by spring's first gale, 
 
 Like the promise of hope for the year ? 
 Where there are wild and romantic views 
 
 Of woods and hills and streams, — 
 Where the summer clouds wear the rainbow's hues 
 
 In the setting sun's last beams ? 
 Such scenes would be never by tliee forgot, — 
 If thou knowest not these, then / know thee not ! 
 
 Hast thou seen a place by the water's side. 
 Where the roses bloom and the violets grow. 
 
 Where the poplars lift up their heads, as in pride, 
 And the willows droop, as in silent woe ? 
 
TO ES TELLE. 291 
 
 Where tlie robin's morning music floats 
 
 On the mild and fragrant breeze, 
 And the whippoorwill's deep vesper notes 
 
 Come forth fi-om clustering trees ? 
 Hast thou seen such a bright and beautiful spot ? 
 If 'tis strange to thee, then / know thee not ! 
 
 Canst thou call to mind a thought of the past, 
 
 When the young and the happy were there ? 
 When life was blest, ere the scene was o'ercast 
 
 With dark disappointment and care ? 
 Where the stranger ever a welcome met, 
 
 And the minstrel's song would come 
 To chase each sad, or each fond regret. 
 
 Perchance of his own loved home ? 
 Canst thou read in memory of such a lot ? 
 If the leaf be blank, then / know thee not ! 
 
 ESTELLE. 
 
 TO ESTELLE. 
 
 Yes ! there are scenes which Nature's lips 
 
 Have fondly kissed to make them fan-, — 
 Scenes, o'er which pensive memory weeps 
 
 For youth's bright days, and joys that were. 
 The voiceless vale, the bubbling spring, 
 
 The wild cascade and mountain height, 
 Too oft have waked my lyre's string. 
 
 When love was young, and life was bright. 
 
ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. 
 
 Sounds thy rich harp amidst the gay 
 
 And dazzling halls of mirth ? or 'mong 
 The scenes where sorrow's children stray 
 
 And feast upon the lips of song ? 
 To me thou art a child of air ! 
 
 I know thee not ! — and yet my dream 
 Pictures thee all that 's passing fair, 
 
 All that could prompt the poet's theme. 
 
 When erst I gave my song to thee, 
 
 Sorrow around my brow had wreathed 
 A cypress-braid, and mournfully 
 
 I struck the lyre on which she breathed. 
 A pilgrim now no more, I tear 
 
 The gloomy chaplet from my brow, 
 And place joy's genial sunshine there. 
 
 For Estelle cheers my spirit now. 
 
 J. H. H. 
 
 Here the correspondence ceased for several years, after 
 which it was renewed by J. H. H., upon reading the follow- 
 ing "Address to the Ocean," by Estelle, — the parties being 
 all the while strangers to each other. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. 
 
 Majestic Ocean ! Oft in childhood's days 
 I 've gazed with wonder on thy swelling waves. 
 And shrunk back as thy breaking billows rolled 
 Upon the sandy beach ; then climbed the banks 
 With wild grass crowned, securely thence to look 
 
ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. 293 
 
 Upon thy ceaseless motion. Hours and hours 
 
 I 've lingered, wrapt in admiration, here, 
 
 Nor sought to shape my thoughts, nor picture forth 
 
 My unconnected feelings, nor portray 
 
 " Thick coming fancies " on the mystic page. 
 
 It was enough I saw and felt and loved 
 
 The ocean scene in its magnificence. 
 
 Absorbed in its stuj)endous grandeur, then 
 
 I only knew that 't Avas a wondrous sight 
 
 Beggaring all description ; though there came 
 
 A tide of swift ideas, rushing on 
 
 Forever, as I gazed, but mingling soon 
 
 In one broad mass of chaos and confusion. 
 
 Thought had nor end nor object ; it ran wild 
 
 Over the waste of waters, and soon lost 
 
 Itself in its own wanderings. Oh, the charm 
 
 Of those young, aimless, bright imaginings ! 
 
 When the whole world, like the reflecting sea. 
 
 Gave back to hope the " sunbeams of the heart. " 
 
 Majestic Ocean ! Thou at least by Time 
 
 Art still unchanged ! Here do thy restless waves 
 
 Still rise and foam and dash with idle rage, 
 
 And spend their fury on the unconscious shore. 
 
 Thou lead'st me back through the dim misty shades 
 
 Of by-gone years, and while I stand again 
 
 Upon thy green-topped banks, past memories rush. 
 
 Like myriad moments crowded into one, 
 
 'J ogether on my mind. I seem to feel 
 
 The breath of early life return again ! 
 
 Borne on thy bosom, changeless ocean, still 
 
294 ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. 
 
 The freshening breezes play, and round me come 
 
 Like some sweet spirit of my infancy. 
 
 Oh, who would not, when sick of the world's pomp 
 
 And vain parade, and emptiness and pride, 
 
 And idle mockeries and hollow words, 
 
 And dreaming fancies and deceitful show, — 
 
 Who would not turn to such a scene as this, 
 
 And gaze unsated, and delight to catch 
 
 Some far-off wandering feeling of the heart, 
 
 Brought home by the sublime and beautiful 
 
 Of God's created works ! 
 
 Oh, I could watch 
 Untired, a summer's day, thy beating surge 
 Casting its glittering spray a thousand ways 
 With wild fantastic motion, and forget 
 The fleeting foot of Time since last I looked 
 Upon the glorious concourse of thy waves. 
 Or heard thy deep, mysterious, solemn sound ! 
 Since last I marked the sea-bird's rapid flight 
 Along thy brink, or o'er thy wide expanse, 
 (A watery wilderness with dangers spread,) 
 Skimming its midway course 'twixt sky and sea. 
 On venturous wing ; yet ever and anon 
 Returning to the shore ; and lighting oft 
 Upon the sun-bleached sand, fearless and tame ; 
 As if the sterile beach, unclaimed by man. 
 Were all its own. Then far beyond the land 
 Descried the proud ship, ploughing through the deep, 
 And vacillating to the shifting winds. 
 
 FamiUar sights ! again ye rise to view. 
 
TO ESTELLE. 295 
 
 Still, still the same ! and thought becomes more pure, 
 
 Drawn from the world, and all concentred here. 
 
 Where the wild dreams and passions of the heart 
 
 Are swallowed up in the immensity 
 
 Of the Creator's wonder-working power. 
 
 Oh, surely it were better far to fix 
 
 The fancy's musings on the First Great Cause 
 
 Of all that 's fair and beautiful and grand 
 
 In Nature's realms, than keep them chained to earth, 
 
 And hovering o'er its faint and weary hopes, 
 
 Which linger half in fear upon the mind, 
 
 As conscious they are only there — to die ! 
 
 Roll on, thou vast, immeasurable sea ! 
 " Time writes no wrinkle on thy azure broiv" 
 Here still shall thy perpetual waters come 
 Till Time is done, and all to nothingness 
 Once more returned ! I may not see, perchance, 
 Thy wondrous face again ; — farewell, farewell ! 
 Southampton^ L. I. 
 
 TO ESTELLE. 
 
 My lyre hath slept through years ; but it shall wake 
 Once more to thee, child of the plaintive song ! 
 The cold, cold-hearted have untuned its strings. 
 And dark forgetfulness hath spread its veil 
 O'er half the past. When will the sky look bright ? 
 When will the sun rise gloriously as once 
 
296 TO ESTELLE. 
 
 'T was wont to do ? When will the trees, the brooks, 
 
 And the green fields to me seem as a page 
 
 On which is written " inspiration " ? Ay, 
 
 When will the clouds throw back their silvery folds 
 
 And give a poet's glimpse of bright, though deep 
 
 Infinity ? And the great sea, with all 
 
 Its mightiness, when will it ope to me ? 
 
 Never again ! — Yet Time, though from the mind 
 
 He steals its glorious light, hath not upon 
 
 The heart thrown iciness, — there feeling lives 
 
 As warm, as fond, as when 't was known in youth. 
 
 Daughter of Song ! There 's in thy minstrelsy 
 
 A plaintiveness which wins upon the heart, 
 
 And I have often sat with one loell loved, 
 
 Gazing upon the jewelled night, and while 
 
 The melancholy moon slow wended on 
 
 Her trackless way, we 've talked of thee, and all 
 
 The joys and sweet romance of other days. 
 
 Those days are past : friend after friend has gone ; 
 
 " That little word farewell " has oft been breathed, • — 
 
 The fervent press of hands, the look that speaks 
 
 Volumes of soul — the last look of a friend. 
 
 Time doth work wondrous changes ; now, alone 
 
 Upon the world's wide waste we stand, and raise 
 
 The shadowy forms of dear departed ones. 
 
 Again, Estelle, sweep o'er thy golden lyre ; ' 
 
 Give it the voice of other days, — a voice 
 Which fell upon the heart of one like notes 
 Of magic, winged from Chindera's fount. 
 
 J. H. H. 
 
TO J. H. H. 
 
 Tes, years have fled since 1 have heard the tones 
 
 Of thy rich harp till now. Its music ceased 
 
 In mystery as it came ; nor could I guess 
 
 From whence the fleeting strains. In vain I strung 
 
 Anew my rustic lyre ; thine answered not 
 
 As it was wont to do ; and when I felt 
 
 That silence had passed over it, and hushed 
 
 In its deep sleep each chord which breathed for me, 
 
 Then silence grew a spirit and a spell — 
 
 Companion of my thoughts — with which I held 
 
 Communion in the world of visions. Forms, 
 
 Once known and loved, came back to memory 
 
 From the dim land of shadows ; and sometimes 
 
 In hours of wizard fancy I have thought 
 
 Tliou wert among them. 'T was an idle dream, 
 
 As better reason told me, and as time 
 
 Has since full clearly proved. 
 
 I 've heard a tale, — 
 And it was all of thee, — so like romance^ 
 That it won much upon my Hstening ear. 
 And then I knew thou wert a stranger, — all 
 The mystery was unravelled, and I found 
 That thou hadst blended in thy 'wildercd thoughts 
 Persons with names. Strangely the history ran, 
 While breathless interest filled each little pause 
 Of the imperfect sketch, and gave to truth 
 The magic that with fiction often dwells. 
 It matters not all that I heard, — enough 
 
298 TO J. H. H. 
 
 That from the tale I deemed thee happy. 
 
 Is it not so ? Has pleasure, like the fruit 
 
 Upon St. Oderic's trees, — has pleasure found 
 
 Wings in its full maturity ? Has hope, 
 
 The talisman of happiness, been wrecked 
 
 Upon Time's treacherous sea ? A mind like thine 
 
 Will rise superior to- the shocks of Fate ; 
 
 E'en though amidst the ruins of the past 
 
 Thou standest now, and o'er " the world's wide waste " 
 
 Seest naught but blighted flowers. 
 
 Look yet again ! 
 There is a mystic, an undying charm 
 In Nature's works, which speaks to every heart. 
 The veriest trifles, — little lowly things. 
 Just springing from the earth ; — the curious stones 
 Seeming like nothing to the transient gaze, 
 But all most wondrous still ; the moveless rocks, 
 Forming rude ladders on the mountain's sides 
 Above the water's edge ; the level plains, 
 Y/here 'midst the heath-grass the winged songsters 
 
 build. 
 And fly at man's approach ; the wood-crowned hills 
 Looking like forests in the sky ; the vales 
 Whose fertile beauty might repress a while 
 The soarings of ambition ; and the brooks. 
 Chiming sweet sounds ; and then the mighty sea, 
 Incomprehensible, unreached by thought. 
 Beyond all fancy, indescribable ! 
 All, all beneath the heavens, with the blue vault 
 Which canopies the scene, sparkling with gems 
 Which shame the diamonds of this earth, or bright 
 
TO ES TELLE. 299 
 
 With the more glorious sun. Look, look again ! 
 
 And " inspiration " will be written still 
 
 On every opening page, till suddenly 
 
 Some untried chord upon thy harp shall wake 
 
 To new and powerful music. 
 
 ESTELLE. 
 
 TO ESTELLE. 
 
 I 'VE read a tale somewhere of one who saw 
 
 A spirit in his dreams, from whose dear Hps 
 
 There poured such melody that his proud soul, 
 
 Unbridled as it was, leapt at the sound, 
 
 And taught him how to feel. That spirit reigned 
 
 Sole mistress of his dreams ; awake, asleep, 
 
 The phantom hovered near, — and when he looked 
 
 Upon the countless stars, or watched the moon 
 
 As she looked laughingly upon the waves 
 
 That upward leapt to catch her truant rays, 
 
 The spirit still was there, — his beacon-star ! 
 
 He sought amono; the fairest of the earth 
 
 A smile — a voice like that the spirit owned ; 
 
 He courted lips that had been taught to sing 
 
 The melody of nature. Many an eye 
 
 Of diamond brightness shed its fire on him ; 
 
 Many a fairy form passed by : but none 
 
 Were like the spirit of his early dreams. 
 
 I, in the waywardness of youth, was taught 
 By the strange witchery of thy song to think 
 
goo TO ES TELLE. 
 
 That thou wert she who in my heated brain 
 
 Had worked a spell that must depart with life. 
 
 'T is strange that we should be so strange. I 've heard 
 
 A tale of thee^ which seemed so like romance, 
 
 'i'hat I could hear it o'er and o'er, and yet 
 
 Delight in hearing it rehearsed again. 
 
 Why ask, if I am happy ? All may be, 
 
 If they court smiles instead of tears. The world 
 
 Was made for happiness ; the poetry 
 
 Of life lies in its true enjoyment, and 
 
 We are but atoms thrown upon a star. 
 
 Once more for thee the shadowed glen : the brook 
 
 Shall have a voice ; each breath of air that plays 
 
 Among the yellow leaves shall bid awake 
 
 The wind-harp of the woods ; the flowers shall tell 
 
 Their melancholy tales of love, and all 
 
 That poets seek shall breathe out " inspiration." 
 
 I '11 climb the hoary rock, and converse hold 
 
 With those bright jewels of the night which look 
 
 Like distant beacon-lights to heaven — the stars. 
 
 I '11 read the mysteries of the sea, the deep 
 
 Unfathomable sea ; and on its bosom, 
 
 As waveless as a mass of molten silver. 
 
 Write thoughts of fire. Or, when the winds arise, 
 
 And angry clouds are gathering around, 
 
 My thoughts shall pierce the purple mist, to trace 
 
 The splendor of the majesty of heaven. 
 
 Since childhood's hour I've ever loved to stand 
 
 Amidst the vvan-in<j; elements, to mark 
 
TO J. H. H. 301 
 
 The bursting of the leaden vapors, and 
 Their fiery offspring. God's mightiness 
 Is writ upon the storm. 
 
 But what are these, 
 When life's dull speculation calls us on ? 
 Yes, there are tilings of life which bind the soul, 
 By nature proud and lofty, down to earth. 
 Nature in all her mystery, — the skies, 
 The seas, the woods, and all their thousand wonders, 
 No more have power to charm ; man is but man. 
 Sweet minstrel ! didst thou know how oft thy name 
 Has hung upon the lips of two made one 
 By thy sweet numbers, thou would'st still sweep o'er 
 Thy mellow harp, and teach us how to love 
 The music for the pensive minstrel's sake. 
 
 J. H. H. 
 
 TO J. H. H. 
 
 In years long gone I parted with a friend^ 
 
 And knew not where his steps had wandered since. 
 
 Nor what had been his fate in this wide world. 
 
 To me he was as if he ne'er had been, — 
 
 For Time had draAvn his curtain o'er the past. 
 
 Effacing those bright pictures of the brain 
 
 Which in their glowing colors could not bear 
 
 Perfect resemblance to a son of earth. 
 
 He went away : and days grew into Aveeks, 
 
 And weeks to months, and months again to years. 
 
 The world, its occupations and its cares, 
 
302 TO J. E. H. 
 
 Came In between our idle thouglits and us, 
 And we became as strangers. — 
 
 Then it was, 
 I read the beautiful, illusive dreams 
 Of thy wild fancy, as they had been breathed 
 On Memnon's harp, — and I identified 
 Thyself with my lost friend. Indeed, " 'tis strange 
 That we should be so strange,'' but who can look 
 Into the mind's deep mechanism, or 
 Account for its wild workings ? 'T was but one 
 Of those imaginations often drawn 
 From high-wrought thoughts and things improbable, 
 Which for a while o'er sense and reason reign. 
 And hold the mind in bondage. 
 
 But thou sayest, 
 All may be happy ! It perhaps is true, 
 For much depends upon the will ; but when 
 The heart has learned from those it loved, to feel 
 That selfishness, unkindness, and deceit 
 Make up the aggregate of human nature, 
 Then its best and purest sources dry. 
 And it refuses long to catch from things 
 Inanimate its joys. We sigh in vain 
 For the sweet spirit of our early dreams 
 To breathe a soul around us ! Wanting that, 
 The loveliest spot is a drear solitude. 
 Having no language in its blooming flowers, 
 No music in its murmuring waters' tone. 
 Nor smile upon its fruits. The mind still gives 
 Its color to the scene. 'Tis well for us 
 That oft that color chano;es, and at length 
 
TO ES TELLE. 803 
 
 Some spirit springs anew, not like the first, 
 Free from all shadows and all clouds, but calm 
 And pure, a reconciling hnk 'twixt life 
 And the sad heart. 
 
 And thou hast felt 
 The influence of that spirit on thy mind. 
 I read it in thy words ; and while thy thoughts 
 Ev'n by the iron fetters of the world 
 Are bound, while business claims its weary part, 
 And " life's dull speculation " calls thee on. 
 Thy soul still soars above them. It may be 
 Thou art not happier than the thoughtless crowd 
 Who know not how to feel ! But ah ! one hour 
 Of those bright dreams, which bear the mind above 
 Earth and its grovelling things, is worth whole yeai'S 
 Of their enjoyment ! 
 
 Friend, is it not so ? — 
 Thou hast the power to look upon the earth 
 With artist-eye — and see (as few do see) 
 Its infinite beauty ; and thou hast an ear 
 Attuned to the sweet music of the soul 
 Which never sounds in vain. What would'st thou 
 
 more 
 
 ESTELLE. 
 
 TO ESTELLE. 
 
 earth's bright spots. 
 
 There are bright spots on earth, though dull 
 To nobler stars our orb may seem ; 
 
304 TO ES TELLE. 
 
 As seas, though dark and drear they roll, 
 Have isles of bright and fairy green. 
 
 Whither do all our fancies fly '? — 
 When to a stranger-land we roam, 
 
 Where turns the heart, where turns the eye ? 
 I need not ask ; — to home, dear home ! 
 
 I stand upon a hoary rock. 
 
 High round its base rolls up the sea ; 
 I scorn the surges' mighty shock. 
 
 For that lone spot 's a home to me. 
 To the proud waves I cry " roll on ! 
 
 With all thy rage I fear thee not ; 
 For here I stand alone — alone — 
 
 Safe on one little cherished spot." 
 
 In boyhood's days I used to love 
 
 To wander through a flowery vale, 
 Where all was peace around, above, 
 
 And fragrance filled the gentle gale. 
 The place to me was all the world ; 
 
 I prayed that it might be my lot 
 To slumber where its waters purled 
 
 Like tears upon earth's beauty-spot. 
 
 Why, plaintive minstrel, why repine ? 
 
 Are there not joys in store for thee ? 
 Oh ! could I touch a harp like thine, 
 
 Its music would be life to me. 
 I 'd read the stars, the wood, the stream, 
 
 And to the flowers my story tell ; — 
 
TO J. H. H. 305 
 
 Yes, life should be one glorious dream, 
 Could I hut feel like thee, Estelle. 
 
 J. H. H. 
 
 TO J. H. H. 
 
 I WOULD not on my stranger-friend 
 
 The gift to feel bestow 
 As I have felt — were mine the power 
 
 To bid such feelings flow. 
 Nor would he wish that fatal boon 
 
 One moment to possess, 
 Could he but know how much *t would take 
 
 From life's frail happiness. 
 
 There may be in the mournful lyre 
 
 A passing music-tone 
 To those whose hearts are tuned at will 
 
 To pleasures not yet flown. 
 But ah ! believe me, not to those 
 
 Whose feelings prompt the song ; 
 To them its harmony is lost 
 
 Their own dark thoughts among. 
 
 Earth has bright spots, and beautiful. 
 
 As o'er her paths we roam. 
 Yet one surpasses all the rest, 
 
 And thou hast named it — " home.'* 
 There, fond associations dwell 
 
 Of dear and holy ties, 
 20 
 
306 TO J. E. E. 
 
 Of love, the purest and the best, 
 That changes not, nor dies. 
 
 The exile from his native land 
 
 Sighs for that one loved spot ; 
 Whatever clime may cover it, 
 
 Oh, it is ne'er forgot ! 
 Though desert sands around it spread. 
 
 Or wild waves near it swell, 
 To that one point the heart still turns 
 
 With memory's potent spell. 
 
 " Sweet home ! " — there 's magic in that sound. 
 
 Where'er its portals be, — 
 The dreams of early life are there, 
 
 Its innocence and glee. 
 The wanderer seeking wealth or fame 
 
 Beneath a foreign sky, 
 How oft for home's sweet joys would cast 
 
 Those empty baubles by. 
 
 Familiar scenes, familiar tones. 
 
 Rush o'er the harassed mind. 
 While fancy wings her airy flight. 
 
 Free as the chainless wind. 
 And tliou — does memory bring to thee 
 
 Some dear paternal dome ? 
 Loved as in boyhood's frolic hours, 
 
 Yet not thy manhood's home ? 
 
 Called by the world's rough cares away, 
 Man quits his childhood's roof, 
 
TO J. H. h. 307 
 
 And carves in life's maturer years 
 
 A destiny aloof. 
 While woman to the parent-stem 
 
 Clings as a fragile vine, 
 Or but exchanges it, around 
 
 Some new support to twine. 
 
 Yet truant thoughts must linger still 
 
 Where youth's first hopes arose, 
 Though after-life be blest and bright, 
 
 And time new joys disclose. 
 And we may feel on such a theme 
 
 Alike, though parted far, 
 And catch, unknown, the light of thought 
 
 From the same beacon-star. 
 
 ESTELLE. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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