THE HOLY LADY.

"Iola! art thou in thy bower,At this most dear, appointed hour?On fleetest pinions I have come,To meet thee mid this richest bloom,Thy Inca father's garden flowers,Whose odors fall like balmy showers;But, of them all, thou art the flowerWho hast the most delightful power,And of the wondrous birds that singAmid this garden's blooming spring;Thou art the loveliest; and thy voiceMost meet to bid my soul rejoice."Iola spoke not in reply;But gazed on him with vacant eye:Still was she silent as the grave,O'er those we love but could not save;And she seemed calm as tropic sea,When its hushed waves from winds are free.Gonzalo wondered; why no word,Came from that lip that mocked the birdOf her own land, in melody,When warbling from his cocoa tree.But why, O gem of rich Peru,Thy silence strange, thy aspect new?What envious power has bound thy voice,Which erst could bid my soul rejoice.Oh! surely some malignant spriteFrom realms of most infernal night,Has taken thy angel voice away;—But speak, Iola, speak, I pray!Her tears gushed forth like tropic rain,That widely floods the blooming plain;And thus began, "Gonzalo! thouDeceived'st me—but I know thee now.Ask me not how I know it sooth;Enough, I know the bitter truth.I felt forebodings of this hour;It did my happiest thoughts o'er power,With a dark weight; but then I thought,'Twas by my foolish fancy wrought.'Twas like the omen which precedesThe earthquake when the summer reedsAre strangely still, until the shockThe central earth shall wildly rock.Thou dost not love me, child of Spain!Thy heart can love no thing but gain;The paltry dust I tread above,To thee, is more than woman's love.My love is vain, and life is lessSince lost my hope of happinessLook from this garden;—far belowYon Andes' sides with verdure glow,But far on high, the icy chillOf winter glitters, glitters still:I am that lonely verdure—thouThat mountain's cold, unchanging brow.I'll ne'er upbraid thee—no—oh no!For love is kind, in deepest woe,I love thee still, and will till Death,Shall win my love with living breath.This even, farewell—yes, yes, adieu!No years our meeting can renew.Would that when round these royal bowers,I played in childhood's happy hours,The Condor bird had borne me high,On his huge pinions through the sky,Upon yon mountain's snowy crest,To hush his high and hungry nest.Farewell, Gonzalo! fly with speed,Leave shade and silence to my need."

"Iola! art thou in thy bower,

At this most dear, appointed hour?

On fleetest pinions I have come,

To meet thee mid this richest bloom,

Thy Inca father's garden flowers,

Whose odors fall like balmy showers;

But, of them all, thou art the flower

Who hast the most delightful power,

And of the wondrous birds that sing

Amid this garden's blooming spring;

Thou art the loveliest; and thy voice

Most meet to bid my soul rejoice."

Iola spoke not in reply;

But gazed on him with vacant eye:

Still was she silent as the grave,

O'er those we love but could not save;

And she seemed calm as tropic sea,

When its hushed waves from winds are free.

Gonzalo wondered; why no word,

Came from that lip that mocked the bird

Of her own land, in melody,

When warbling from his cocoa tree.

But why, O gem of rich Peru,

Thy silence strange, thy aspect new?

What envious power has bound thy voice,

Which erst could bid my soul rejoice.

Oh! surely some malignant sprite

From realms of most infernal night,

Has taken thy angel voice away;—

But speak, Iola, speak, I pray!

Her tears gushed forth like tropic rain,

That widely floods the blooming plain;

And thus began, "Gonzalo! thou

Deceived'st me—but I know thee now.

Ask me not how I know it sooth;

Enough, I know the bitter truth.

I felt forebodings of this hour;

It did my happiest thoughts o'er power,

With a dark weight; but then I thought,

'Twas by my foolish fancy wrought.

'Twas like the omen which precedes

The earthquake when the summer reeds

Are strangely still, until the shock

The central earth shall wildly rock.

Thou dost not love me, child of Spain!

Thy heart can love no thing but gain;

The paltry dust I tread above,

To thee, is more than woman's love.

My love is vain, and life is less

Since lost my hope of happiness

Look from this garden;—far below

Yon Andes' sides with verdure glow,

But far on high, the icy chill

Of winter glitters, glitters still:

I am that lonely verdure—thou

That mountain's cold, unchanging brow.

I'll ne'er upbraid thee—no—oh no!

For love is kind, in deepest woe,

I love thee still, and will till Death,

Shall win my love with living breath.

This even, farewell—yes, yes, adieu!

No years our meeting can renew.

Would that when round these royal bowers,

I played in childhood's happy hours,

The Condor bird had borne me high,

On his huge pinions through the sky,

Upon yon mountain's snowy crest,

To hush his high and hungry nest.

Farewell, Gonzalo! fly with speed,

Leave shade and silence to my need."

There was a cry of terror in the hallOf Peru's monarch, and a startling call;But no reply—Iola sure was gone;Yet none knew why or whither she had flown.Her Inca-father put his crown aside,And filled the temple with loud prayer—a tideOf lamentation rolled along the fairAnd blooming realm; heaven wore a dim despair.She ne'er was found; but how or when she diedNone knew; by her own hand; or if she cried,Vainly, in wild beasts' clutch;—but ne'er beforeDin wail so wild resound along the shoreOf fair Peru; her father lived not long,After this chord was snapped in his life's song.

There was a cry of terror in the hall

Of Peru's monarch, and a startling call;

But no reply—Iola sure was gone;

Yet none knew why or whither she had flown.

Her Inca-father put his crown aside,

And filled the temple with loud prayer—a tide

Of lamentation rolled along the fair

And blooming realm; heaven wore a dim despair.

She ne'er was found; but how or when she died

None knew; by her own hand; or if she cried,

Vainly, in wild beasts' clutch;—but ne'er before

Din wail so wild resound along the shore

Of fair Peru; her father lived not long,

After this chord was snapped in his life's song.

Oh, Heaven hath given to earth some souls,Of rarest loveliness,Whose being's constant current rolls,The wretched still to bless.Well wishing Heaven hath given to earth,Some hearts of purest fire,To renovate our sinful birth,And raise our low desire.The Holy Lady did not goAfar, by sea or land,But ministered to sighing wo,And suffering near at hand.'Twas sweet to see the Lady fair,Each blessed sabbath morn,Wear such a sweetly solemn air,Of bright devotion, born.'Twas sweet to see her bow at eve,On lowly bended knee,To pray, and sadly, sweetly grieve,For man's perversity.But sure were we that city fine,Wherein this Lady dwelt,Was bettered by a power divine,And heavenly prompting felt.When she was old, her heart not cold,A youthful beauty lay,A light most wondrous to behold!Upon her tresses gray.The charm of goodness does not fade,Like natural beauty's flower,But blooms in glory undecayed,And death-defying power.

Oh, Heaven hath given to earth some souls,Of rarest loveliness,Whose being's constant current rolls,The wretched still to bless.

Oh, Heaven hath given to earth some souls,

Of rarest loveliness,

Whose being's constant current rolls,

The wretched still to bless.

Well wishing Heaven hath given to earth,Some hearts of purest fire,To renovate our sinful birth,And raise our low desire.

Well wishing Heaven hath given to earth,

Some hearts of purest fire,

To renovate our sinful birth,

And raise our low desire.

The Holy Lady did not goAfar, by sea or land,But ministered to sighing wo,And suffering near at hand.

The Holy Lady did not go

Afar, by sea or land,

But ministered to sighing wo,

And suffering near at hand.

'Twas sweet to see the Lady fair,Each blessed sabbath morn,Wear such a sweetly solemn air,Of bright devotion, born.

'Twas sweet to see the Lady fair,

Each blessed sabbath morn,

Wear such a sweetly solemn air,

Of bright devotion, born.

'Twas sweet to see her bow at eve,On lowly bended knee,To pray, and sadly, sweetly grieve,For man's perversity.

'Twas sweet to see her bow at eve,

On lowly bended knee,

To pray, and sadly, sweetly grieve,

For man's perversity.

But sure were we that city fine,Wherein this Lady dwelt,Was bettered by a power divine,And heavenly prompting felt.

But sure were we that city fine,

Wherein this Lady dwelt,

Was bettered by a power divine,

And heavenly prompting felt.

When she was old, her heart not cold,A youthful beauty lay,A light most wondrous to behold!Upon her tresses gray.

When she was old, her heart not cold,

A youthful beauty lay,

A light most wondrous to behold!

Upon her tresses gray.

The charm of goodness does not fade,Like natural beauty's flower,But blooms in glory undecayed,And death-defying power.

The charm of goodness does not fade,

Like natural beauty's flower,

But blooms in glory undecayed,

And death-defying power.

The darkness falls on wood and field,On lofty peak, on silent sea,The infant Moon and Planets yieldA faint and feeble brilliancy.Cans't thou behold the look and shapeOf mount and main, of wold and wood?The morrow's sun, o'er sea and cape,Will show them out, both plain and good.Time darkens all to mortal eyesSave what faint reason's stars illume:But when Eternity shall rise,All shall their shapes and hues assume.

The darkness falls on wood and field,On lofty peak, on silent sea,The infant Moon and Planets yieldA faint and feeble brilliancy.

The darkness falls on wood and field,

On lofty peak, on silent sea,

The infant Moon and Planets yield

A faint and feeble brilliancy.

Cans't thou behold the look and shapeOf mount and main, of wold and wood?The morrow's sun, o'er sea and cape,Will show them out, both plain and good.

Cans't thou behold the look and shape

Of mount and main, of wold and wood?

The morrow's sun, o'er sea and cape,

Will show them out, both plain and good.

Time darkens all to mortal eyesSave what faint reason's stars illume:But when Eternity shall rise,All shall their shapes and hues assume.

Time darkens all to mortal eyes

Save what faint reason's stars illume:

But when Eternity shall rise,

All shall their shapes and hues assume.

My soul has been wandering in Yemen,The land of the aloe and myrrh;Where the breezes that blow from the ocean,Brought feelings of heaven to her.In the joy-giving vallies of Yemen,On its mountains that blush with their bloom;My soul has been wandering but lately,To hide from the weight of her gloom.My Soul, like the fleet horse of Yemen,Flew chainless o'er mountain and plain,Till she paused by the flower-scented ocean,Then returned on her pinions, again.In that beautiful world, in that Yemen,My Soul lately wandered in bliss;Till she found there a glorious maiden,She vainly had sighed for, in this.Then my Soul walked far with this maiden—In this beautiful region of gold,And died on the love-burdened accents,From the fount of her bosom that rolled.Oh Yemen! whose name is the Happy,Whose mountains are fragrant with bloom—My Soul met her Consort there lately—And now she says nothing of gloom.

My soul has been wandering in Yemen,The land of the aloe and myrrh;Where the breezes that blow from the ocean,Brought feelings of heaven to her.

My soul has been wandering in Yemen,

The land of the aloe and myrrh;

Where the breezes that blow from the ocean,

Brought feelings of heaven to her.

In the joy-giving vallies of Yemen,On its mountains that blush with their bloom;My soul has been wandering but lately,To hide from the weight of her gloom.

In the joy-giving vallies of Yemen,

On its mountains that blush with their bloom;

My soul has been wandering but lately,

To hide from the weight of her gloom.

My Soul, like the fleet horse of Yemen,Flew chainless o'er mountain and plain,Till she paused by the flower-scented ocean,Then returned on her pinions, again.

My Soul, like the fleet horse of Yemen,

Flew chainless o'er mountain and plain,

Till she paused by the flower-scented ocean,

Then returned on her pinions, again.

In that beautiful world, in that Yemen,My Soul lately wandered in bliss;Till she found there a glorious maiden,She vainly had sighed for, in this.

In that beautiful world, in that Yemen,

My Soul lately wandered in bliss;

Till she found there a glorious maiden,

She vainly had sighed for, in this.

Then my Soul walked far with this maiden—In this beautiful region of gold,And died on the love-burdened accents,From the fount of her bosom that rolled.

Then my Soul walked far with this maiden—

In this beautiful region of gold,

And died on the love-burdened accents,

From the fount of her bosom that rolled.

Oh Yemen! whose name is the Happy,Whose mountains are fragrant with bloom—My Soul met her Consort there lately—And now she says nothing of gloom.

Oh Yemen! whose name is the Happy,

Whose mountains are fragrant with bloom—

My Soul met her Consort there lately—

And now she says nothing of gloom.

The May sun sheds an amber beam,Upon the river's liquid plain,But never to that glorious gleam,Her eyes will ope again:Sweet Lilly, come again,Sweet Lilly, come again.We look across the landscape wide,Where spring bemocks the thought of pain,And scatters charms with lavish pride;—The vernal joy is all in vain:Sweet Lilly, come again,Sweet Lilly, come again.The summer breezes lightly liftThe clustered flowers oppressed with rain,Which fleecy cloud-sieves downward sift,—It falls on Lilly's form in vain:Sweet Lilly, come again,Sweet Lilly, come again.Oh! can the glory of the year,The Spring that decks the widening plain,Thus strive to make the maid appear,But yield the hopeless task in vain:Sweet Lilly, come again;Sweet Lilly, come again.Silence!—where brighter May suns beam,On greener hills and vales,Bright Lilly walks, as in a dream,Fann'd by celestial gales:—Now, Lill! come not again!Now, Lill! come not again.

The May sun sheds an amber beam,Upon the river's liquid plain,But never to that glorious gleam,Her eyes will ope again:Sweet Lilly, come again,Sweet Lilly, come again.

The May sun sheds an amber beam,

Upon the river's liquid plain,

But never to that glorious gleam,

Her eyes will ope again:

Sweet Lilly, come again,

Sweet Lilly, come again.

We look across the landscape wide,Where spring bemocks the thought of pain,And scatters charms with lavish pride;—The vernal joy is all in vain:Sweet Lilly, come again,Sweet Lilly, come again.

We look across the landscape wide,

Where spring bemocks the thought of pain,

And scatters charms with lavish pride;—

The vernal joy is all in vain:

Sweet Lilly, come again,

Sweet Lilly, come again.

The summer breezes lightly liftThe clustered flowers oppressed with rain,Which fleecy cloud-sieves downward sift,—It falls on Lilly's form in vain:Sweet Lilly, come again,Sweet Lilly, come again.

The summer breezes lightly lift

The clustered flowers oppressed with rain,

Which fleecy cloud-sieves downward sift,—

It falls on Lilly's form in vain:

Sweet Lilly, come again,

Sweet Lilly, come again.

Oh! can the glory of the year,The Spring that decks the widening plain,Thus strive to make the maid appear,But yield the hopeless task in vain:Sweet Lilly, come again;Sweet Lilly, come again.

Oh! can the glory of the year,

The Spring that decks the widening plain,

Thus strive to make the maid appear,

But yield the hopeless task in vain:

Sweet Lilly, come again;

Sweet Lilly, come again.

Silence!—where brighter May suns beam,On greener hills and vales,Bright Lilly walks, as in a dream,Fann'd by celestial gales:—Now, Lill! come not again!Now, Lill! come not again.

Silence!—where brighter May suns beam,

On greener hills and vales,

Bright Lilly walks, as in a dream,

Fann'd by celestial gales:—

Now, Lill! come not again!

Now, Lill! come not again.

Adieu to thee, Emory! adieu to thee now!There is grief in my spirit, there's gloom on my brow,I have left the sweet scenes where I knelt at thy shrine,O Learning! thy wreath with my name to entwine.Adieu to the scenes where, when study was o'er,And the toil of the mind was remembered no more;I roamed o'er the mountains, forgetful, afar,'Neath the light of the beautiful Evening Star.Like the light of that star—like a splendor on high—Like a Heavenly Dream that was born in the sky—Bright Poesy burst on my pathway even there,And a rainbow of Beauty encircled the air.Ah! she shone with a brilliance more dazzling and strong,Than e'er to a child of the earth could belong;And her pinions that waved through the rose-scented air,Had a tint that was brighter than thought can declare.Yet adieu to thee, Emory,—thy scenes I regret;In a far distant scene, I may think of them yet;Fond Fancy may roam o'er thy mountains again,And love them as freshly and warmly as then.Yet, the tears gush unbidden, when breathing adieu,—With the change of our years, our hearts are changed too!And, haply, the world, with its coldness, will chillMy feelings at length, as bleak winter the rill.Adieu to thy scenes, adieu to thee now!There is grief in my spirit—there is gloom on my brow—Though Fancy may paint all thy beauty once more,The days that have flitted, she cannot restore.

Adieu to thee, Emory! adieu to thee now!There is grief in my spirit, there's gloom on my brow,I have left the sweet scenes where I knelt at thy shrine,O Learning! thy wreath with my name to entwine.

Adieu to thee, Emory! adieu to thee now!

There is grief in my spirit, there's gloom on my brow,

I have left the sweet scenes where I knelt at thy shrine,

O Learning! thy wreath with my name to entwine.

Adieu to the scenes where, when study was o'er,And the toil of the mind was remembered no more;I roamed o'er the mountains, forgetful, afar,'Neath the light of the beautiful Evening Star.

Adieu to the scenes where, when study was o'er,

And the toil of the mind was remembered no more;

I roamed o'er the mountains, forgetful, afar,

'Neath the light of the beautiful Evening Star.

Like the light of that star—like a splendor on high—Like a Heavenly Dream that was born in the sky—Bright Poesy burst on my pathway even there,And a rainbow of Beauty encircled the air.

Like the light of that star—like a splendor on high—

Like a Heavenly Dream that was born in the sky—

Bright Poesy burst on my pathway even there,

And a rainbow of Beauty encircled the air.

Ah! she shone with a brilliance more dazzling and strong,Than e'er to a child of the earth could belong;And her pinions that waved through the rose-scented air,Had a tint that was brighter than thought can declare.

Ah! she shone with a brilliance more dazzling and strong,

Than e'er to a child of the earth could belong;

And her pinions that waved through the rose-scented air,

Had a tint that was brighter than thought can declare.

Yet adieu to thee, Emory,—thy scenes I regret;In a far distant scene, I may think of them yet;Fond Fancy may roam o'er thy mountains again,And love them as freshly and warmly as then.

Yet adieu to thee, Emory,—thy scenes I regret;

In a far distant scene, I may think of them yet;

Fond Fancy may roam o'er thy mountains again,

And love them as freshly and warmly as then.

Yet, the tears gush unbidden, when breathing adieu,—With the change of our years, our hearts are changed too!And, haply, the world, with its coldness, will chillMy feelings at length, as bleak winter the rill.

Yet, the tears gush unbidden, when breathing adieu,—

With the change of our years, our hearts are changed too!

And, haply, the world, with its coldness, will chill

My feelings at length, as bleak winter the rill.

Adieu to thy scenes, adieu to thee now!There is grief in my spirit—there is gloom on my brow—Though Fancy may paint all thy beauty once more,The days that have flitted, she cannot restore.

Adieu to thy scenes, adieu to thee now!

There is grief in my spirit—there is gloom on my brow—

Though Fancy may paint all thy beauty once more,

The days that have flitted, she cannot restore.

Thy soil, Virginia! is all hallowed ground,Made such by steps of patriots; thy high fame,Alway unto our ears, a glorious sound,Kindles, in all high hearts, heroic flame.I walk beneath thy forests, high and lone,I hear a voice that sinks into my heart,The voice of fetterless Liberty; the toneWhich bids the flame of patriotism start.Greece was the land of heroes, and her soilIs sacred with the deathless memoryOf martyred virtue, which on Death could smile,At Marathon and proud Thermopylæ:Gray Rome shall never lose the magic charm,That valor's fire can pour along a land;That charm shall bid the hearts of mankind warm,Long after her last stone hath ceased to stand:Yet, thou, Virginia! art a prouder land,For when thy hills become red shrines to Right;Thy plains become the spots, where, smiling, stand,The angels, gentle Peace and true Delight.And now, how fair thy homes! on every hand,Thy cities and thy country domes arise,From mountains vast, to ocean's shelly strand,And bring a pride into our gazing eyes!How brave thy polished sons! their hearts how free!How far above the plotting of the mean!How they contemn all base chicanery,And proudly move, as men, through every scene!And when thy daughters, an angelic train,Roam mid thy flowery walks, how sweet their love!And when they speak—the sound seems like a strain,That wander'd from a blissful clime above!Immortal land! my soul is proud, to thinkI yet can walk upon thy mother soil,And, willing that her mouldering frame may sink,Back to thy breast, after its lifetime toil.

Thy soil, Virginia! is all hallowed ground,Made such by steps of patriots; thy high fame,Alway unto our ears, a glorious sound,Kindles, in all high hearts, heroic flame.

Thy soil, Virginia! is all hallowed ground,

Made such by steps of patriots; thy high fame,

Alway unto our ears, a glorious sound,

Kindles, in all high hearts, heroic flame.

I walk beneath thy forests, high and lone,I hear a voice that sinks into my heart,The voice of fetterless Liberty; the toneWhich bids the flame of patriotism start.

I walk beneath thy forests, high and lone,

I hear a voice that sinks into my heart,

The voice of fetterless Liberty; the tone

Which bids the flame of patriotism start.

Greece was the land of heroes, and her soilIs sacred with the deathless memoryOf martyred virtue, which on Death could smile,At Marathon and proud Thermopylæ:

Greece was the land of heroes, and her soil

Is sacred with the deathless memory

Of martyred virtue, which on Death could smile,

At Marathon and proud Thermopylæ:

Gray Rome shall never lose the magic charm,That valor's fire can pour along a land;That charm shall bid the hearts of mankind warm,Long after her last stone hath ceased to stand:

Gray Rome shall never lose the magic charm,

That valor's fire can pour along a land;

That charm shall bid the hearts of mankind warm,

Long after her last stone hath ceased to stand:

Yet, thou, Virginia! art a prouder land,For when thy hills become red shrines to Right;Thy plains become the spots, where, smiling, stand,The angels, gentle Peace and true Delight.

Yet, thou, Virginia! art a prouder land,

For when thy hills become red shrines to Right;

Thy plains become the spots, where, smiling, stand,

The angels, gentle Peace and true Delight.

And now, how fair thy homes! on every hand,Thy cities and thy country domes arise,From mountains vast, to ocean's shelly strand,And bring a pride into our gazing eyes!

And now, how fair thy homes! on every hand,

Thy cities and thy country domes arise,

From mountains vast, to ocean's shelly strand,

And bring a pride into our gazing eyes!

How brave thy polished sons! their hearts how free!How far above the plotting of the mean!How they contemn all base chicanery,And proudly move, as men, through every scene!

How brave thy polished sons! their hearts how free!

How far above the plotting of the mean!

How they contemn all base chicanery,

And proudly move, as men, through every scene!

And when thy daughters, an angelic train,Roam mid thy flowery walks, how sweet their love!And when they speak—the sound seems like a strain,That wander'd from a blissful clime above!

And when thy daughters, an angelic train,

Roam mid thy flowery walks, how sweet their love!

And when they speak—the sound seems like a strain,

That wander'd from a blissful clime above!

Immortal land! my soul is proud, to thinkI yet can walk upon thy mother soil,And, willing that her mouldering frame may sink,Back to thy breast, after its lifetime toil.

Immortal land! my soul is proud, to think

I yet can walk upon thy mother soil,

And, willing that her mouldering frame may sink,

Back to thy breast, after its lifetime toil.

Oh, think not that the polished breast,Only, can feel the fire of love,Pure as the flames that brightly restIn bosoms of the realms above.Yes! often in the rudest form,A heart may be, more clear and brightThan ever lent the loveliest charmTo goddess of the Festal light.Come, hear a story of the time,When this wide land was one green bower,The roving Red man's Eden-chine,Where bloomed the wildest flower.The great ships brought a wondrous race,One evening o'er the ocean beach;Strange was the pallor of their face,Strange was the softness of their speech.'Twas evening, and the sunset threwA gorgeous brilliance o'er the scene,Deep crimson stained the heaven's sweet blue,But ocean rivalled all its sheen.The painted red men came to view,With marvel, what the winds had brought,—For, surely, those proud vessels flew,As if their force from Heaven they caught.But who is yonder slender youth,With smoothest brow and smoother cheek,And eyes so full of boyhood's truth,And mouth, which closed, yet seems to speak?"Ah, sure, that lovely youth's from Heaven!A dark-eyed maiden of the woodSighed out upon the breath of even,As in the mellowed light she stood.And, ever from that fatal hour,This white youth's image, slight and pale,Would haunt the maiden's leafy bower,And wake her spirit's wail.In that high heart that fiercely hates,Love is as fierce and wild;And so the love is wild, that waitsTo mount its height in this poor child:This poor, frail child who born beneathA roof of leaves, is made to dream,That she may wear a bridal wreathFor youth of snowy gleam.Watoga! sure some demon lied,To thee, when wrapt amid thy sleep,To make thee his forlornest bride,Beneath the moaning deep.That youth who floats an Angel through,Thy night, thy daily dream—He loves a maid whose eyes are blue,And cheek like yon full moon's white beam.The simple ornaments which thouHast taken thy form to deck,The wild flower wreath that binds thy brow,The shells that gem thy neck;Each ornament shall deck a brideTo wed the Demon Death,Beneath the ocean's sluggish tide,A thousand feet beneath!The fair youth who hath warped thy mind,He loves a snow-white maid!Then know'st it!—now not long confined,Thou'lt fly the greenwood shade.'Tis night on lone Atlantic's deep,And summer o'er that placid sea,The stars watch Earth's scarce-breathing sleep—Oh! she sleeps deeply—tenderly.What figure o'er yon bluff that scowls,Upon the smiling water?Ah! whose that wild and freezing howl?It is the forest's daughter.One moment,—and the hollow moanOf billows sings her funeral song;—In sooth, it was a dreadful tone,And it will haunt us long.This is the brief and mournful taleOf one who loved in vain;—She slept not in the flowery vale,But in the deep, deep main,They tell she was a demon's bride,But now a wondrous wail,Each night swells o'er the peaceful tide,And through the loudest gale.Watoga was her Indian name,The white men called her yellow-flower;—And evil fire, a poisonous flame,Blasted her heart's sweet bower.Failing to be the youth's dear bride,Adorned in colors gay,She went to a Demon's pride,Under the Sea, they say.And I have grieved to think of her,And, if in these degenerate years,There's feeling, her most mad despair,Would melt a stone to tears.

Oh, think not that the polished breast,

Only, can feel the fire of love,

Pure as the flames that brightly rest

In bosoms of the realms above.

Yes! often in the rudest form,

A heart may be, more clear and bright

Than ever lent the loveliest charm

To goddess of the Festal light.

Come, hear a story of the time,

When this wide land was one green bower,

The roving Red man's Eden-chine,

Where bloomed the wildest flower.

The great ships brought a wondrous race,

One evening o'er the ocean beach;

Strange was the pallor of their face,

Strange was the softness of their speech.

'Twas evening, and the sunset threw

A gorgeous brilliance o'er the scene,

Deep crimson stained the heaven's sweet blue,

But ocean rivalled all its sheen.

The painted red men came to view,

With marvel, what the winds had brought,—

For, surely, those proud vessels flew,

As if their force from Heaven they caught.

But who is yonder slender youth,

With smoothest brow and smoother cheek,

And eyes so full of boyhood's truth,

And mouth, which closed, yet seems to speak?

"Ah, sure, that lovely youth's from Heaven!

A dark-eyed maiden of the wood

Sighed out upon the breath of even,

As in the mellowed light she stood.

And, ever from that fatal hour,

This white youth's image, slight and pale,

Would haunt the maiden's leafy bower,

And wake her spirit's wail.

In that high heart that fiercely hates,

Love is as fierce and wild;

And so the love is wild, that waits

To mount its height in this poor child:

This poor, frail child who born beneath

A roof of leaves, is made to dream,

That she may wear a bridal wreath

For youth of snowy gleam.

Watoga! sure some demon lied,

To thee, when wrapt amid thy sleep,

To make thee his forlornest bride,

Beneath the moaning deep.

That youth who floats an Angel through,

Thy night, thy daily dream—

He loves a maid whose eyes are blue,

And cheek like yon full moon's white beam.

The simple ornaments which thou

Hast taken thy form to deck,

The wild flower wreath that binds thy brow,

The shells that gem thy neck;

Each ornament shall deck a bride

To wed the Demon Death,

Beneath the ocean's sluggish tide,

A thousand feet beneath!

The fair youth who hath warped thy mind,

He loves a snow-white maid!

Then know'st it!—now not long confined,

Thou'lt fly the greenwood shade.

'Tis night on lone Atlantic's deep,

And summer o'er that placid sea,

The stars watch Earth's scarce-breathing sleep—

Oh! she sleeps deeply—tenderly.

What figure o'er yon bluff that scowls,

Upon the smiling water?

Ah! whose that wild and freezing howl?

It is the forest's daughter.

One moment,—and the hollow moan

Of billows sings her funeral song;—

In sooth, it was a dreadful tone,

And it will haunt us long.

This is the brief and mournful tale

Of one who loved in vain;—

She slept not in the flowery vale,

But in the deep, deep main,

They tell she was a demon's bride,

But now a wondrous wail,

Each night swells o'er the peaceful tide,

And through the loudest gale.

Watoga was her Indian name,

The white men called her yellow-flower;—

And evil fire, a poisonous flame,

Blasted her heart's sweet bower.

Failing to be the youth's dear bride,

Adorned in colors gay,

She went to a Demon's pride,

Under the Sea, they say.

And I have grieved to think of her,

And, if in these degenerate years,

There's feeling, her most mad despair,

Would melt a stone to tears.

If ye will walk amid the ancient wood,Ye will perceive the lordly oak o'erspreadThe slender shrubs, and shield them from the storm.If ye will look upon a thrifty hiveOf honey-loving bees, ye will remarkA Sovereign rules this small but populous State;And, if she live, they live, and fill with lifeThe sunny air around—but if she die,They quickly die, and then their precious sweet,Becomes a dainty dish for vilest worms.If ye will scan the custom of those birds,That seek the boreal lakes, when spring unfolds—Soaring far up amid the azure heaven,Ye will note one who leads them in their flight,As Chief his army to the embattled fight,And, oft he shouts far back to them to cheerTheir fainting hearts, and flagging pinions on,To trace the long, long course to far off lands.If ye will note the noblest of a flock,Ye will observe the weaker follow him.And thus if ye will wisely look on men,Ye will perceive the wisest lead them onTo every work; for this is nature's law,And whoso breaks it, breaks it to his hurt.Fair France once drooped beneath the feeble rule,A blighting reign, of many a Bourbon fool,Until Napoleon rose, her natural king,And crushed the Bourbon, as an abscess thing.Great Heaven decrees, that Greater still must reign,Or else the weaker must exist in vain.Fair France seemed conscious of this grand design,And hailed Napoleon as a man divine—Bedecked his path for many a flowery mile,And claimed her monarch with a beaming smile.Thus came Napoleon—and, on every hand,Fair Joys prepared to hover o'er the land.Then, France! thy glorious age was nigh begun,When rose upon thee such a glorious sun;Soon had thy bliss and praises been complete,And Earth had, falling, worshipped at thy feet.Beneath this monarch's rule—who loved the best—Thy meanest subject had been very blest.And thou had'st antidated our high claimOf rescuing man from civil slavery's shame.But, ever, Envy views, with murderous eye,Those souls who strive to make their station high.When France was weak, her sister realms were kind—When France grew strong, in hellish league combined,They sought to crush her to the sordid earth—Lest she should grow—and they should pine in dearth.Go beat the spaniel, if he rouse thine ire,His servile nature may no more aspire—But leave the lion in his lordly lair,Or he thine entrails in his rage will tear.Go, rob the linnet's unprotected nest,And rend her offspring, from her little breast;But leave the Eagle in his eyrie high,Or thy torn flesh shall hush his eaglet's cry.Fair France's lion was Napoleon! heRoamed o'er the land, a monarch proud and free:And when the Nations, in their pigmy might,Provoked the Lion to engage in fight,With gory jaw, he rent their legions strong,And left them bleaching the wide earth along.Fair France's Eagle was Napoleon! heSoared thro' her sky, a monarch proud and free:And when the boy-like kingdoms thought to bringThe glorious soarer down with bleeding wing,With swift, fierce swoop, he darted from on high,And the rent pigmies, shrieked with mighty cry.Vain were their wishes, all their envy vain,They could not bring the soarer to the plain;—Till Fate's fell arrow—surer than the rest—Winged the far flight, and pierced his glorious breast.Then fell Napoleon, Eagle of his clime,By Fate's fell shaft, from yon proud heaven sublime:And when he fell, France knew no keener woe,Then the deep piercing of that mortal blow.The sweet land drooped, and sickened in her grief—That hope so happy, had given truth so brief—That Fate's fell shaft her glorious Bird had slain,No more o'er conquered earth to soar again.But not at once Napoleon breathes his last—More woes must come—if now the worst be past.Napoleon's star, declining on his eye,Tells France shall yield him not a place to die.That he must hie him to an alien shore,And see his France, and blue-eyed boy no more.The noble Lion must be chained at length,By Fate's strong force, though not by man's weak strength.But, harmless now, that meaner things shall preyOn whom they fled from, in his Glory's day.Oh! when the Chieftain turned to wave adieuTo lovely France, across the waters blue,The iron man who never quailed in war,Where Death's conspiring darts flew fast and far—If peering Envy marked no gushing tear—Wept, wept to leave the land that was so dear—And if that woe was mute—it was more deep,As deepest floods, in silent caverns sleep.But who are they to whose exalted name,He turns for friendship in his fall's deep shame?What flattered enemy may gladly prove,A fallen Hater yet may know her love?Britannia! in this latest deep distress,Napoleon's fate thou now mayest surely bless,Attest thy greatness to a fallen foe,And make thy fame sublime o'er all below.Lo! on yon dreary isle, yon desolate rock,That quails beneath old ocean's ceaseless shock—Where flaming suns and sudden ruins combine,Fo waste and wreck the human form divine—Where man cut off from all most dear to man,Makes hopeless exile, happy if he can:—Then say; Britannia! that thy noblenessDeigns thy asylum to thy foe's distress?Say, this the Glory which thou lov'st to boast,O'er meaner dwellers of each neighboring coast?Contracted nation! thy contracted home,A sterile rock round which the billows foam!How well consorts it with thy dwarfish soul,That owns no noble feeling's high control.What glorious record holds the past of thee,What single page from foul disgrace is free;Bend, weeping Mary, Scotland's lovely Queen,With noblest grace, and sad, yet royal mien,Bend from yon dome of pure, celestial blue,Say, when a fugitive from sorrow flew,To Britain's bosom, did she live—or die—Unheard—uncared for, her last lingering sigh?On yon bleak isle, behold the Eagle razed,Who lately soaring, down on Europe gazed.See now a jackal move about his gate,Gloat o'er his grief, and mock his fallen State—Howl round his nobler prisoner every hour,How brave! to mock him now, deprived of power!Behold, on yon lone rock the Lion bound,Who once o'er prostrate Europe looked around;See now, a Spaniel, yelping at the gateOf his strong dungeon, mock his altered State.Methinks, when dying on that lonely isle,The sad abode of his most sad exile;If, haply, he had touched the mournful lyre,It breathed this "Farewell"—ere he did expire.

If ye will walk amid the ancient wood,

Ye will perceive the lordly oak o'erspread

The slender shrubs, and shield them from the storm.

If ye will look upon a thrifty hive

Of honey-loving bees, ye will remark

A Sovereign rules this small but populous State;

And, if she live, they live, and fill with life

The sunny air around—but if she die,

They quickly die, and then their precious sweet,

Becomes a dainty dish for vilest worms.

If ye will scan the custom of those birds,

That seek the boreal lakes, when spring unfolds—

Soaring far up amid the azure heaven,

Ye will note one who leads them in their flight,

As Chief his army to the embattled fight,

And, oft he shouts far back to them to cheer

Their fainting hearts, and flagging pinions on,

To trace the long, long course to far off lands.

If ye will note the noblest of a flock,

Ye will observe the weaker follow him.

And thus if ye will wisely look on men,

Ye will perceive the wisest lead them on

To every work; for this is nature's law,

And whoso breaks it, breaks it to his hurt.

Fair France once drooped beneath the feeble rule,

A blighting reign, of many a Bourbon fool,

Until Napoleon rose, her natural king,

And crushed the Bourbon, as an abscess thing.

Great Heaven decrees, that Greater still must reign,

Or else the weaker must exist in vain.

Fair France seemed conscious of this grand design,

And hailed Napoleon as a man divine—

Bedecked his path for many a flowery mile,

And claimed her monarch with a beaming smile.

Thus came Napoleon—and, on every hand,

Fair Joys prepared to hover o'er the land.

Then, France! thy glorious age was nigh begun,

When rose upon thee such a glorious sun;

Soon had thy bliss and praises been complete,

And Earth had, falling, worshipped at thy feet.

Beneath this monarch's rule—who loved the best—

Thy meanest subject had been very blest.

And thou had'st antidated our high claim

Of rescuing man from civil slavery's shame.

But, ever, Envy views, with murderous eye,

Those souls who strive to make their station high.

When France was weak, her sister realms were kind—

When France grew strong, in hellish league combined,

They sought to crush her to the sordid earth—

Lest she should grow—and they should pine in dearth.

Go beat the spaniel, if he rouse thine ire,His servile nature may no more aspire—But leave the lion in his lordly lair,Or he thine entrails in his rage will tear.Go, rob the linnet's unprotected nest,And rend her offspring, from her little breast;But leave the Eagle in his eyrie high,Or thy torn flesh shall hush his eaglet's cry.Fair France's lion was Napoleon! heRoamed o'er the land, a monarch proud and free:And when the Nations, in their pigmy might,Provoked the Lion to engage in fight,With gory jaw, he rent their legions strong,And left them bleaching the wide earth along.Fair France's Eagle was Napoleon! heSoared thro' her sky, a monarch proud and free:And when the boy-like kingdoms thought to bringThe glorious soarer down with bleeding wing,With swift, fierce swoop, he darted from on high,And the rent pigmies, shrieked with mighty cry.

Go beat the spaniel, if he rouse thine ire,

His servile nature may no more aspire—

But leave the lion in his lordly lair,

Or he thine entrails in his rage will tear.

Go, rob the linnet's unprotected nest,

And rend her offspring, from her little breast;

But leave the Eagle in his eyrie high,

Or thy torn flesh shall hush his eaglet's cry.

Fair France's lion was Napoleon! he

Roamed o'er the land, a monarch proud and free:

And when the Nations, in their pigmy might,

Provoked the Lion to engage in fight,

With gory jaw, he rent their legions strong,

And left them bleaching the wide earth along.

Fair France's Eagle was Napoleon! he

Soared thro' her sky, a monarch proud and free:

And when the boy-like kingdoms thought to bring

The glorious soarer down with bleeding wing,

With swift, fierce swoop, he darted from on high,

And the rent pigmies, shrieked with mighty cry.

Vain were their wishes, all their envy vain,They could not bring the soarer to the plain;—Till Fate's fell arrow—surer than the rest—Winged the far flight, and pierced his glorious breast.Then fell Napoleon, Eagle of his clime,By Fate's fell shaft, from yon proud heaven sublime:And when he fell, France knew no keener woe,Then the deep piercing of that mortal blow.The sweet land drooped, and sickened in her grief—That hope so happy, had given truth so brief—That Fate's fell shaft her glorious Bird had slain,No more o'er conquered earth to soar again.

Vain were their wishes, all their envy vain,

They could not bring the soarer to the plain;—

Till Fate's fell arrow—surer than the rest—

Winged the far flight, and pierced his glorious breast.

Then fell Napoleon, Eagle of his clime,

By Fate's fell shaft, from yon proud heaven sublime:

And when he fell, France knew no keener woe,

Then the deep piercing of that mortal blow.

The sweet land drooped, and sickened in her grief—

That hope so happy, had given truth so brief—

That Fate's fell shaft her glorious Bird had slain,

No more o'er conquered earth to soar again.

But not at once Napoleon breathes his last—More woes must come—if now the worst be past.Napoleon's star, declining on his eye,Tells France shall yield him not a place to die.That he must hie him to an alien shore,And see his France, and blue-eyed boy no more.The noble Lion must be chained at length,By Fate's strong force, though not by man's weak strength.But, harmless now, that meaner things shall preyOn whom they fled from, in his Glory's day.Oh! when the Chieftain turned to wave adieuTo lovely France, across the waters blue,The iron man who never quailed in war,Where Death's conspiring darts flew fast and far—If peering Envy marked no gushing tear—Wept, wept to leave the land that was so dear—And if that woe was mute—it was more deep,As deepest floods, in silent caverns sleep.

But not at once Napoleon breathes his last—

More woes must come—if now the worst be past.

Napoleon's star, declining on his eye,

Tells France shall yield him not a place to die.

That he must hie him to an alien shore,

And see his France, and blue-eyed boy no more.

The noble Lion must be chained at length,

By Fate's strong force, though not by man's weak strength.

But, harmless now, that meaner things shall prey

On whom they fled from, in his Glory's day.

Oh! when the Chieftain turned to wave adieu

To lovely France, across the waters blue,

The iron man who never quailed in war,

Where Death's conspiring darts flew fast and far—

If peering Envy marked no gushing tear—

Wept, wept to leave the land that was so dear—

And if that woe was mute—it was more deep,

As deepest floods, in silent caverns sleep.

But who are they to whose exalted name,He turns for friendship in his fall's deep shame?What flattered enemy may gladly prove,A fallen Hater yet may know her love?Britannia! in this latest deep distress,Napoleon's fate thou now mayest surely bless,Attest thy greatness to a fallen foe,And make thy fame sublime o'er all below.

But who are they to whose exalted name,

He turns for friendship in his fall's deep shame?

What flattered enemy may gladly prove,

A fallen Hater yet may know her love?

Britannia! in this latest deep distress,

Napoleon's fate thou now mayest surely bless,

Attest thy greatness to a fallen foe,

And make thy fame sublime o'er all below.

Lo! on yon dreary isle, yon desolate rock,That quails beneath old ocean's ceaseless shock—Where flaming suns and sudden ruins combine,Fo waste and wreck the human form divine—Where man cut off from all most dear to man,Makes hopeless exile, happy if he can:—Then say; Britannia! that thy noblenessDeigns thy asylum to thy foe's distress?Say, this the Glory which thou lov'st to boast,O'er meaner dwellers of each neighboring coast?

Lo! on yon dreary isle, yon desolate rock,

That quails beneath old ocean's ceaseless shock—

Where flaming suns and sudden ruins combine,

Fo waste and wreck the human form divine—

Where man cut off from all most dear to man,

Makes hopeless exile, happy if he can:—

Then say; Britannia! that thy nobleness

Deigns thy asylum to thy foe's distress?

Say, this the Glory which thou lov'st to boast,

O'er meaner dwellers of each neighboring coast?

Contracted nation! thy contracted home,A sterile rock round which the billows foam!How well consorts it with thy dwarfish soul,That owns no noble feeling's high control.

Contracted nation! thy contracted home,

A sterile rock round which the billows foam!

How well consorts it with thy dwarfish soul,

That owns no noble feeling's high control.

What glorious record holds the past of thee,What single page from foul disgrace is free;Bend, weeping Mary, Scotland's lovely Queen,With noblest grace, and sad, yet royal mien,Bend from yon dome of pure, celestial blue,Say, when a fugitive from sorrow flew,To Britain's bosom, did she live—or die—Unheard—uncared for, her last lingering sigh?

What glorious record holds the past of thee,

What single page from foul disgrace is free;

Bend, weeping Mary, Scotland's lovely Queen,

With noblest grace, and sad, yet royal mien,

Bend from yon dome of pure, celestial blue,

Say, when a fugitive from sorrow flew,

To Britain's bosom, did she live—or die—

Unheard—uncared for, her last lingering sigh?

On yon bleak isle, behold the Eagle razed,Who lately soaring, down on Europe gazed.See now a jackal move about his gate,Gloat o'er his grief, and mock his fallen State—Howl round his nobler prisoner every hour,How brave! to mock him now, deprived of power!

On yon bleak isle, behold the Eagle razed,

Who lately soaring, down on Europe gazed.

See now a jackal move about his gate,

Gloat o'er his grief, and mock his fallen State—

Howl round his nobler prisoner every hour,

How brave! to mock him now, deprived of power!

Behold, on yon lone rock the Lion bound,Who once o'er prostrate Europe looked around;See now, a Spaniel, yelping at the gateOf his strong dungeon, mock his altered State.

Behold, on yon lone rock the Lion bound,

Who once o'er prostrate Europe looked around;

See now, a Spaniel, yelping at the gate

Of his strong dungeon, mock his altered State.

Methinks, when dying on that lonely isle,The sad abode of his most sad exile;If, haply, he had touched the mournful lyre,It breathed this "Farewell"—ere he did expire.

Methinks, when dying on that lonely isle,

The sad abode of his most sad exile;

If, haply, he had touched the mournful lyre,

It breathed this "Farewell"—ere he did expire.

"I die not on this hideous rock,As common men would die;The world will weep above my grave,Despite a dismal lie.I well endure the fiercest pangsThat myriads give to one,—But oh! my lovely France! I grieve,To leave thee so undone.My towering aim, to see thy fameO'er all beneath the sky—So much—at last—is now achieved,And, half content, I die.The woes my foes decree me here,Ne'er wake my faintest sigh—But when I view my country's woes,Not yet I wish to die.But lo! the Future opens now,Before my glazing eyes,And shapes of new and coming things,Before my vision rise.I see the Bourbon hurled at last,From France's tottering throne,A proud Napoleon reigning there,France, smiling, points her own!'Earth yet adores my mighty name—And, late, laments my doom,Nor longer wrongs the gliding ghostThat loathes its island tomb.Long—long through age succeeding age,Napoleon doth awakeA fearful throb in injured breasts,To make vile despots quake—And teach the world this truthful lore,That Greater still must reign,Or Weaker must exist on earthAnd pass to dust in vain!"

"I die not on this hideous rock,As common men would die;The world will weep above my grave,Despite a dismal lie.

"I die not on this hideous rock,

As common men would die;

The world will weep above my grave,

Despite a dismal lie.

I well endure the fiercest pangsThat myriads give to one,—But oh! my lovely France! I grieve,To leave thee so undone.

I well endure the fiercest pangs

That myriads give to one,—

But oh! my lovely France! I grieve,

To leave thee so undone.

My towering aim, to see thy fameO'er all beneath the sky—So much—at last—is now achieved,And, half content, I die.

My towering aim, to see thy fame

O'er all beneath the sky—

So much—at last—is now achieved,

And, half content, I die.

The woes my foes decree me here,Ne'er wake my faintest sigh—But when I view my country's woes,Not yet I wish to die.

The woes my foes decree me here,

Ne'er wake my faintest sigh—

But when I view my country's woes,

Not yet I wish to die.

But lo! the Future opens now,Before my glazing eyes,And shapes of new and coming things,Before my vision rise.

But lo! the Future opens now,

Before my glazing eyes,

And shapes of new and coming things,

Before my vision rise.

I see the Bourbon hurled at last,From France's tottering throne,A proud Napoleon reigning there,France, smiling, points her own!'

I see the Bourbon hurled at last,

From France's tottering throne,

A proud Napoleon reigning there,

France, smiling, points her own!'

Earth yet adores my mighty name—And, late, laments my doom,Nor longer wrongs the gliding ghostThat loathes its island tomb.

Earth yet adores my mighty name—

And, late, laments my doom,

Nor longer wrongs the gliding ghost

That loathes its island tomb.

Long—long through age succeeding age,Napoleon doth awakeA fearful throb in injured breasts,To make vile despots quake—

Long—long through age succeeding age,

Napoleon doth awake

A fearful throb in injured breasts,

To make vile despots quake—

And teach the world this truthful lore,That Greater still must reign,Or Weaker must exist on earthAnd pass to dust in vain!"

And teach the world this truthful lore,

That Greater still must reign,

Or Weaker must exist on earth

And pass to dust in vain!"

Hark! how the wintry tempest raves,Along the frozen plain—Dark, dark the lowering clouds above,And fast descends the rain.But, lady! now a deeper gloomSurrounds thy lover's soul,And wilder floods of grief and woe,Around his spirit roll.

Hark! how the wintry tempest raves,Along the frozen plain—Dark, dark the lowering clouds above,And fast descends the rain.

Hark! how the wintry tempest raves,

Along the frozen plain—

Dark, dark the lowering clouds above,

And fast descends the rain.

But, lady! now a deeper gloomSurrounds thy lover's soul,And wilder floods of grief and woe,Around his spirit roll.

But, lady! now a deeper gloom

Surrounds thy lover's soul,

And wilder floods of grief and woe,

Around his spirit roll.

Scene I.—A Wooded Mountain in bloom—Time sunrise—Enter Lover Solus.

This is my fair resort, the Summer SunIs rising there, the ocean gleams like gold,On which his rolling chariot burns like fire.Ten thousand birds are up in branch and air,To hail thiscoronation, every dayRepeated from the first to last of time.It is a glorious sight, and worthy allThat has been said or sung of it in verse.But yet 'tis dim to me, Odora's eyesHave cast that glory in a dull eclipse,Oh! sweet Odora! I am mad with loveOf thy sweet eyes. Would they might rain their raysUpon me, as yon orb, rains rays on earth.Oh, sweetest eyes of love! they set on fireMy tinder heart. Odora! come to me!Upon this mountain's green and glittering brow,Where now I stand and gaze down earth and main,O'er which that God's all gladdening glory soars.Come, sweet Odora! thine eyes outshine that God.Thy speech's music so transcends these birds,They'll pine for grief and die. Oh sweet, come, come.

This is my fair resort, the Summer Sun

Is rising there, the ocean gleams like gold,

On which his rolling chariot burns like fire.

Ten thousand birds are up in branch and air,

To hail thiscoronation, every day

Repeated from the first to last of time.

It is a glorious sight, and worthy all

That has been said or sung of it in verse.

But yet 'tis dim to me, Odora's eyes

Have cast that glory in a dull eclipse,

Oh! sweet Odora! I am mad with love

Of thy sweet eyes. Would they might rain their rays

Upon me, as yon orb, rains rays on earth.

Oh, sweetest eyes of love! they set on fire

My tinder heart. Odora! come to me!

Upon this mountain's green and glittering brow,

Where now I stand and gaze down earth and main,

O'er which that God's all gladdening glory soars.

Come, sweet Odora! thine eyes outshine that God.

Thy speech's music so transcends these birds,

They'll pine for grief and die. Oh sweet, come, come.

Enter Odora in the Dress of a Woodnymph.

Transcendant vision! Even now I thought of thee,My mind, o'erheated, called—and thou art here.What blissful fate hath brought thee? Dost thou roamThe scented hills at morn, to gather flowers;To gaze into the fountain's glassy mirror,Or list the sweet birds sigh on every bough,Thou art a woodnymph, speaks thy fair attire.Sweet fancy of a sweeter maidenhood,That thou dost walk at dawn a woodnymph wild.Here will I seal upon thy foam-white browMy flame again, which burns like yonder orb.Odora! speak to me! thy voice is sweet,As sounds of rescue to a ship-wrecked soul.

Transcendant vision! Even now I thought of thee,

My mind, o'erheated, called—and thou art here.

What blissful fate hath brought thee? Dost thou roam

The scented hills at morn, to gather flowers;

To gaze into the fountain's glassy mirror,

Or list the sweet birds sigh on every bough,

Thou art a woodnymph, speaks thy fair attire.

Sweet fancy of a sweeter maidenhood,

That thou dost walk at dawn a woodnymph wild.

Here will I seal upon thy foam-white brow

My flame again, which burns like yonder orb.

Odora! speak to me! thy voice is sweet,

As sounds of rescue to a ship-wrecked soul.

Scene II.—Lover in a gorgeous Saloon in a great City—Evening—Enter Odora—Lover speaks.

Again I meet my love. 'Tis wondrous bliss,That such a Moon shines on my spirit's night.Like yonder moon, at times, she disappears;—But still the virtue of her visit stays,Till she returns, with moon-like certainty.Come, my Odora come! sing,

Again I meet my love. 'Tis wondrous bliss,

That such a Moon shines on my spirit's night.

Like yonder moon, at times, she disappears;—

But still the virtue of her visit stays,

Till she returns, with moon-like certainty.

Come, my Odora come! sing,

Odora Sings.

When winds are cold, and winter strips,The Oak and ghostly Pine;And fastens every streamlet's lips,And cold icicles shine:Still fair amid the scene so bleak,The daisy flower is seen;So truest love will comfort speak,And make life's winter green.

When winds are cold, and winter strips,

The Oak and ghostly Pine;

And fastens every streamlet's lips,

And cold icicles shine:

Still fair amid the scene so bleak,

The daisy flower is seen;

So truest love will comfort speak,

And make life's winter green.

That strain would charm an adder even to tears,So sweet a song, from mouth so full of grace.Before I saw thee, my Odora! ne'erI thought this world could ever grow so fairTo me. Love throws a rosy, sparkling tissueOn mountain, hill, lake, tree, shrub, leaf and flower,Love sweetens every note of nature seven fold.But sing again. Thy voice is like a harp.

That strain would charm an adder even to tears,

So sweet a song, from mouth so full of grace.

Before I saw thee, my Odora! ne'er

I thought this world could ever grow so fair

To me. Love throws a rosy, sparkling tissue

On mountain, hill, lake, tree, shrub, leaf and flower,

Love sweetens every note of nature seven fold.

But sing again. Thy voice is like a harp.

Odora Sings.

When winds are bleak, and snows are deep,And waters frozen dumb;And voiceless insects snugly sleep,Where beam can never come:The daisy blooms beneath some tree,That screens her form from harm;—So, love! I nestle near to thee,And live beneath thy arm.

When winds are bleak, and snows are deep,

And waters frozen dumb;

And voiceless insects snugly sleep,

Where beam can never come:

The daisy blooms beneath some tree,

That screens her form from harm;—

So, love! I nestle near to thee,

And live beneath thy arm.

Oh! angel! thou dost sing a meaning lay,And teachestwisdom, in sweet poetry.But whence, my fair philosopher, thy lore,Hath God bestowed such deep laid knowledge onA light and playsome girl, whose pranks and wilesHave quite bewitched my would-be firmer soul.Methinks thou singest well to-night; adieu,And may pure angels bring thee radiant dreams.

Oh! angel! thou dost sing a meaning lay,

And teachestwisdom, in sweet poetry.

But whence, my fair philosopher, thy lore,

Hath God bestowed such deep laid knowledge on

A light and playsome girl, whose pranks and wiles

Have quite bewitched my would-be firmer soul.

Methinks thou singest well to-night; adieu,

And may pure angels bring thee radiant dreams.

Scene III. An Evening in Summer. A Garden.—Lover alone, and reading a book.

A tale of happy love! 'Tis like my fate.Two youthful beings, yearning each for love,Met by a haunted stream, with ivied banks,Beneath the evening star—the star of love.Their souls fled to each other suddenly:So that they felt they were ordained of old,To twain be one, one flesh, one bone, one soul.They loved, and dwelt among the grassy hills,By lakes that mirrored all their trees and flowers.A happy life, and curly-headed boysWere round their steps, their walks, their cottage door,Filling the air with laughter, silvery sweet.Gay spring, bright summer, autumn, winter passed,And found and left them happy, So time flew,Till both were old, their hearts yet light and gay.Then, they slept sweetly, side by side, near byA favorite stream they oft had gazed upon,Meek christians said they hoped that love so rareHad full fruition found, in brighter worlds.It is a happy story, and my eyes,Have poured their pearl upon these pages here,That tell so dear a tale. Oh! God be praised,If such a fate befall my love and me.I will go seek Odora, and returnTo talk with her amid this fragrant bower,Of what a book has charmed my sighing soul.I found it here. Perchance she read it first.How that one thought which doth fill up the mind,Will color outward objects, circumstance,And accident, with tincture of itself.

A tale of happy love! 'Tis like my fate.

Two youthful beings, yearning each for love,

Met by a haunted stream, with ivied banks,

Beneath the evening star—the star of love.

Their souls fled to each other suddenly:

So that they felt they were ordained of old,

To twain be one, one flesh, one bone, one soul.

They loved, and dwelt among the grassy hills,

By lakes that mirrored all their trees and flowers.

A happy life, and curly-headed boys

Were round their steps, their walks, their cottage door,

Filling the air with laughter, silvery sweet.

Gay spring, bright summer, autumn, winter passed,

And found and left them happy, So time flew,

Till both were old, their hearts yet light and gay.

Then, they slept sweetly, side by side, near by

A favorite stream they oft had gazed upon,

Meek christians said they hoped that love so rare

Had full fruition found, in brighter worlds.

It is a happy story, and my eyes,

Have poured their pearl upon these pages here,

That tell so dear a tale. Oh! God be praised,

If such a fate befall my love and me.

I will go seek Odora, and return

To talk with her amid this fragrant bower,

Of what a book has charmed my sighing soul.

I found it here. Perchance she read it first.

How that one thought which doth fill up the mind,

Will color outward objects, circumstance,

And accident, with tincture of itself.

He goes—then Odora and he re-enter the garden.

Lover speaks.—I here have found, Odora, love, this book,Which tells a strange, sweet tale of happy love,How two young beings found a heaven on earth,Cans't tell me, whence it came, if fact or dream?Odora speaks.—It is a happy story. In my father's roomOf precious volumes late I fell on this;And read it in this garden; sweet romance,It brought the love-beats to my heart, drops to mine eyes.

Lover speaks.—I here have found, Odora, love, this book,

Which tells a strange, sweet tale of happy love,

How two young beings found a heaven on earth,

Cans't tell me, whence it came, if fact or dream?

Odora speaks.—It is a happy story. In my father's roomOf precious volumes late I fell on this;And read it in this garden; sweet romance,It brought the love-beats to my heart, drops to mine eyes.

Odora speaks.—It is a happy story. In my father's room

Of precious volumes late I fell on this;

And read it in this garden; sweet romance,

It brought the love-beats to my heart, drops to mine eyes.

Scene IV.—Odora and Lover in a field under a perfect Rainbow. (Lover Speaks.)

Above this field that shines an Eden, lo!That wondrous arch of many married hues:A gorgeous belt, round Nature's lovely waist!Sure, earth now seems no place of graves. A wideGay, blooming Paradise! With moistened face,She smiles, like God, upon this joyous world.A new, wild burst of various harmony,Salutes that Bow of charm—that orb of Glory.Thou art the sun and rainbow to my heart,And, as they fade from sight—but do not die—But come to-morrow with their wonted charms,Thou shalt not die—but gleam o'er me in heaven,With none of all thy beauty, lost or less.Can'st thou not sing a song, love, ere it fades?

Above this field that shines an Eden, lo!

That wondrous arch of many married hues:

A gorgeous belt, round Nature's lovely waist!

Sure, earth now seems no place of graves. A wide

Gay, blooming Paradise! With moistened face,

She smiles, like God, upon this joyous world.

A new, wild burst of various harmony,

Salutes that Bow of charm—that orb of Glory.

Thou art the sun and rainbow to my heart,

And, as they fade from sight—but do not die—

But come to-morrow with their wonted charms,

Thou shalt not die—but gleam o'er me in heaven,

With none of all thy beauty, lost or less.

Can'st thou not sing a song, love, ere it fades?

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