The lilies faintly to the roses yield,As on thy lovely cheek they struggling vie,(Who would not strive upon so sweet a fieldTo win the mastery?)And thoughts are in thy speaking eyes revealed,Pure as the fount the prophet's rod unsealed.I could not wish that in thy bosom aughtShould e'er one moment's transient pain awaken,Yet can't regret that thou—forgive the thought—As flowers when shakenWill yield their sweetest fragrance to the wind,Should, ruffled thus, betray thy heavenly mind.
The lilies faintly to the roses yield,As on thy lovely cheek they struggling vie,(Who would not strive upon so sweet a fieldTo win the mastery?)And thoughts are in thy speaking eyes revealed,Pure as the fount the prophet's rod unsealed.
I could not wish that in thy bosom aughtShould e'er one moment's transient pain awaken,Yet can't regret that thou—forgive the thought—As flowers when shakenWill yield their sweetest fragrance to the wind,Should, ruffled thus, betray thy heavenly mind.
BY J. I. BAILEY.
Hast thou no soul, that thou canst be unmovedAt glorious sports like these? Even now I seeCome forth the noble charioteers, arrayedIn red, white, green, and azure, like the sky,The eye of beauty dazzled by their hue!And now with eager hopes and proud desiresExulting, lo! the youthful, daring bandStart to the race, and fiercely seize the reins!Onward they rush; a thousand voices hailThe alternate victor as he speeds along;Ten thousand eyes pursue the chariot flight,And as they gaze, as many thousand soulsSwell in their bosoms and almost leap out.Then comes the glorious moment when the goalIs almost reached—they goad the foremost steedsLashing with all their might upon their flanks;The golden chariot glitters in the course,And swifter than the wind is borne along—And now the victor, like a flash of light,Bursts on the view, and hails the loud acclaim,While lengthening shouts of triumph rend the air!Waldimar, a Tragedy. Act II., Scene I.
Hast thou no soul, that thou canst be unmovedAt glorious sports like these? Even now I seeCome forth the noble charioteers, arrayedIn red, white, green, and azure, like the sky,The eye of beauty dazzled by their hue!And now with eager hopes and proud desiresExulting, lo! the youthful, daring bandStart to the race, and fiercely seize the reins!Onward they rush; a thousand voices hailThe alternate victor as he speeds along;Ten thousand eyes pursue the chariot flight,And as they gaze, as many thousand soulsSwell in their bosoms and almost leap out.Then comes the glorious moment when the goalIs almost reached—they goad the foremost steedsLashing with all their might upon their flanks;The golden chariot glitters in the course,And swifter than the wind is borne along—And now the victor, like a flash of light,Bursts on the view, and hails the loud acclaim,While lengthening shouts of triumph rend the air!Waldimar, a Tragedy. Act II., Scene I.
BY G. P. MORRIS.
O would that she were here,These hills and dales among,Where vocal groves are gayly mockedBy echo's airy tongue,—Where jocund Nature smilesIn all her gay attire,Amid deep-tangled wilesOf hawthorn and sweet-brier.O would that she were here,That fair and gentle thing,Whose words are musical as strainsBreathed by the wind-harp's string.O would that she were here,Where the free waters leap,Shouting in their joyousness,Adown the rocky steep,—Where rosy Zephyr lingersAll the livelong day,With health upon his pinions,And gladness in his way.O would that she were here,Sure Eden's garden-plotDid not embrace more varied charmsThan this romantic spot.O would that she were here,Where frolic by the hours,Rife with the song of bee and bird,The perfume of the flowers,—Where beams of peace and love,And radiant beauty's glow,Are pictured in the sky above,And in the lake below.O would that she were here—The nymphs of this bright scene,With song, and dance, and revelry,Would crownBiancaqueen.
O would that she were here,These hills and dales among,Where vocal groves are gayly mockedBy echo's airy tongue,—Where jocund Nature smilesIn all her gay attire,Amid deep-tangled wilesOf hawthorn and sweet-brier.O would that she were here,That fair and gentle thing,Whose words are musical as strainsBreathed by the wind-harp's string.
O would that she were here,Where the free waters leap,Shouting in their joyousness,Adown the rocky steep,—Where rosy Zephyr lingersAll the livelong day,With health upon his pinions,And gladness in his way.O would that she were here,Sure Eden's garden-plotDid not embrace more varied charmsThan this romantic spot.
O would that she were here,Where frolic by the hours,Rife with the song of bee and bird,The perfume of the flowers,—Where beams of peace and love,And radiant beauty's glow,Are pictured in the sky above,And in the lake below.O would that she were here—The nymphs of this bright scene,With song, and dance, and revelry,Would crownBiancaqueen.
BY A. B. STREET.
Pure as their parent springs! how brightThe silvery waters stretch away,Reposing in the pleasant lightOf June's most lovely day.Curving around the eastern side,Rich meadows slope their banks, to meetWith fringe of grass and fern, the tideWhich sparkles at their feet.Here busy life attests that toil,With its quick talisman, has madeFields green and waving, from a soilOf rude and savage shade.While opposite the forests lieIn giant shadow, black and deep,Filling with leaves the circling sky,And frowning in their sleep.Amid this scene of light and gloom,Nature with art links hand in hand,Thick woods beside soft rural bloom,As by a seer's command.Here waves the grain, here curls the smoke,The orchard bends; there, wilds, as darkAs when the hermit waters wokeBeneath the Indian's bark.Oft will the panther's sharp, shrill shriekWith the herd's quiet lowings swell,The wolf's fierce howl terrific breakUpon the sheepfold's bell.The ploughman sees the wind-winged deerDart from his covert to the wave,And fearless in its mirror clearHis branching antlers lave.Here, the green headlands seem to meetSo near, a fairy bridge might cross;There, spreads the broad and limpid sheetIn smooth, unruffled gloss.Arched by the thicket's screening leaves,A lilied harbour lurks below,Where on the sand each ripple weavesIts melting wreath of snow.Hark! like an organ's tone, the woodsTo the light wind in murmurs wake,The voice of the vast solitudesIs speaking to the lake.The fanning air-breath sweeps acrossOn its broad path of sparkles now.Bends down the violet to the moss,Then melts upon my brow.
Pure as their parent springs! how brightThe silvery waters stretch away,Reposing in the pleasant lightOf June's most lovely day.
Curving around the eastern side,Rich meadows slope their banks, to meetWith fringe of grass and fern, the tideWhich sparkles at their feet.
Here busy life attests that toil,With its quick talisman, has madeFields green and waving, from a soilOf rude and savage shade.
While opposite the forests lieIn giant shadow, black and deep,Filling with leaves the circling sky,And frowning in their sleep.
Amid this scene of light and gloom,Nature with art links hand in hand,Thick woods beside soft rural bloom,As by a seer's command.
Here waves the grain, here curls the smoke,The orchard bends; there, wilds, as darkAs when the hermit waters wokeBeneath the Indian's bark.
Oft will the panther's sharp, shrill shriekWith the herd's quiet lowings swell,The wolf's fierce howl terrific breakUpon the sheepfold's bell.
The ploughman sees the wind-winged deerDart from his covert to the wave,And fearless in its mirror clearHis branching antlers lave.
Here, the green headlands seem to meetSo near, a fairy bridge might cross;There, spreads the broad and limpid sheetIn smooth, unruffled gloss.
Arched by the thicket's screening leaves,A lilied harbour lurks below,Where on the sand each ripple weavesIts melting wreath of snow.
Hark! like an organ's tone, the woodsTo the light wind in murmurs wake,The voice of the vast solitudesIs speaking to the lake.
The fanning air-breath sweeps acrossOn its broad path of sparkles now.Bends down the violet to the moss,Then melts upon my brow.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
Where dost thou loiter, Spring,While it behovethThee to cease wanderingWhere'er thou roveth,And to my lady bringThe flowers she loveth.Come with thy melting skiesLike her cheek blushing,Come with thy dewy eyesWhere founts are gushing;Come where the wild bee hiesWhen dawn is flushing.Lead her where by the brookThe first blossom keepeth,Where, in the sheltered nook,The callow bud sleepeth;Or with a timid lookThrough its leaves peepeth.Lead her where on the spray,Blithely carolling,First birds their roundelayFor my lady sing—But keep, where'er she strayTrue-love blossoming.
Where dost thou loiter, Spring,While it behovethThee to cease wanderingWhere'er thou roveth,And to my lady bringThe flowers she loveth.
Come with thy melting skiesLike her cheek blushing,Come with thy dewy eyesWhere founts are gushing;Come where the wild bee hiesWhen dawn is flushing.
Lead her where by the brookThe first blossom keepeth,Where, in the sheltered nook,The callow bud sleepeth;Or with a timid lookThrough its leaves peepeth.
Lead her where on the spray,Blithely carolling,First birds their roundelayFor my lady sing—But keep, where'er she strayTrue-love blossoming.
BY EMMA C. EMBURY.
Clouds gathered o'er the dark blue sky,The sun waxed dim and pale,And the music of the waves was changedTo the plaintive voice of wail;And fearfully the lightning flashedAround the ship's tall mast,While mournfully through the creaking shroudsCame the sighing of the blast.With pallid cheek the seamen shrankBefore the deepening gloom;For they gazed on the black and boiling seaAs 'twere a yawning tomb;But on the vessel's deck stood oneWith proud and changeless brow;Nor pain, nor terror was in the lookHe turned to the gulf below.And calmly to his arm he boundHis casket and his sword;Unheeding, though with fiercer strengthThe threatening tempest roared;Then stretched his sinewy arms and cried:"For me there yet is hope,The limbs that have spurned a tyrant's chainWith the stormy wave may cope."Now let the strife of nature rage,Proudly I yet can claim,Where'er the waters may bear me on,My freedom and my fame."The dreaded moment came too soon,The sea swept madly on,Till the wall of waters closed around,And the noble ship was gone.Then rose one wild, half-stifled cry;The swimmer's bubbling breathWas all unheard, while the raging tideWrought well the task of death;But 'mid the billows still was seenThe stranger's struggling form;And the meteor flash of his sword might seemLike a beacon 'mid the storm.For still, while with his strong right armHe buffeted the wave,The other upheld that treasured prizeHe would give life to save.Was then the love of pelf so strongThat e'en in death's dark hour,The base-born passion could awakeWith such resistless power?No! all earth's gold were dross to him,Compared with what lay hid,Through lonely years of changeless woe,Beneath that casket's lid;For there was all the mind's rich wealth,And many a precious gemThat, in after years, he hoped might formA poet's diadem.Nobly he struggled till, o'erspent,His nerveless limbs no moreCould bear him on through the waves that roseLike barriers to the shore;Yet still he held his long prized wealth,He saw the wished-for land—A moment more, and he was thrownUpon the rocky strand.Alas! far better to have diedWhere the mighty billows roll,Than lived till coldness and neglectBowed down his haughty soul:Such was his dreary lot, at onceHis country's pride and shame;For on Camoen's humble grave aloneWas placed his wreath of fame.
Clouds gathered o'er the dark blue sky,The sun waxed dim and pale,And the music of the waves was changedTo the plaintive voice of wail;And fearfully the lightning flashedAround the ship's tall mast,While mournfully through the creaking shroudsCame the sighing of the blast.
With pallid cheek the seamen shrankBefore the deepening gloom;For they gazed on the black and boiling seaAs 'twere a yawning tomb;But on the vessel's deck stood oneWith proud and changeless brow;Nor pain, nor terror was in the lookHe turned to the gulf below.
And calmly to his arm he boundHis casket and his sword;Unheeding, though with fiercer strengthThe threatening tempest roared;Then stretched his sinewy arms and cried:"For me there yet is hope,The limbs that have spurned a tyrant's chainWith the stormy wave may cope.
"Now let the strife of nature rage,Proudly I yet can claim,Where'er the waters may bear me on,My freedom and my fame."The dreaded moment came too soon,The sea swept madly on,Till the wall of waters closed around,And the noble ship was gone.
Then rose one wild, half-stifled cry;The swimmer's bubbling breathWas all unheard, while the raging tideWrought well the task of death;But 'mid the billows still was seenThe stranger's struggling form;And the meteor flash of his sword might seemLike a beacon 'mid the storm.
For still, while with his strong right armHe buffeted the wave,The other upheld that treasured prizeHe would give life to save.Was then the love of pelf so strongThat e'en in death's dark hour,The base-born passion could awakeWith such resistless power?
No! all earth's gold were dross to him,Compared with what lay hid,Through lonely years of changeless woe,Beneath that casket's lid;For there was all the mind's rich wealth,And many a precious gemThat, in after years, he hoped might formA poet's diadem.
Nobly he struggled till, o'erspent,His nerveless limbs no moreCould bear him on through the waves that roseLike barriers to the shore;Yet still he held his long prized wealth,He saw the wished-for land—A moment more, and he was thrownUpon the rocky strand.
Alas! far better to have diedWhere the mighty billows roll,Than lived till coldness and neglectBowed down his haughty soul:Such was his dreary lot, at onceHis country's pride and shame;For on Camoen's humble grave aloneWas placed his wreath of fame.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
'Twas on one morn, in spring-time weather,A rosy, warm, inviting hour,That Love and Faith went out together,And took the path to Beauty's bower.Love laughed and frolicked all the way,While sober Faith, as on they rambled,Allowed the thoughtless boy to play,But watched him, wheresoe'er he gamboled.So warm a welcome, Beauty smiledUpon the guests whom chance had sent her,That Love and Faith were both beguiledThe grotto of the nymph to enter;And when the curtains of the skiesThe drowsy hand of Night was closing,Love nestled him in Beauty's eyes,While Faith was on her heart reposing.Love thought he never saw a pairSo softly radiant in their beaming;Faith deemed that he could meet no whereSo sweet and safe a place to dream in;And there, for life in bright content,Enchained, they must have still been lying,For Love his wings to Faith had lent,And Faith he never dream'd of flying.But Beauty, though she liked the child,With all his winning ways about him,Upon his mentor never smiled,And thought that Love might do without him;Poor Faith abused, soon sighing fled,And now one knows not where to find him;While mourning Love quick followedUpon the wings he left behind him.'Tis said, that in his wanderingLove still around that spot will hover,Like bird that on bewildered wingHer parted mate pines to discover;And true it is that Beauty's doorIs often by the idler haunted;But, since Faith fled, Love owns no moreThe spell that held his wings enchanted.
'Twas on one morn, in spring-time weather,A rosy, warm, inviting hour,That Love and Faith went out together,And took the path to Beauty's bower.Love laughed and frolicked all the way,While sober Faith, as on they rambled,Allowed the thoughtless boy to play,But watched him, wheresoe'er he gamboled.
So warm a welcome, Beauty smiledUpon the guests whom chance had sent her,That Love and Faith were both beguiledThe grotto of the nymph to enter;And when the curtains of the skiesThe drowsy hand of Night was closing,Love nestled him in Beauty's eyes,While Faith was on her heart reposing.
Love thought he never saw a pairSo softly radiant in their beaming;Faith deemed that he could meet no whereSo sweet and safe a place to dream in;And there, for life in bright content,Enchained, they must have still been lying,For Love his wings to Faith had lent,And Faith he never dream'd of flying.
But Beauty, though she liked the child,With all his winning ways about him,Upon his mentor never smiled,And thought that Love might do without him;Poor Faith abused, soon sighing fled,And now one knows not where to find him;While mourning Love quick followedUpon the wings he left behind him.
'Tis said, that in his wanderingLove still around that spot will hover,Like bird that on bewildered wingHer parted mate pines to discover;And true it is that Beauty's doorIs often by the idler haunted;But, since Faith fled, Love owns no moreThe spell that held his wings enchanted.
BY J. G. BROOKS.
Strike the wild harp yet once again!Again its lonely numbers pour;Then let the melancholy strainBe hushed in death for evermore.For evermore, for evermore,Creative fancy, be thou still;And let oblivious Lethe pourUpon my lyre its waters chill.Strike the wild harp yet once again!Then be its fitful chords unstrung,Silent as is the grave's domain,And mute as the death-mouldered tongue,Let not a thought of memory dwellOne moment on its former song;Forgotten, too, be this farewell,Which plays its pensive strings along!Strike the wild harp yet once again!The saddest and the latest lay;Then break at once its strings in twain,And they shall sound no more for aye:And hang it on the cypress tree,The hours of youth and song have passed,Have gone, with all their witchery;Lost lyre! these numbers are thy last.
Strike the wild harp yet once again!Again its lonely numbers pour;Then let the melancholy strainBe hushed in death for evermore.For evermore, for evermore,Creative fancy, be thou still;And let oblivious Lethe pourUpon my lyre its waters chill.
Strike the wild harp yet once again!Then be its fitful chords unstrung,Silent as is the grave's domain,And mute as the death-mouldered tongue,Let not a thought of memory dwellOne moment on its former song;Forgotten, too, be this farewell,Which plays its pensive strings along!
Strike the wild harp yet once again!The saddest and the latest lay;Then break at once its strings in twain,And they shall sound no more for aye:And hang it on the cypress tree,The hours of youth and song have passed,Have gone, with all their witchery;Lost lyre! these numbers are thy last.
BY LINDLEY MURRAY.
When on thy bosom I recline,Enraptur'd still to call thee mine,To call thee mine for life,I glory in the sacred ties,Which modern wits and fools despise,Of Husband and of Wife.One mutual flame inspires our bliss;The tender look, the melting kiss,Even years have not destroyed;Some sweet sensation, ever new,Springs up and proves the maxim true,That love can ne'er be cloy'd.Have I a wish?—'tis all for thee,Hast thou a wish?—'tis all for me,So soft our moments move,That angels look with ardent gaze,Well pleas'd to see our happy days,And bid us live—and love.If cares arise—and cares will come—Thy bosom is my softest home,I'll lull me there to rest;And is there aught disturbs my fair?I'll bid her sigh out every care,And lose it in my breast.Have I a wish?—'tis all her own;All hers and mine are roll'd in one—Our hearts are so entwined,That, like the ivy round the tree,Bound up in closest amity,'Tis death to be disjoined.
When on thy bosom I recline,Enraptur'd still to call thee mine,To call thee mine for life,I glory in the sacred ties,Which modern wits and fools despise,Of Husband and of Wife.
One mutual flame inspires our bliss;The tender look, the melting kiss,Even years have not destroyed;Some sweet sensation, ever new,Springs up and proves the maxim true,That love can ne'er be cloy'd.
Have I a wish?—'tis all for thee,Hast thou a wish?—'tis all for me,So soft our moments move,That angels look with ardent gaze,Well pleas'd to see our happy days,And bid us live—and love.
If cares arise—and cares will come—Thy bosom is my softest home,I'll lull me there to rest;And is there aught disturbs my fair?I'll bid her sigh out every care,And lose it in my breast.
Have I a wish?—'tis all her own;All hers and mine are roll'd in one—Our hearts are so entwined,That, like the ivy round the tree,Bound up in closest amity,'Tis death to be disjoined.
BY MARY E. BROOKS.
Oh, weep not for the dead!Rather, oh rather give the tearTo those that darkly linger here,When all besides are fled;Weep for the spirit witheringIn its cold cheerless sorrowing,Weep for the young and lovely oneThat ruin darkly revels on;But never be a tear-drop shedFor them, the pure enfranchised dead.Oh, weep not for the dead!No more for them the blighting chill,The thousand shades of earthly ill,The thousand thorns we tread;Weep for the life-charm early flown,The spirit broken, bleeding, lone;Weep for the death pangs of the heart,Ere being from the bosom part;But never be a tear-drop givenTo those that rest in yon blue heaven.
Oh, weep not for the dead!Rather, oh rather give the tearTo those that darkly linger here,When all besides are fled;Weep for the spirit witheringIn its cold cheerless sorrowing,Weep for the young and lovely oneThat ruin darkly revels on;But never be a tear-drop shedFor them, the pure enfranchised dead.
Oh, weep not for the dead!No more for them the blighting chill,The thousand shades of earthly ill,The thousand thorns we tread;Weep for the life-charm early flown,The spirit broken, bleeding, lone;Weep for the death pangs of the heart,Ere being from the bosom part;But never be a tear-drop givenTo those that rest in yon blue heaven.
BY EMMA C. EMBURY.
Mine own beloved, believest thou ought of this?Oh! then no moreMy heart, o'er early faded dreams of blissIts wail shall pour.Give me this hope, though only from afarIt sheds its light,And, like yon dewy melancholy star,With tears is bright—Let me but hope a heart with fondness fraught,That could not sinAgainst its worshipped idol, e'en in thought,Thy love may win:Let me but hope the changeless love of years,The tender careThat fain would die to save thine eye from tears,Thy heart may share.Or let me hope at least that, when no moreMy voice shall meetThe ear that listens only to think o'erTones far more sweet;When the kind shelter of the grave shall hideThis faded brow,This form once gazed upon with pride,With coldness now;When never more my weary steps of painAround thee move,When loosed for ever is life's heavy chain,Love will win love.
Mine own beloved, believest thou ought of this?Oh! then no moreMy heart, o'er early faded dreams of blissIts wail shall pour.
Give me this hope, though only from afarIt sheds its light,And, like yon dewy melancholy star,With tears is bright—
Let me but hope a heart with fondness fraught,That could not sinAgainst its worshipped idol, e'en in thought,Thy love may win:
Let me but hope the changeless love of years,The tender careThat fain would die to save thine eye from tears,Thy heart may share.
Or let me hope at least that, when no moreMy voice shall meetThe ear that listens only to think o'erTones far more sweet;
When the kind shelter of the grave shall hideThis faded brow,This form once gazed upon with pride,With coldness now;
When never more my weary steps of painAround thee move,When loosed for ever is life's heavy chain,Love will win love.
BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.
Ob: 1825, æt. 17.
I have passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night,I have walked the wild winds in the morning's broad light;I have paused o'er the bower where the infant lay sleeping,And I've left the fond mother in sorrow and weeping.My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night,Which withers and moulders the flower in its light,Fell silently o'er the warm cheek in its glow,And I left it there blighted, and wasted, and low;I culled the fair bud as it danced in its mirth,And I left it to moulder and fade on the earth.I passed o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joyRose soft through the mist, and ascended on high;The fairest were there, and I paused in my flight,And the deep cry of wailing broke wildly that night.I stay not to gather the lone one to earth,I spare not the young in their gay dance of mirth,But I sweep them all on to their home in the grave,I stop not to pity—I stay not to save.I paused in my pathway, for beauty was there;It was beauty too death-like, too cold, and too fair!The deep purple fountain seemed melting away,And the faint pulse of life scarce remembered to play;She had thought on the tomb, she was waiting for me,I gazed, I passed on, and her spirit was free.The clear stream rolled gladly, and bounded along,With ripple, and murmur, and sparkle, and song;The minstrel was tuning his wild harp to love,And sweet, and half sad were the numbers he wove.I passed, and the harp of the bard was unstrung;O'er the stream which rolled deeply, 'twas recklessly hung;The minstrel was not! and I passed on alone,O'er the newly-raised turf and the rudely-carved stone.
I have passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night,I have walked the wild winds in the morning's broad light;I have paused o'er the bower where the infant lay sleeping,And I've left the fond mother in sorrow and weeping.
My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night,Which withers and moulders the flower in its light,Fell silently o'er the warm cheek in its glow,And I left it there blighted, and wasted, and low;I culled the fair bud as it danced in its mirth,And I left it to moulder and fade on the earth.
I passed o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joyRose soft through the mist, and ascended on high;The fairest were there, and I paused in my flight,And the deep cry of wailing broke wildly that night.
I stay not to gather the lone one to earth,I spare not the young in their gay dance of mirth,But I sweep them all on to their home in the grave,I stop not to pity—I stay not to save.
I paused in my pathway, for beauty was there;It was beauty too death-like, too cold, and too fair!The deep purple fountain seemed melting away,And the faint pulse of life scarce remembered to play;She had thought on the tomb, she was waiting for me,I gazed, I passed on, and her spirit was free.
The clear stream rolled gladly, and bounded along,With ripple, and murmur, and sparkle, and song;The minstrel was tuning his wild harp to love,And sweet, and half sad were the numbers he wove.I passed, and the harp of the bard was unstrung;O'er the stream which rolled deeply, 'twas recklessly hung;The minstrel was not! and I passed on alone,O'er the newly-raised turf and the rudely-carved stone.
BY MARY E. BROOKS.
Farewell to thee,To thee, the young home of my heart, farewell!How often will thy form in memoryRenew the spell;Each burning tone,Far sweeter than the wild bird's melting note;Across my spirit like a dream by-gone,Their voices float.When rose the song,The life gush of the bosom, fresh and free,There breathed no sorrow as it swept alongThy halls of glee;Oh, when the gay,The merry hearted blend the tide again,Then fling to her, the loved one far away,One kindly strain.The skies are brightThat canopy thy bowers, my soul's young rest;And, like thy fairy visions, robed in light,The loveliest:The bird amongThy deep perfumes pours its rich melody;Oh, in the music of that matin songRemember me!Another now,Mother, above thy silvery locks must bend;And when the death-shade gathers on thy brow,Who then will tendThy fading light?Oh, in its gleam all feebly, tremblingly,The last gush of thy spirit in its flight,Remember me!Sister, one sighUpon the midnight's balmy breath did float;One love-lit smile beneath the summer sky,One echo note:Oh, never yet,Through love, life, music, feeling, fragrancy,Can I the mingling of those hours forget;Remember me!The chained spellIs strong, my own fair home, that bids us sever;And bound in loveliness to break, no, never!Then fare thee well:And perished here,As from the rosy leaf the dew that fell,I dash from love's young wreath the passing tear;My own bright home, farewell!
Farewell to thee,To thee, the young home of my heart, farewell!How often will thy form in memoryRenew the spell;Each burning tone,Far sweeter than the wild bird's melting note;Across my spirit like a dream by-gone,Their voices float.
When rose the song,The life gush of the bosom, fresh and free,There breathed no sorrow as it swept alongThy halls of glee;Oh, when the gay,The merry hearted blend the tide again,Then fling to her, the loved one far away,One kindly strain.
The skies are brightThat canopy thy bowers, my soul's young rest;And, like thy fairy visions, robed in light,The loveliest:The bird amongThy deep perfumes pours its rich melody;Oh, in the music of that matin songRemember me!
Another now,Mother, above thy silvery locks must bend;And when the death-shade gathers on thy brow,Who then will tendThy fading light?Oh, in its gleam all feebly, tremblingly,The last gush of thy spirit in its flight,Remember me!
Sister, one sighUpon the midnight's balmy breath did float;One love-lit smile beneath the summer sky,One echo note:Oh, never yet,Through love, life, music, feeling, fragrancy,Can I the mingling of those hours forget;Remember me!
The chained spellIs strong, my own fair home, that bids us sever;And bound in loveliness to break, no, never!Then fare thee well:And perished here,As from the rosy leaf the dew that fell,I dash from love's young wreath the passing tear;My own bright home, farewell!
BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.
[Written in her Fifteenth year, on seeing an ancient picture of the Virgin Mary.]
Roll back, thou tide of time, and tellOf book, of rosary, and bell;Of cloistered nun, with brow of gloom,Immured within her living tomb;Of monks, of saints, and vesper-song,Borne gently by the breeze along;Of deep-toned organ's pealing swell;Ofave maria, and funeral knell;Of midnight taper, dim and small,Just glimmering through the high-arched hall;Of gloomy cell, of penance lone,Which can for darkest deeds atone:Roll back, and lift the veil of night,For I would view the anchorite.Yes, there he sits, so sad, so pale,Shuddering at Superstition's tale;Crossing his breast with meagre hand,While saints and priests, a motley band,Arrayed before him, urge their claimTo heal in the Redeemer's name;To mount the saintly ladder, (madeBy every monk, of every grade,From portly abbot, fat and fair,To yon lean starveling, shivering there,)And mounting thus, to usher inThe soul, thus ransomed from its sin.And tell me, hapless bigot! why,For what, for whom did Jesus die,If pyramids of saints must riseTo form a passage to the skies?And think you man can wipe awayWith fast and penance, day by day,One single sin, too dark to fadeBefore a bleeding Saviour's shade?O ye of little faith, beware!For neither shrift, nor saint, nor prayer,Would ought avail ye without Him,Beside whom saints themselves grow dim.Roll back, thou tide of time, and raiseThe faded forms of other days!Yon time-worn picture, darkly grand,The work of some forgotten hand,Will teach thee half thy mazy way,While Fancy's watch-fires dimly play.Roll back, thou tide of time, and tellOf secret charm, of holy spell,Of Superstition's midnight rite,Of wild Devotion's seraph flight;Of Melancholy's tearful eye,Of the sad votaress' frequent sigh,That trembling from her bosom rose,Divided 'twixt her Saviour's woesAnd some warm image lingering there,Which, half-repulsed by midnight prayer,Still, like an outcast child, will creepWhere sweetly it was wont to sleep,And mingle its unhallowed sighWith cloister-prayer and rosary;Then tell the pale, deluded oneHer vows are breathed to God alone;Those vows, which tremulously rise,Love's last, love's sweetest sacrifice.
Roll back, thou tide of time, and tellOf book, of rosary, and bell;Of cloistered nun, with brow of gloom,Immured within her living tomb;Of monks, of saints, and vesper-song,Borne gently by the breeze along;Of deep-toned organ's pealing swell;Ofave maria, and funeral knell;Of midnight taper, dim and small,Just glimmering through the high-arched hall;Of gloomy cell, of penance lone,Which can for darkest deeds atone:Roll back, and lift the veil of night,For I would view the anchorite.Yes, there he sits, so sad, so pale,Shuddering at Superstition's tale;Crossing his breast with meagre hand,While saints and priests, a motley band,Arrayed before him, urge their claimTo heal in the Redeemer's name;To mount the saintly ladder, (madeBy every monk, of every grade,From portly abbot, fat and fair,To yon lean starveling, shivering there,)And mounting thus, to usher inThe soul, thus ransomed from its sin.And tell me, hapless bigot! why,For what, for whom did Jesus die,If pyramids of saints must riseTo form a passage to the skies?And think you man can wipe awayWith fast and penance, day by day,One single sin, too dark to fadeBefore a bleeding Saviour's shade?O ye of little faith, beware!For neither shrift, nor saint, nor prayer,Would ought avail ye without Him,Beside whom saints themselves grow dim.Roll back, thou tide of time, and raiseThe faded forms of other days!Yon time-worn picture, darkly grand,The work of some forgotten hand,Will teach thee half thy mazy way,While Fancy's watch-fires dimly play.Roll back, thou tide of time, and tellOf secret charm, of holy spell,Of Superstition's midnight rite,Of wild Devotion's seraph flight;Of Melancholy's tearful eye,Of the sad votaress' frequent sigh,That trembling from her bosom rose,Divided 'twixt her Saviour's woesAnd some warm image lingering there,Which, half-repulsed by midnight prayer,Still, like an outcast child, will creepWhere sweetly it was wont to sleep,And mingle its unhallowed sighWith cloister-prayer and rosary;Then tell the pale, deluded oneHer vows are breathed to God alone;Those vows, which tremulously rise,Love's last, love's sweetest sacrifice.
BY EMMA C. EMBURY.
When in the shadow of the tombThis heart shall rest,Oh! lay me where spring flowers bloomOn earth's bright breast.Oh! ne'er in vaulted chambers layMy lifeless form;Seek not of such mean, worthless preyTo cheat the worm.In this sweet city of the deadI fain would sleep,Where flowers may deck my narrow bed,And night dews weep.But raise not the sepulchral stoneTo mark the spot;Enough, if by thy heart alone'Tis ne'er forgot.
When in the shadow of the tombThis heart shall rest,Oh! lay me where spring flowers bloomOn earth's bright breast.
Oh! ne'er in vaulted chambers layMy lifeless form;Seek not of such mean, worthless preyTo cheat the worm.
In this sweet city of the deadI fain would sleep,Where flowers may deck my narrow bed,And night dews weep.
But raise not the sepulchral stoneTo mark the spot;Enough, if by thy heart alone'Tis ne'er forgot.
BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON
I'm thy guardian angel, sweet maid! and I restIn mine own chosen temple, thy innocent breast;At midnight I steal from my sacred retreat,When the chords of thy heart in soft unison beat.When thy bright eye is closed, when thy dark tresses flowIn beautiful wreaths o'er thy pillow of snow;O then I watch o'er thee, all pure as thou art,And listen to music which steals from thy heart.Thy smile is the sunshine which gladdens my soul,My tempest the clouds, which around thee may roll;I feast my light form on thy rapture-breathed sighs,And drink at the fount of those beautiful eyes.The thoughts of thy heart are recorded by me;There are some which, half-breathed, half-acknowledged by thee,Steal sweetly and silently o'er thy pure breast,Just ruffling its calmness, then murm'ring to rest.Like a breeze o'er the lake, when it breathlessly lies,With its own mimic mountains, and star-spangled skies;I stretch my light pinions around thee when sleeping,To guard thee from spirits of sorrow and weeping.I breathe o'er thy slumbers sweet dreams of delight,Till you wake but to sigh for the visions of night;Then remember, wherever your pathway may lie,Be it clouded with sorrow, or brilliant with joy;My spirit shall watch thee, wherever thou art,My incense shall rise from the throne of thy heart.Farewell! for the shadows of evening are fled,And the young rays of morning are wreathed round my head.
I'm thy guardian angel, sweet maid! and I restIn mine own chosen temple, thy innocent breast;At midnight I steal from my sacred retreat,When the chords of thy heart in soft unison beat.
When thy bright eye is closed, when thy dark tresses flowIn beautiful wreaths o'er thy pillow of snow;O then I watch o'er thee, all pure as thou art,And listen to music which steals from thy heart.
Thy smile is the sunshine which gladdens my soul,My tempest the clouds, which around thee may roll;I feast my light form on thy rapture-breathed sighs,And drink at the fount of those beautiful eyes.
The thoughts of thy heart are recorded by me;There are some which, half-breathed, half-acknowledged by thee,Steal sweetly and silently o'er thy pure breast,Just ruffling its calmness, then murm'ring to rest.
Like a breeze o'er the lake, when it breathlessly lies,With its own mimic mountains, and star-spangled skies;I stretch my light pinions around thee when sleeping,To guard thee from spirits of sorrow and weeping.
I breathe o'er thy slumbers sweet dreams of delight,Till you wake but to sigh for the visions of night;Then remember, wherever your pathway may lie,Be it clouded with sorrow, or brilliant with joy;
My spirit shall watch thee, wherever thou art,My incense shall rise from the throne of thy heart.Farewell! for the shadows of evening are fled,And the young rays of morning are wreathed round my head.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
Not in the shadowy wood,Not in the crag-hung glen,Not where the sleeping echoes broodIn caves untrod by men;Not by the sea-swept shoreWhere loitering surges break,Not on the mountain hoar,Not by the breezeless lake,Not in the desert plainWhere man hath never stood,Whether on isle or main—Not there is Solitude!There are birds in the woodland bowers,Voices in lonely dells,And streams that talk to the listening hoursIn earth's most secret cells.There is life on the foam-flecked sandBy ocean's curling lip,And life on the still lake's strand'Mid flowers that o'er it dip;There is life in the tossing pinesThat plume the mountain crest,And life in the courser's mane that shinesAs he scours the desert's breast.But go to the crowded mart,'Mid the sordid haunts of men,Go there and ask thy heart,What answer makes it then?Go where the wine-cup's gleaming,In hall or festal grot;Where love-lit eyes are beaming,But Love himself is not!—Go—if thou wouldst be lonely—Where the phantom Pleasure's wooed,And own that there—there only—'Mid crowds is Solitude.
Not in the shadowy wood,Not in the crag-hung glen,Not where the sleeping echoes broodIn caves untrod by men;Not by the sea-swept shoreWhere loitering surges break,Not on the mountain hoar,Not by the breezeless lake,Not in the desert plainWhere man hath never stood,Whether on isle or main—Not there is Solitude!
There are birds in the woodland bowers,Voices in lonely dells,And streams that talk to the listening hoursIn earth's most secret cells.There is life on the foam-flecked sandBy ocean's curling lip,And life on the still lake's strand'Mid flowers that o'er it dip;There is life in the tossing pinesThat plume the mountain crest,And life in the courser's mane that shinesAs he scours the desert's breast.
But go to the crowded mart,'Mid the sordid haunts of men,Go there and ask thy heart,What answer makes it then?Go where the wine-cup's gleaming,In hall or festal grot;Where love-lit eyes are beaming,But Love himself is not!—Go—if thou wouldst be lonely—Where the phantom Pleasure's wooed,And own that there—there only—'Mid crowds is Solitude.
BY J. G. BROOKS.
Where have the valiant sunk to rest,When their sands of life were numbered?On the downy couch? on the gentle breastWhere their youthful visions slumbered?When the mighty passed the gate of death,Did love stand by bewailing?No! but upon war's fiery breathTheir blood-dyed flag was sailing!Not on the silent feverish bed,With weeping friends around them,Were the parting prayers of the valiant said,When death's dark angel found them.But in the stern and stormy strife,In the flush of lofty feeling,They yielded to honour the boon of life,Where battle's bolts were pealing;When the hot war-steed, with crimsoned maneTrampled on breasts all stained and gory,Dashed his red hoof on the reeking plain,And shared in the rider's glory.Or seek the brave in their ocean grave,'Neath the dark and restless water;Seek them beneath the whelming wave,So oft deep dyed with slaughter.There sleep the gallant and the proud,The eagle-eyed and the lion-hearted;For whom the trump of fame rang loud,When the body and soul were parted.Or seek them on fields where the grass grows deep,Where the vulture and the raven hover;There the sons of battle in quiet sleep:And widowed love goes there to weep,That their bright career is over.
Where have the valiant sunk to rest,When their sands of life were numbered?On the downy couch? on the gentle breastWhere their youthful visions slumbered?
When the mighty passed the gate of death,Did love stand by bewailing?No! but upon war's fiery breathTheir blood-dyed flag was sailing!
Not on the silent feverish bed,With weeping friends around them,Were the parting prayers of the valiant said,When death's dark angel found them.
But in the stern and stormy strife,In the flush of lofty feeling,They yielded to honour the boon of life,Where battle's bolts were pealing;
When the hot war-steed, with crimsoned maneTrampled on breasts all stained and gory,Dashed his red hoof on the reeking plain,And shared in the rider's glory.
Or seek the brave in their ocean grave,'Neath the dark and restless water;Seek them beneath the whelming wave,So oft deep dyed with slaughter.
There sleep the gallant and the proud,The eagle-eyed and the lion-hearted;For whom the trump of fame rang loud,When the body and soul were parted.
Or seek them on fields where the grass grows deep,Where the vulture and the raven hover;There the sons of battle in quiet sleep:And widowed love goes there to weep,That their bright career is over.
BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.
I come in the breath of the wakened breeze,I kiss the flowers, and I bend the trees;And I shake the dew, which hath fallen by night,From its throne, on the lily's pure bosom of white.Awake thee, when bright from my couch in the sky,I beam o'er the mountains, and come from on high;When my gay purple banners are waving afar;When my herald, gray dawn, hath extinguished each star;When I smile on the woodlands, and bend o'er the lake,Then awake thee, O maiden, I bid thee awake!Thou may'st slumber when all the wide arches of HeavenGlitter bright with the beautiful fires of even;When the moon walks in glory, and looks from on high,O'er the clouds floating far through the clear azure sky,Drifting on like the beautiful vessels of Heaven,To their far away harbour, all silently driven,Bearing on, in their bosoms, the children of light,Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and night;When the lake lies in calmness and darkness, save whereThe bright ripple curls, 'neath the smile of a star;When all is in silence and solitude here,Then sleep, maiden, sleep! without sorrow or fear!But when I steal silently over the lake,Awake thee then, maiden, awake! Oh, awake!
I come in the breath of the wakened breeze,I kiss the flowers, and I bend the trees;And I shake the dew, which hath fallen by night,From its throne, on the lily's pure bosom of white.Awake thee, when bright from my couch in the sky,I beam o'er the mountains, and come from on high;When my gay purple banners are waving afar;When my herald, gray dawn, hath extinguished each star;When I smile on the woodlands, and bend o'er the lake,Then awake thee, O maiden, I bid thee awake!Thou may'st slumber when all the wide arches of HeavenGlitter bright with the beautiful fires of even;When the moon walks in glory, and looks from on high,O'er the clouds floating far through the clear azure sky,Drifting on like the beautiful vessels of Heaven,To their far away harbour, all silently driven,Bearing on, in their bosoms, the children of light,Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and night;When the lake lies in calmness and darkness, save whereThe bright ripple curls, 'neath the smile of a star;When all is in silence and solitude here,Then sleep, maiden, sleep! without sorrow or fear!But when I steal silently over the lake,Awake thee then, maiden, awake! Oh, awake!
BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.
Not in the bannered castleBeside the gilded throne,On fields where knightly ranks have strode,In feudal halls—aloneThe Spirit of the stately mien,Whose presence flings a spell,Fadeless on all around her,In empire loves to dwell.Gray piles and moss-grown cloisters,Call up the shadows vastThat linger in their dim domain,Dreams of the visioned past!As sweep the gorgeous pageants byWe watch the pictured train,And sigh that aught so gloriousShould be so brief and vain.But here a spell yet deeperBreathes from the woods and sky,Proudlier these rocks and waters speakOf hoar antiquity;Here Nature built her ancient realmWhile yet the world was young,Her monuments of grandeurUnshaken stand, and strong.Here shines the sun of FreedomFor ever o'er the deep,Where Freedom's heroes by the shoreIn peaceful glory sleep;And deeds of high and proud emprizeIn every breeze are told,The everlasting tributeTo hearts that now are cold.Farewell, then, scenes so lovely,If sunset gild your rest,Or the pale starlight gleam uponThe water's silvery breast—Or morning on these glad, green islesIn trembling splendour glows—A holier spell than beautyHallows your pure repose!
Not in the bannered castleBeside the gilded throne,On fields where knightly ranks have strode,In feudal halls—aloneThe Spirit of the stately mien,Whose presence flings a spell,Fadeless on all around her,In empire loves to dwell.
Gray piles and moss-grown cloisters,Call up the shadows vastThat linger in their dim domain,Dreams of the visioned past!As sweep the gorgeous pageants byWe watch the pictured train,And sigh that aught so gloriousShould be so brief and vain.
But here a spell yet deeperBreathes from the woods and sky,Proudlier these rocks and waters speakOf hoar antiquity;Here Nature built her ancient realmWhile yet the world was young,Her monuments of grandeurUnshaken stand, and strong.
Here shines the sun of FreedomFor ever o'er the deep,Where Freedom's heroes by the shoreIn peaceful glory sleep;And deeds of high and proud emprizeIn every breeze are told,The everlasting tributeTo hearts that now are cold.
Farewell, then, scenes so lovely,If sunset gild your rest,Or the pale starlight gleam uponThe water's silvery breast—Or morning on these glad, green islesIn trembling splendour glows—A holier spell than beautyHallows your pure repose!
BY W. H. L. BOGART.