Yes, Mary dear, let's quit the throng, And from the tumult flee, The birds these living bowers among, Shall sweetly sing for thee; And happy zephyr wave his wing, And streams make melody, And loveliest flowers gaily spring Thy matchless face to see.

Dear Mary, why, why should we stay, While Nature calls us forth? See! love and pleasure, smiling, stray, O'er all the gladsome earth! While all around is mirth and song, Let us be joyful, too, And, listening to the feathered throng, Our vows of love renew.



AN INCIDENT.

The sighs of summer night, were sweet without, As the breath of spirits, on the folded roses, The sweet moon, like a young and timid bride, Came softly trembling through the eastward oaks— Where I espied a Glorious Beauty standing, Glowing and bright, in a portico vine-wreathed. Shaken by wrestling Hope and Doubt within, I quickly slid unto her side; and she Wore no dark frown—but smiled—she smiled on me! Her white brows shone amid her darkest hair, Like that moon's beams amid the opening gloom: And her slight, delicate shape would shame the limbs Of fairies tripping on the moonlit green. And she did smile on me—that Glorious Beauty! And I stood there, and clasped her lily hands! And I did peer into her lustrous eyes! And they gave back my ardent gaze of love! She spake—the tremulous accents of her voice Was like a sweet stream breaking upon rocks; And when the music of those thrilling words, Rushed on my soul—I sank upon her bosom, And felt that we could part no more on earth.



THE LETTER.

Amid a flower-strown cottage room, The Lady sat at even, Beneath the peerless evening star, Just peeping out in heaven; And, in her hands, as lilies, white, She held a billet-doux, Which, round upon the tranquil air, A grateful fragrance threw.

And now she bends her beauteous head, To read the written lines— Her white hand starts—a crystal tear Upon the paper shines; Her startled bosom gently heaves, Like billows capped with snow, And quickly o'er her lovely face, Her blushes come and go.

Those glowing words have waked within Her soul, the flame of love, Which blends her woman nature with The natures of above:— A fire whose rays will change to light Her lover's darkest gloom, Till he beholds it beam again, On Heaven's undying bloom.



THE LOST PLEIAD.

No more with thy bright sisters of the sky, Who warble ever, Wilt thou send forth thy choral melody, Sad maid! for ever.

No more the bright, innumerable train, Who move in Heaven, Will know thy face upon the etherial plain, At rosy even.

The night will mourn thine absence ever more, With dewy tears, And, the bright day, will, dimmer now, deplore, The darkened years.

Our wandering eyes will search for thee in vain, And we shall sigh That thy high beauty could not conquer pain, The doom to die.

Earth scarce had mourned some lesser beauty—thou, Celestial maid! Mid all didst wear a so unearthly brow, And thou—decayed!

The beauteous thought of thee which, ray-like, slept, In our pure love, Became a memory which we have kept To grieve above.

Gone, like the withered pride of early Spring— Like sweet songs, o'er— Ah! thou hast turned from us thine angel wing, To come no more.

Struck from thy high and glittering sapphire throne, In upper light, Say, did thy loveliness go, hopeless, down, To nether night?

Or, throned beyond the gloomy fate to fall, Bright maid divine! Sublime amid the Eternal's flaming Hall, Dost thou e'er shine?



THE SLEEPER.

The sleeper lies, with closed eyes, And softly moving breath, So soft, so still, her life's sweet thrill, 'Tis only more than death.

Her dark, dark hair, reposing there, Upon her pillow's snow, And sweeping down her cheek's faint brown, And bosom's spotless glow.

She wakes at last, her sleep has past, Her eyes on me are thrown; My sleeping love—my heavenly dove— Has been in realms unknown.



DWELLING IN HEAVEN.

They do not—nay, they cannot die; They go to dwell in Heaven; Where God a free and full supply Of purest joys hath given.

They do not—nay, they cannot die: Because we see them not Do objects cease—oh! brothers! why This lesson now forgot?

They die not—nay, they cannot die: In joy's serene, calm air, Their cheek yet wears its roseate dye Their smiles are yet as fair.

Their tones yet breathe as sweet a strain, Their hearts are still as true, And still their wonted love retain, My friend, for me and you.

Oh no! they do not, cannot die, They live far up in Heaven, Beyond where flame yon portals high, At still and silent even.

They dwell—they dwell eternally, Where roll no winds—no storm, And, if we seek them, we shall see, Each bright and happy form.



THE FACE I SEE IN DREAMS.

Strangely sweet, and softly clear, With pure and starry beams, Reposing there, and moving here; The face I see in dreams.

Oh! lovely is that wild, sweet face, Which thus and ever gleams, And smiles, with a seraphic grace, Upon my heart's deep streams.

Oft at pale midnight's holy calm, Beside imagined streams, I recognize the soothing balm, The face I see in dreams.

And, even at noon's wideseeing glare, When earth, with clamor teems, That face appears, as strangely fair, That face I see in dreams.

The sum of universal charms, The sun of beauty-beams, Appear to deck that form of forms, And face I see in dreams.



TO ELOQUENCE.

Ah Eloquence! thou God-like power; That swayest the human heart, We still must call thee, rarest dower, In the high gift of Art; And still thou shalt be styled a queen, To brighten earth's grief-shaded green.

When thou dost falter sorrow's tale, With trembling accents low, The plaintive breezes of the vale, With mingled pathos, flow; The melting eye is bathed in tears, And grief, in every face, appears.

When thou dost stand in mortal's view, And breathe thy thoughts of flame, The conscious soul, conceives them, too, And breathes and burns the same;— And when, in fancy, thou dost soar, 'Tis like Niag'ra's thundering roar.

When thou dost tell of living joys Far up in heaven above, The rapturous music of thy voice, Is like the Voice of Love— The entranced spirit flits away To bathe in seas of whitest day.



NEAR YONDER BANKS AT EVEN.

Near yonder banks at even, We whispered words most dear, Till love's sweet star in Heaven, Was shining, bright and clear.

We saw the river glancing Beneath the planet's light, Its ripples seemed, while dancing, To mock the gloom of night.

But soon the star in Heaven, By rising mists was hid, And, by us, dark and even, The river's current slid.

So shone our love's sweet river Beneath Hope's radiant star; But soon, in darkness, ever, It swept, in silence, far.



AN HYMN.

To him whose soul is locked and bolted fast, By lust and guilt against the entrance there, Of heavenly light; whose soul is over-cast By mists of sin and fogs of black despair;

The meaning of these worlds, not understood, Becomes a dark and cabalistic book; He not perceives that He who made, is good, And that, His love was writ in every nook.

Dark, dark his every view of actual things, The diamond shines with faint, unmeaning ray; What use or beauty hath the bird's gay wings? What glory, worlds that sweep through space away?

His ear is barred against the glorious song, Which Nature chants, ne'er wearying, to her God; The planetary paeans, borne along Through God's high vault, descend upon a clod.

Oh fool of fools, and wretched man is he, Who breathes his life in this untutored state; And, in that world to come, how dread will be His startled soul's at last awakened fate.

But, unto him, whose scales have fallen away, Whose deafness has been healed by Love Divine; A flood of music gushes in foraye, And all God's works, with deathless lustre, shine.

The diamond hath a beam that, conquering, vies; The bird's gay wings assume yet gayer hues; Brighter become the rainbow's gorgeous dyes, Purer the evening and the morning dews.

Sweeter the choral song of groves and founts, Grander the anthem of the starry spheres; From God's vast universe, forever, mounts A strain that charms his own and seraphs' ears.

Undaunted, he surveys the ocean rage, With placid face, he feels the earthquake's shock, He knows his Lord the fury will assuage, His soul is safe, though earth's foundations rock.

The Omnipotent yet liveth! He will bear The humble soul, on His parental breast; And, when the last great throe the sky shall tear, This soul upon His arm shall surely rest.



TO P.S. WHITE.

What is the gilded chaplet worth, That decks a conqueror's brow? There is no conqueror on earth Of nobler kind, than thou, For bloodless victories are thine, Whose splendor never shall decline.

The thanks of men redeemed from shame, The smiles of womanhood, The praise of great ones wed to fame, And of the humble good, A victor's monument, shall be, Through coming ages, unto thee.



MONTPELIER, ORANGE COUNTY, VA.

Where'er the great have lived or died, A charm pervades the very air; And generous spirits, pausing, oft Will pour the heart's deep homage there.

Thus, thou, sequestered, simple spot! Where dwelt a mighty one of yore, Becomest a shrine, where pilgrims kneel, From earth's remotest, every shore.

Whose fame, where'er a patriot breathes A thought of freedom, has been heard; And fallen on tyrant's startled souls, Like coming fate's prophetic word.

Yet, shame upon this senseless age, Which blindly worships guilty gold, No votive marble shows the tomb, Whose vault received his ashes cold.

Alas! that this should be our shame! For which even yet our eyes shall weep; Nought points the world's admiring eye, To where its friend's sad relics sleep.



THE HEAVENLY FLOWER.

Now the final stroke is over! And the heart hath ceased its beat; And that form so palely beauteous, In a ghastly winding sheet. She has pass'd the gloomy portal, She has reached the realm of light;— And there is a heavy silence, While we sit and muse to-night.

She was a flower, fading quickly, From before our wistful eyes, Giving back her spirit fragrance, Early to the eager skies. But she parted all so lovely, Growing brighter day by day, That our souls could scarce regret her, Passing, like a dream, away.

Now that frail and beauteous flower, Which scarce opened here below, Scattering round a heavenly sweetness, On the hearts which bled with woe; By a death which maketh living, Changed into a lovelier flower, Gives a fragrance far more lovely, Round about a deathless bower.

Oh! weep not for this, fond parents! Though your earthly eyes be dim— Yet—she blooms in fadeless beauty, Where the Seraphs chant their hymn; Where a heaven, serenely glorious, Bends above a paradise, Clad in tints of gayer splendor, Than our dream-land's gorgeous dyes.

Yes! she blooms in deathless beauty, In that brighter world than ours; Where the happy saints and angels, Gleam her glorious sister flowers; Where no frost, no killing tempest, E'er shall fall, or fiercely blow, But mild zephyrs, waked on roses, Round her softly come and go.

There she yet is pure and lovely As she was with us below— And our hearts should cease to mourn her, When her God hath bade us know— That, within that peaceful heaven, She is happier than before, And that we should strive to meet her, When, like hers, our toil is o'er.



LILLY MAY.

The fairest of our village maids, Was blue-eyed Lilly May; Her brow was decked with golden curls, Her laugh was wild and gay: And spotless as a ray of heaven, Young love within her lay.

The rose which decked the fairy vale, Near by our rural town, Showed not a deeper tint of blood, Than dyed her cheeks of down, And innocence like that of heaven, Her fair, young head did crown.

Oh Lilly May! Oh! Lilly May! My heart was all thine own, Earth ne'er gave me a sweeter sound, Than thy low, loving tone; For we each other's first loves were, And each heard each alone!

Oh Lilly May! I curse the day That tempted me to part! And ever haunting, strange regret To my sad soul thou art; I fear that I have deeply sinned, And broken thy true heart.



TO ELEANOR.

When Hesper shows his rosiate lamp of love, High in yon lofty arch of dewy blue; When gentle dews distilling from above, Sparkle upon the spreading grass and groves of yew— When sinks to rest the faintly murmuring breeze, And dim and indistinct the landscape view— Lonely I stray among the poplar trees And muse, dear Eleanor, dear love, on you.

When Luna looks upon yon mountains brown, And gilds the winding stream with silvery hue, And Silence, like a fall of whitest down, Falls where the sylphs their elfin dance renew In lonely glens and cliffs of ivy green; And human forms lie bathed in sleep's soft dew— Silent I stray along the fairy scene, And muse, dear Eleanor, dear love, on you.

When golden streaks along the East appear, Spreading and flashing o'er that sea of blue; And springs at length with aspect bright and clear, Great Sol upon the glittering world of dew— The wakened Hours commence their wonted race, And Nature strikes her living harp anew— Smiling I scan Creation's glorious face, And muse, dear Eleanor, dear love, on you.



THE VOW OF LOVE.

'Twas evening's hour of magic power, The sun went brightly down, And shadows fell as with a spell, Along the mountains brown.

On high the sky, with gorgeous dye, Then glittered bright and wide, And westward far, the evening star, Came trembling like a bride.

The birds did chime their drowsy rhyme, As day was getting o'er, The rippling wave, did sweetly lave The winding, pebbly shore.

There walked beside that crystal tide, Fair Holston's lovely stream, My lady bright, at soft twilight, In beauty's matchless gleam.

And I did walk and softly talk Unto her beauty there, And deemed that she more fair must be, Than Goddess, wrought of air.

Her hand in mine—"Oh! be thou mine, Nor scorn my pleading sigh." "Yes"—still I cried, "be thou my bride, My own, until we die!"

Now as that tide doth onward glide To reach the glittering sea, With sparkling glow, our souls will flow, To bright eternity.



DISAPPOINTMENT.

Last eve ere sleep had closed mine eyes, To me there came a dream, That when the saffron morn should rise O'er lovely hill and stream; I should behold a vision move By yonder crystal spring— A vision of an earthly dove, With pure and blessed wing.

I thought the days of old romance, Would now return to earth; And, in that soft and placid trance, So sweet—yet not like mirth— I saw the Dryads gently gliding Through shadowy groves of myrtle— And Nereides their glances hiding, And Venus with her turtle.

Alas! our brightest dreams deceive! The morning rises, bright and sweet, And every thing in nature waits Thy fairy face and form to greet; But they, alas! will wait in vain, As I, with aching heart, Whilst wrapt in other joy or pain, In other scenes, thou art.

Thus ever from our path below, Some vision lovelier far, Than Eden's bird, or glittering gem, Or beam of Beauty's star— Glides swiftly by—and we are left To mourn the fleeting bliss, That mocks us, as we sadly thread, So dark a scene as this.



THE DREAM OF LOVE.

I dreamed last night, my lady-love, A dear, delicious dream; 'Twas not in bower or blooming grove, Nor by the sylvan stream.

'Twas in thy father's noble hall, In dreams I saw thee, lady love! Yet 'twas no gorgeous festival, No flowers beneath—no lights above.

It was a sacred, simple scene, Thy smiling sisters gathered round, With kindly air, and gentle mien, And spoke—a magic, home-born sound!

Then thou and I, sweet lady-love! Roved out amid the garden green, Whilst Day and Night together strove, Along the soft, romantic scene.

And then I praised the charming view— The lofty peaks and rosiate skies— The vallies, in their vernal hue— The sky's still brightening, crimson dyes.

And oh! I saw thy angel smile, It smiled its lovelight all on me! My heart was heaving high the while, And still my eyes saw nought but thee.

I took thy trembling hand in mine, Then clasped thee to my happy breast, And then those honeylips of thine My forehead with their kisses blest.

Last night I dreamed, sweet lady-love! This dear, delicious dream; Oh! could I waking pleasures prove So sweet as those that seem.



SABBATH.

The Sabbath morn! How beautiful, How peaceful and how blest; An Angel's whisper seems to lull The weary world to rest.

Hark! how the churchbell's music steals From yonder sacred fane; Then echoes, like a heavenly sound, O'er neighboring hill and plain.

And see! along each different way, To yonder temple fair, With soft, slow step, and solemn mien, The village folk repair.

And now, great Nature sends on high Her orison of prayer, And wears upon her sacred face A smile divinely fair.



THE THUNDER STORM.

'Twas a cloudless night in August, and the earth all silent lay, With hills, and glittering rivers and mountains far away, And angels then seemed bending through the whiteness of the beams, Whispering to weary mortals soft and sorrow-soothing dreams. Oh! surely, eye of mortal never gazed on fairer scene, Than there lay sweetly dreaming in that loveliness and sheen:— But what is darkening yonder? and hark! that distant sound, That comes like ghostly mutters faintly o'er the echoing ground. And now that lightning flashes, like sulphureous light of Hell, And now the winds come rushing o'er the far off wood and fell. That cloud grows quickly larger, and the lightning flashing more— Hark! Earth and Heaven are rocking in a consentaneous roar! And heavily the deluge floods the hills, the vales, the streams, And beasts howl out for terror and men start up from dreams. Oh! 'tis a dreadful scene to-night, the dreadest e'er we saw, The hardest heart that beateth now, in watery fear will thaw. But lo! 'twas but a moment, like a wayward Beauty's wrath, And the moon resumes in heaven, see! her all serener path— And the clouds receding slowly rest upon the horizon round, And the katydids and waters make the only living sound. 'Tis yet a night of loveliness, and fondly we may deem, That Heaven and Earth are resting in the beauty of a Dream.



THE LIFE-LAND.

Oh yes, there's a land, far away, out of sight, Where the fairest of flowers forever bloom bright— Where the groves never wither—the buds never die— And bright rivers of crystal forever roll by. 'Tis the clime of the Christian—the home of the blest— Where the wretched are happy—the weary at rest. 'Neath its bowers in bloom, by its waters so still, The righteous shall walk, free from anguish and ill;— And they never shall pass from its portals again, For their pleasures forever and aye shall remain.



TO MISS ——.

The flowers you gave, dear girl, will fade, Nor shun the common lot, to die; The thoughts they spoke, still undecayed, Shall bloom immortal as the sky.

Beneath the sun's meridian ray, They'll fade and leave no trace behind: The love they woke shall ne'er decay, But be immortal like the Mind.



THE WIFE TO THE ABSENT HUSBAND.

Come back to me, my absent friend! Since thou wast far away, The vernal flowers have lost some charms, Less bright the vernal day. The wild, sweet voices of the fields; Of birds amid the sky; Of streams that wander through the wood, With dreamy melody; Sound not so sweet—and shine less bright, Unto my pensive soul, Since thou wentest forth, O dearest friend, To brook the world's control.

Come back to me! come back to me! Let not the dream of fame, Too long allure thy lingering feet To worship at a name.

Yet, I would have thee nobly strive To win that glorious meed, But still, of Woman's saving love, Hast thou not urgent need?

Come back to me! come back to me! Thou never yet hast known, How lone and desolate I feel When left, by thee, alone.

The dove without her loving mate, Repeats a song like mine— Thus seems, o'er sad, neglected love, To murmur and repine.

Come back to me—oh! quickly come! The joy that I shall know Will more than pay for all this depth Of dark and bitter woe,

Which thou hast doomed my heart to feel Through many a weary day; And I will then forgive thy fault, In lingering thus away.



OH, BLUE-EYED MAID, I SIGH FOR THEE.

Oh! blue-eyed maid, I sigh for thee, A gentle twilight's close, When music dies upon the lea, And dew drops wet the rose. I look on tranquil nature round, And list to music's fall, And think but half their charms are found, Since thou art far from all.

Oh, blue-eyed maid! the gorgeous beams That light a monarch's hall, The glittering wealth of golden streams, To me were darkness all; Unless thy light of loveliness, Adorned the regal scene, And thou bedecked in royal dress, Shouldst reign my loving Queen.



TO MARY.

Oh, Mary, when afar from thee, And mountains rise between, And I am wandering pensively Through many a varied scene;

It soothes to bid my fancy stray, On freest wings, to thee, And cherish all the memories So very dear to me.

I view again thy face, thy form, Thy look, thy ready smile, I hear again those magic words, That all my soul beguile.

I sit beside thy chair, and gaze, Upon thy willing face, And there behold the speaking glow Of that mysterious grace,

Which binds my constant soul to thee, And makes, through all life's years, All that can make thy heart rejoice, Or bathe thy cheek with tears,

Awake in me the thrill of joy, Or bow my soul in grief; And makes me strive to make thee blest, Or yield thy pangs relief.

Yes, Mary, I will love but thee, Of all thy lovely race; Our hearts shall find in life one home, In death one resting place.

And, if I linger now afar, 'Tis fortune's hard decree— Oh! were the dove's swift pinions mine, How would I fly to thee.

Those charms, with memory's feeble light On me would cease to beam; Their rays, with present, perfect warmth, Upon my heart would gleam.

Thus, by thy side, so sweetly near, How blest to pass my life; To press thy gentle hand in mine, And call thee my sweet wife.

If Adam lost his happiness, Bewailed with ceaseless sighs, With thee, my Eve, I scarce could wish Another Paradise.



THOUGH THOU WAST PASSING FAIR.

Though thou wast passing fair, And wondrous beauty crown'd thee, And Fancy's robe most rare, Forever brightly bound thee:

I could not teach my heart, To bow in love before thee, Nor bid the death depart, Which now hangs darkly o'er thee.

I know a hectic flush On thy sweet cheek is burning, That thou dost stilly hush Thy wrung heart's deepest yearning.

I know that in thy breast, A serpent closely lurking, Forbids thee e'er to rest, Thy utter ruin working.

When, in the chilly ground, Thy lovely form lies sleeping, Where vi'lets spring around, And purest dews are weeping:

Thy sinless soul ascending Above this dreary sod, Shall feel its being blending In deathless love with God.



THE LADY'S SOLILOQUY.

Ah! now I am beloved by him, And sweet it is, to think, That life no more will be so dim, To make my spirit sink.

Ah! now I am beloved by him; The secret I will keep; In silence to the mantling brim, I'll quaff this cup so deep.

Beloved by him! beloved by him! How dear the tender thought! My eyes in happy tears do swim, My heart with bliss is fraught.

Beloved by him—that noble youth! With proud yet gentle mien, Who speaks the guileless words of truth, And yet is not so "green."

Beloved by him—ah! I shall own A husband very soon; And he shall kneel before my throne, With many a costly boon,

The plate, the gold, the proud array Of horses, charioteers;— And when comes round the paying day, I'll kiss him in arrears!



LOVE WITHOUT HOPE.

I cannot cease to love thee, Coldest fair! Though pleading cannot move thee, And I despair.

Thy beauty was diviner, Than the summer moon, And thou didst outshine her, At her noon.

Thy brow was like the silver On the star-lit sea; Thy bright eyes did bewilder All, as me.

Thy motions were the motions Of a charmed bird, As, poised o'er dream-world oceans, His sweet voice is heard.

Thou wast queenlier far Than the queenliest flower, More glorious than a star In a fairy bower.

But it can not move thee, My mad prayer! Though I must ever love thee, Coldest fair!



TO MARY.

Dear Mary, if my heart has hushed awhile, Its loving voice within my breast—yet there, Thine image was enshrined the dearest thing, Which now remains to me in this sad world. Thou bad'st me sing a song of thee, and said'st, That I should make thee to my dreamy thought, Whoe'er I would, and I will make thee be, A fair and gentle friend—a lovely one— Ah yes, the nearest, tenderest of all friends. Sweet Mary, dost thou read my thought? Who will be all in all to me on earth, Sheathing my soul against the edge of pain, Even till I seem to dwell in paradise, With thee my Eve, and we may need no fall. See, fairy spring hath walked upon the hills, Where her foot-prints are green and flowers appear; The turtle coos within our pleasant land. Oh! now I throb to be by thy sweet side, To sun me in the sweet spring of that smile Which warms the beauties of my mind to birth. Thus, Mary, when afar from thee, amid The unloving and unloved I muse of thee, And sing and love thee still, and cannot wish The thought of thee a moment from my soul. Thou art the friend whom I would ever have Dwell by my soul in absence and when nigh. Thou art the friend whom I would have be still, The loved and guardian angel of my path, Amid the mazes of a treacherous world. Thou art the friend, with whom in smiling peace I fain would walk, to the not dreadful tomb. And now, adieu, sweet Mary! I must cease My strain; but, as a wind-strain sleeps Upon a bed of roses; so the echo Of this my strain, will find its rest with thee.



WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

As stainless thought my hand should write, Upon this page of spotless white; Nor would I that thy falling tear Should blot the wish recorded here.

Oh, like the rose which opens here, The earliest of the vernal year, May Mary's bloom enchant the day, And bless the Minstrel's votive lay.

But when the envious, Boreal wind, Shall leave his Northern cave behind, And seek to sieze thy beauteous bloom To deck his dark and dreary tomb:

May some kind angel swiftly fly, And leave the region of the sky, Transplant thee to a clime where ne'er Sad winter mars the blooming year.



THE DEAD EAGLE.

No more through the regions of glorious day, Shall thy wings waft thee proudly—oh proudly away— No more shall thy scream thrill the spirit that heard, And saw thee, high mounting, O proud, mighty bird: For thy form lies with beasts on the filth of the plain, And it never shall soar from its slumber again.

How strong was thy wing, and how fierce was thine eye— Which vanquished the storm—and the sun throned on high— How far was thy flight mid thy path through the blue, As thou sankest away from our wandering view;— But thy form rottens now with the beasts of the plain, And it never shall soar from its slumber again.

We will mourn, we will mourn for thee, proud bird of heaven, Whose loftiest walks to thy footsteps were given; For thy form rots with beasts on the reed-sighing plain, And it never shall soar from that slumber again.



LAMENT.

My soul is sad—oh! dark to-night, 'Tis wrapt in midnight's gloom; Wild minstrel! seize thy harp and sing, As o'er the victor tomb.

For thoughts, more beautiful than dreams, Within my soul have died, As fade away the glorious tints From heaven, at even-tide.

Wild minstrel! seize thy harp, I pray, And let a dirge arise In frantic woe—then faintly die Amid the nightwind's sighs.

The saddest—deepest—wildest strain Should wail such visions o'er; Within the mournful Past entombed, To be awaked no more.



OH, LOVE! THE DEW LIES ON THE FLOWER.

Oh, love! the dew lies on the flower, And the stars gleam on the sea; It is the charm'd, the silent hour, When I should roam with thee. The day dies out within the West, The shadows gather near; And now sweet fancies fill my breast, And thou art strangely dear.

Behold! as yonder heavenly moon, Breaks through the dark-blue sky, And through night's deepest, stillest noon, That brightness will supply— Thy smile thus sheds its heavenly light Athwart life's deepest gloom,— Thus brightly gilds the spirit's night Its gentle beams illume.



RED ROSE.

Sweet rose! ere Ellen gathered thee From off thy parent stem, With hope to rival her sweet cheek, Thou wast a floral gem. But when I think her snow-white hands, Did pluck thee, rose! for me, The brightest gems of earth or sky, Are naught compared with thee. How fondly even for hours I gaze Upon thy charms so rare, Thy tint of richest, purest red, Thy fragrant petals fair. Sweet rose! my Ellen's pledge of love, Thou fairest thing of earth, Save darling Ellen's angel self,— Words cannot speak thy worth. To token faintly to her soul, How prized by me thou art, My trembling hand has placed thee here Beside my throbbing heart.



ELLEN.

Ellen, my heart is not yet thine, And still I can but sigh, Whene'er I view thy semblance shine In Memory's mirror nigh.

Thy brow so soft—thy cheek so fair— Thy looks so sweetly mild— Thy angel air—thy angel smile, My spirit have beguiled.

Ellen, my heart is not yet thine, But oft my fancy dreams— When evening's peaceful shades decline Along our mountain streams.

Yes! oft my tranced fancy sees, Mid evening's deepening shade, Thy airy form—and, in the breeze, Thy voice I hear, sweet maid!

Oh! Ellen! may yon heavens smile, On thee, their beauteous birth, And with the loveliest joys beguile Thy path amid the earth.



THE SABBATH WORSHIPPER.

'Twas Sabbath morn. A holy light Hung o'er the hill and wood, O'er wooded stream, and lofty height, And mighty solitude. All Nature lay in bright repose, And from her silent lips arose, In mystic accents through the air, The voice of worship, praise, and prayer.

I gazed into the bright, blue sky, Then bent my eyes to view, The earth which lay so sweetly by In robes of summer hue; I dreamed that blessed ones might deign, To leave their radiant seats again, Nor weep to yield their home in heaven, For the bright ones that Earth had given.

On morn, so holy, pure, and bright— I looked on one most fair, Whose braided hair was dark as night, And wrought with maiden care— Forth issue from her father's door, Walking with sweet mien evermore, As if blest spirits led her there, And she beheld their forms in air.

Hark! how it thrills the holy air— The choir's high song of praise, Which many voices mingling there In sweetest concert, raise, And oh! how warmly, fervently Those words of prayer ascend the sky, And joined with that loud strain of praise Blend with the song that Seraphs raise.

And sits that lovely lady there, Uniting in the strain? And does she bend her form so fair, When silence comes again? Yes! she was there, and lovelier there, Than she this hour could be elsewhere; Though few beneath yon heavenly sky Might with her erring beauty vie.



TO ——.

As some gay flow'ret brightly rears, Its head beside the pilgrim's way, And charms away his flowing tears, And glads him, with its blessed ray— Sweet Mary—"Angel without wing," Heaven gave thee man's rough path to cheer— To bid the mourner smile and sing, "At last, Earth is not wholly drear."



WHERE IS OUR BROTHER?

Where is our brother? I have come From wandering far and long, And oh! I miss one well-known face, Gone from our little throng.

Where is our brother? Where is he, Ye late saw smiling here, I look in vain his face to see To catch his tones so clear.

Where is my brother? Can it be, That we shall never more Behold his form upon the earth, As oft, so oft, before.

Ah! till we meet before the bar At Time's last, awful day, We shall not see his face again, Although we mourn alway.

In youth cut down, he lies so still, That all the strength of grief, Cannot restore his form to us, One moment though so brief.

Through Life's long day, we'll think on him, And mourn his early flight, And Earth, to us, hath lost a star, Gone down in endless night.

To us, gone down in endless night,— Beyond the sun afar, He beams beside his Savior-God, A bright immortal star.



STAR OF REST.

Star of Rest! thy silvery lustre, Brightly streams from heaven above, Ere each sweet and glittering cluster Ope on earth their eyes of love.

Star of Rest! how gently closeth Every bud beneath thy brow, And the wearied frame reposeth From its daily labor now.

Star of Rest! thy streaming splendor, Lends the proud and queenly moon, Till a glorious host attend her Through her deep and silent noon.

Star of Rest! we bless thy beaming, From that vault so calm and blue, For thou bringest sweetest dreaming, And thou fillest the heart with dew.

Love of Heaven—oh! brightly shining, Gleam above our dying bed, When the Day of life declining, Tells us that its toil has sped.



MELANCHOLY.

There comes a time for flowers to fade, and light to die in gloom, There is a time for mortal bliss to know a certain doom. Sometimes I feel that I have reached that hour, and I have felt, When pondering o'er the dreary change, my spirit in me melt. The joyful trust, the bounding hopes, that laughed at scorned defeat, The feeling, like pure rock-born streams, as strong, as deep, and sweet; The soul that thrilled with transport wild, at Beauty's magic name; Ah! all have strangely altered now,—I am no more the same. And now I feel alone and sad amid an ocean wide, I care not much to what strange coast my single plank may ride, I am alone—what matters it where my bowed frame may be, Since now my heart is never more by land or rolling sea. I feel that as yon Night now throws its mantle o'er the earth, Till ghostly shapes and ghostly sounds, go dimly walking forth— That soon the night of Death may throw its mantle over me, And unfamiliar things shall rise from dark eternity. Yet, would I hope, when such shall come, to dwell not with pain, But walk, with a triumphant song, o'er heaven's unshadowed plain— Where Youth and Hope, and Love and Joy, (the angels,) ever smile, And evermore the aching heart from woe and grief beguile.



FOR MARY.

Oh! may the brightest smiles of heaven That beam on men below, Still shine upon sweet Mary's path, Wherever she may go.

May Angels, like herself! still guard Her steps from every ill, Until she walks in robes of white, O'er God's high, happy hill.

And, when, in that celestial clime, She beams a spirit bright— How sweet to think she'll love me then Where nought our love can blight.



LINES.

Oft have I heard thine accents steal, Like music on the air, Then quickly turned to see thy form, Sweet Mary! standing there.

But thou did'st ever glide away, Nor heed my pleading prayer— But now, alas! thou'rt but a Thought, A phantom like the air.



THE FLOWERS.

The flowers! the flowers! I love ye, flowers; Ye have a mystic voice To speak unto my inmost soul And make my heart rejoice.

Your charms illume the splendid halls Where wealthy princes move, And light the humble peasant's cot, Like gleams of heavenly love.

Oh flowers, bright flowers! I feel within My inmost heart, your power; And know I see the light of Heaven, Within a blooming flower.

Had I a lovely home amid Some valley green and fair— The flowers—sweet flowers—should ever gleam, In star-like beauty there.



THE ENCHANTED REALM OF JOY.

Oh! I am sick of the ennui that comes of the earth, All tasteless its landscapes—and charmless its mirth. Away, swift away, on a pinion, as sprite, I will speed to a kingdom not day and not night: Where a spell of enchantment as soft as a dream, Moves over the mountain, the valley, and stream; And the bird and the rill with a sleep-bringing rhyme, Soothe the gliding away of the current of time. Away, swift away to this dream-world of bliss— From a place all so tiresome and tasteless as this. And would I might ever abandon its beams That radiate but feebly, to dwell by the streams That gleam from the mountains of green fairyland, And, at last, in bright morn of Heaven expand.



TO MISS M.T.R.

Whate'er may be my unknown fate Upon this dark, terrestrial sphere, Wilt smile to hear that I am blest, And o'er my anguish shed thy tear?

Methinks it were a happy lot, That thou would'st grieve or smile with me; And though all others prove most false, I ne'er should find untruth in thee.

Yes! thou wouldst seem some heavenly one If such thy friendship followed me, Nor would I cease, through every change, To crave of Heaven its love for thee.



BENEATH THOSE STARS OF SUMMER.

RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO MISS ——.

Beneath those stars of summer, I told thee my wild love; And I beheld thy blushes, And saw thy bosom move. It was a holy moment, And bliss o'erflowed my heart; For thou did'st say that never I should from thee depart. I thought how very happy Our future life would be, That life's worst pain and suffering Were sweet, if shared with thee. Thou said'st thy deepest pleasure, Thy highest pride would be, Through all of life to gladden, To soothe and comfort me. And now when years have glided, As silver waves depart, I feel that thou did'st utter The truth from out thy heart: For thou hast never pained me, Through all these happy years, But still hast fondly loved me, And charmed me even to tears. Thou hast been such a blessing, Thy virtues so much worth; 'Twere not profane to call thee An angel upon earth. And if those souls most loving, Upon this spot of care, Shall feel most bliss in heaven, Thou'lt be a bright one there.



TO FANNIE.

My Fannie dear! when absence rends My faithful heart from thee, What gloomy thoughts oppress my mind, There is no joy for me.

By day, woe wastes my sinking soul, By night I wake and sigh; And still the grief that kills me quite, Is, Fannie is not nigh.

Oh! may that God whose name is Love Her form to me restore; That I may never, never part From darling Fannie more.



A STROLL DOWN QUALITY ROW.

The other day I took a stroll, Just when the sun grew low, A down the Row of Quality, That gay and charming row.

I had been dreaming all the day Of bright, poetic forms Moving through silent fairyland, Bedecked with glorious charms.

As down the row, I slowly walked, First came proud Majesty; Love shone in all her queenly looks, Command was in her eye.

Then gentle Grace came smiling next, Without the aid of art, And, with a soft and pleasing bliss, She past into my heart.

Then Beauty came supreme o'er all, A Heaven-anointed queen; But modest Goodness walked behind, With mild yet winning mien.

Then I returned to dream and sing Through many a pleasant hour, Of all that evening's loveliness, And beauty's matchless power.



THERE IS A GOD.

The azure vault so far above, Arrayed in smiles of peace and love, Would sweetly seem the truth to prove— "There is a God."

The blooming earth so glad below— The fragrant flowers—the streams that flow— The tuneful birds—would bid us know, "There is a God."

Yon soaring sun on wings of fire, Proclaims his great, celestial Sire— 'Tis chanted by the starry choir, "There is a God."

We know it, too, at nights' fair noon, When lo! the pale and placid Moon, Illumes the balmy night of June, "There is a God."

The smiling Spring, and Autumn brown, Hoarse-raging Winter's angry frown, And Summer fair, unceasing own, "There is a God."

The mountains high, and dark, and vast— The thunder's roar—the howling blast— The lightnings springing thick and fast, Amid the gloom,

That wraps the Earth, and Sea, and Sky— The Storm-fiend's wild, terrific cry— The Earth-quake's shock—proclaim on high, "An awful God!"

But oh! that awful God above, Is yet a gracious God of love— A bleeding Lamb—a wounded Dove— The sinner's God.

Poor sinner! love His holy name, And when this world shall pass in flame A heavenly mansion thou mayst claim, To dwell with God.



TO THE BELOVED.

I dream of thee, beloved one, When the moon comes o'er the sea, And hangs her horns of silver, In yonder forest tree! I wake from out my slumber, I think I hear thy voice, It thrills my list'ning spirit, It makes my soul rejoice.

Oh love! thy fair, bright image, Is hov'ring near to mine, Oh love! I see thy passion, In those deep eyes of thine: Ah me! those bright eyes gleaming, Have bound my senses quite, Those eyes are o'er me beaming, The only stars of night.



TO LORA GORDON BOON.

Sweet maiden of the feeling soul, I saw thy little form, Arrayed in gay and glittering garb, And felt thy beauty's charm.

And, Lora! when I saw thee show The mighty poet's thought, The poet's truth, with vivid force, Before my mind was brought.

And when I heard thee sweetly sing, The bold gay "Cavalier," I thought that was the sweetest tone E'er fell on mortal ear.

"Sweet Maid!" 'twas love's most plaintive voice, That echoes from the soul, And makes the listening spirit pause In that divine control.

And when thou sang'st the "Soldier Boy," I heard the drum and fife, The bugle's blast, the cannon's boom, The keen, sharp shriek for life!

And when thou sang'st with gentle voice, The "Bonnie Breast Knots" too; 'Twas like the words of peace and love, That follow war's wild crew.

And when I saw thee lightly whirl Through that ecstatic dance, My happy spirit flew with thee, As in a joyous trance.

Sweet maiden, when thou pass'd'st away, I felt a soft regret; And oh! thy genius and thy charms, I never shall forget.

Sweet maiden, fare thee—fare thee well! Thou sing'st and flitt'st away— A thing that charmed us, and shall be, Remembered through life's day.



MONTICELLO.

On Monticello's classic brow, I stood and gazed around on earth; And feelings of no common glow, Within my bosom had their birth.

The glorious memory of the past, When valor, single-handed, won, The brightest boon for man at last, Freedom for every sire and son.

I thought how strangely, wildly rung That dictum in the world's dull ear, Breathed with a firm, unfaltering tongue, "No tyrant's pride shall flourish here."

But, look upon yon humble tomb, Oh! does it hide some humble one? Now, part the mountain's leafy bloom,— Is this the grave of JEFFERSON?

Huge shame confound this long neglect, That thus o'ershades his resting place, Who, living, sought to raise, protect, And fit, this home of Adam's race.

Who guards that most illustrious tomb, And welcomes there the pilgrim's love? A stranger to his native soil, Stands sentinel his grave above.

Virginia! oh! retrieve thy name, No longer scorn thy source of pride; Pay double tribute to their fame, Whose shades so long in vain have sighed.

Rear monuments to tell the world, The virtues of departed worth, Till yonder sun in night be hurled, The glorious heritage of earth.

Then through the ages that succeed, The hearts shall come from every shore, To worship where their relics lie, Whose glorious fame can die no more.



TO MARIAN.

Dear Marian, thou art far away, And I'm disconsolate to-day, In sorrow sighing; My pleasant thoughts lie like the leaves, O'er whose cold heads AEolus grieves, Complaining, dying. 'Tis weary, dreary, dreary here, The yellow leaves are falling sere, With mournful rustling, The little bird has hush'd his song, And close the greener boughs among He's coldly nestling. How sad the high wind's sounding dirge, As 'twere old ocean's moaning surge, Around our dwelling; I well may tell the reason why, But oh! the teardrops in mine eye Are swiftly swelling. The world is sad, and I am so; Does Marian hear my plaint? Oh, no; She's far away. Ye envious streams—ye hateful hills! Ah me! what cruel anguish thrills My heart to-day! But soon may Fortune learn to smile Upon her sad and helpless child, And let us meet, No more to part, no more to sigh, But happy live, and happy die, In union sweet!



THE SPIRIT OF POESY.

O! radiant spirit, bright Poesy, where Is thy dwelling, thou seraph of beauty, so fair In the rainbow thou laughest at sweet summer's even, And thou ridest the tempest that rends earth and heaven; On the lawn gemm'd with dew, 'mid the forest in green, On the mountains' huge brows, in the valleys between, In the blue rolling ocean, in sky, earth and air— Thy spiritual loveliness broods every where, Thou quaffest morn's tears in a chalice of light, And thy form in the splendor of Phoebus flames bright; Thou kissest the rose-bud so fay-like and fair, And the lightnings thou wreathest in thy dark-streaming hair! Thy melody trills in the silver rill's flow, And it roars in the earthquake that thunders below; All heaven is fill'd with thy presence divine, All earth in the smile of thy beauty doth shine: From heaven to earth, and from earth swift to heaven, Thy golden-wheel'd chariot is viewlessly driven: And thou robest all things in the raiment of love, By fingers of seraphim woven above— And the song which thou sing'st is the melody flowing, Like droppings of nectar, from angel lips glowing— And God is the Fountain, O, Poesy bright, Whose waters now flood me with mystic delight!



THE WATER.

The water, see it, leaps from the mountain's high brow, Like a roll of smooth silver, and laughingly now See, it skips, like a child, through the valley so green, Throwing beauty and blithesomeness over the scene.

See the dew-drops of morning that glitter so bright, Drunk up by the leaves and the flowers with delight; See the fair delicate fays, for their heavenly feast, In colors more lovely their light limbs have drest.

See the dark-rushing showers exultingly come Down, down to the earth from their high, cloudy home! How the countless drops twinkle, and dance, and rejoice, Then creep to the ground with a tremulous voice!

Oh the water, the water, it shineth so bright! It falls like a beautiful raining of light, And it gladdeneth the earth, and the sky, and the sea, 'Till the world laugheth out in her fullness of glee!

See it all smileth fairest—'tis beauty above, In Heaven and Earth 'tis but beauty and love; With harmony dancing—a scene like a dream, When Heaven comes down on the spirit to beam!

Oh the water! the water! man, quaff its bright flow; It will gladden thy spirit, but give thee no woe: As it fresh'neth the world, so its rills will impart Health, gladness, and sweetness and joy to thy heart.

But oh, the foul demons (horrific to tell) Have mixed a fierce poison, the wild flame of hell; And it killeth each fairest and loveliest thing That the earth ever knew in her bridal of Spring.

'Tis the wild stream of hell! oh it burneth the soul, It scatheth, and blighteth, and killeth the whole; Yet, a Vulture, it gnaweth the quivering liver, Forever consuming, but satiate never.

Ay, it fills the wide world with the wailing and woe, That liken the shrieking of Devils below: And the words of the eloquent never can tell, The abyss of this anguish, this foretaste of Hell.

Oh God of the curst! turn this fierce stream away, In trembling, and misery, and anguish we pray; Make the waters of Temperance flow wide o'er the Earth, Till she shine as of yore in the smile of her birth!



BLANNERHASSETT'S ISLAND.

On beautiful Ohio when you sail, And view its banks, forever green and fair, And feel the falling sunlight, and the gale That freshly stirs that wild and western air; You may observe a lovely island there, A greenery spot, enclosed by waters bright, A spot of beauty, and a spot most rare; There the fair summer moon sheds softest light, And summer stars look down from heaven's cerulean height.

Around that isle, a mournful story clings, That ever wakes a soft and sad regret, In those who feel the sorrow which it brings, All swift and fresh upon the memory yet, Of those who sail beyond it, brightly set, An emerald within that crystal flood; Its sad, strange name a feeling doth beget That wakes a sigh in bosoms meek and good, And leaves the thoughtful sprite in no ungrateful mood.

Here Blannerhasset[E] dwelt; a blest recluse, In this green Eden of the leafy West; And felt sweet Peace her softest balm infuse, Into his once too world-disturbed breast: There did he find a deep and quiet rest: The mockbird sang his vespers, while the star Shone sweetly o'er the rippling river's crest; There no rude sound the halcyon calm did mar, And Grief was absent still, and Hate was banished far.

So Blannerhasset with his partner, dwelt, In kind connubial tenderness, in this Most gay and blooming scene; here, here they felt That feeling which if earth hath aught like bliss, Is bliss! the tender look! the touch! the kiss! And, often mid this sylvan scene was heard, (Where no vile Envy gave its serpent hiss,) The voice of love, the only, joyous, word Which blended with the notes of wind, and rill, and bird.

Sweet pair! with all that's best of life, possest, Wealth, love, refinement, learning, genius, birth; Bright, blooming offspring, virtuous, good and blest Charming their hearts, with that young, pangless mirth; And, when at evening mild, they saunter'd forth, Beneath the rosy sky, they looked toward heaven, And wondered why this was so bright an earth, And why that God whose gifts to man are even, This wondrous happiness to them alone had given.

Then came a dark-soul'd man, with magic eye, And glozing tongue, and Blannerhasset's mind, Became his slave, he could not now deny His devilish spell, a villian, smooth refin'd, Whose mighty arts his thoughtless victim bind, In fearful chains: Burr was this Satan's name, Who crept into this Eden unconfin'd, And drove this erring pair of later fame, Like that of old, to roam and sigh o'er earth the same.

"Come, go with me," said Burr, "and you shall find, Strange honors, riches, and a deathless name," And Blannerhasset thought the villian kind, Who fed his soul, on novel dreams of fame, While Burr aspir'd to breathe a sinful flame, Through Blannerhasset's sweet and guiltless wife, But she his artful cozening overcame, And brav'd the demon with victorious strife, And sacredly maintained the whiteness of her life.

But they were ruin'd, this sequester'd pair, Who shunn'd the world's alluring charms to crime, Soon they were driven forth in dark despair, Like the sad consorts of that earlier time. A grief fell on that island's blooming prime. They pass'd away, and never saw again, Their island home amid that pleasant clime. Awhile they roamed o'er earth's most desolate plain, But soon securely slept from life's wild woe and pain.

This is real history of that isle, That ever draws the weary traveller's eye, He sees its fairy greenness brightly smile, Amid that river; as he passeth by, Perchance his human eye's no longer dry, While he recalls that mournful history; And he may ask, with sudden sorrow, why, The dream of rapture doth so early flee And souls so meek and good, the prey of fiends should be.

That isle is now as lovely as of yore, Gay Nature smiles as sweetly, the wild air Is resonant with music; the green shore Exhales a constant fragrance, sweet and rare, But those who made its borders still more fair, Have slept the sleep of death, long years ago, Yet is their memory fresh, and ever there The pilgrim's heart will feel the thought of woe, His eye will blend a tear with yon fair river's flow.

[Footnote E: Transcriber's note: Spelling is different in the title of the poem; both have been kept as in the original.]



TO BETTIE.

Give me thy heart, give me thy hand, Thy love, thy dower, thy goods, thy land; Give me o'er thee a free command, Then shall I be a monarch grand.

This brave great world is little worth, Its largest wealth is but a dearth; But fond and mutual love can make, Another richer for its sake.

Give me thy love, thy heart, thy soul, O'er thee a sovereign control, Then though huge seas of sorrow roll, I will defy their wish'd control.

Give me thy destiny, thy all Which thou dost best and dearest call; Then let the darts of envy fall, Let ruffian malice ban and brawl.

I will contemn their power; I will Still strain with joy's ecstatic thrill, Thee to this bosom, dearest! till I rest in heaven from earthly ill.

Give me thy heart, thy unstained hand, And though I scorn it, give thy land, Then, by a rainbow sweet and bland, Shall life's cerulean arch be spann'd.

Beneath that arch of beauty, flowers Brilliant as bloom in heaven's own bowers, And bathed in joy's ambrosial showers, Shall strew the earth through charmed hours.

Beneath that bow, rich melodies, Like odors that in heaven arise, Sweet as an angel's breathing sighs, Shall rise and kiss the smiling skies.

Give me thy heart, hand, bosom, all Which thou dost nearest, dearest call, Than let the darts of envy fall, Let ruffian malice ban and brawl.

Till life's long summer shall depart, The tender thrill of joy shall start, We'll laugh at Boreas' icy dart, Beside the fire which warms the heart.



EPITAPH FOR AN INFANT.

Sweet bud of life, God knew this earth, Was not a home for thee; He took thee, even from thy birth, To bless Eternity.



THE MILLENNIUM.

The promis'd years, the better times, By God himself foretold, Have dawn'd, and banish'd hateful crimes, The latest age of gold.

Not now a brother fears to tread The way a brother goes, Not now the wife's sad heart is fed, On brutal cuffs and blows.

Not now the human eye is fierce With cruel thirst of gore; Not now the angry spear doth pierce The bosom. Such are o'er.

This scene become a Paradise, A scene of peace and love, Wherein each living being tries To work for God above.

The Bible fills the mighty world, The end is drawing nigh, When, earth in burning fragments hurl'd, The soul shall rise on high.

The promis'd years, the better times, By God himself foretold, Have dawned with their triumphal chimes, On the sweet air unroll'd.



TO A POET'S WIFE.

Thou art indeed a happy one, And hast a charmed life, A noble triumph thou hast won, A bright-eyed Poet's wife.

His fancy plucks all glittering gems From mountain caves and sea, To form that best of diadems, He proudly gives to thee.

That realm that doth thy power obey, Is richer far than these, More sweet its nights, more bright its day, More bland its wandering breeze.

And gentle creatures move and kiss The sceptre in thy hand, And gather garlands, wreaths of bliss, Amid thy fairy land.

The Angels' song comes down at times, And flows into his song, Like the triumphal, silver chimes, That steal the heavens along.



LILLY LANE.

Come to my calling, Lilly Lane, Like music falling, Come again.

The earth is dreary, Sorrow's reign, My thoughts are weary, Come again.

The flowers upspringing, Bring me pain, My thoughts are winging To thee again.

Come to my sorrow, Come again, Give night a morrow, Yet again.

Oh! birds are singing Many a strain, The woodlands ringing, Come again.

Yet I am weeping, E'er with pain, Grief's vigil keeping, Come again.

The dawn gleams brightly O'er the plain, The airs come lightly O'er the main.

They ne'er shall wake thee, Lilly Lane, All things forsake thee, Lilly Lane.

I'll not bereave thee Lilly Lane! I'll never leave thee, Lilly Lane.

On thy grave I'll mutter "Lilly Lane!" With a frantic, dove-like flutter, "Lilly Lane!"

Around thy tomb I'll hover, Near the main, Like a bleeding dying plover, "Lilly Lane!"



A SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME.

To-day my gay and happy heart, Was lost in pleasant dreaming; And I had won a loving part In all the by-gone's seeming.

I saw that most renowned maid, Before her father falling, Those savage hearts, within the shade Of antique trees, appalling.

I saw the deep and gushing love, That fearful moment started, That murmur'd like a turtle dove, To cheating hope departed.

I saw the kind and gentle deeds, That gemm'd her after being That little camp, from sorest needs, And frequent slaughter, freeing.

I thought that she was kindly sent, In gracious God's foreknowing, To save from fatal detriment, This infant nation growing.

I saw the savage maiden's form With Culture's graces, glowing; In virgin beauty, bright and warm, Like vernal roses blowing.

I saw her sweetly, deeply smile On Rolfe beside her sitting, As o'er the neighboring stream the while The shades of eve were flitting.

I saw her wed in love beneath The forest's lofty awning; While white and dusk maids bring a wreath, Like night commixt with morning.

I saw the strange and novel fame, She left to song and story, Which down the future's track of flame, Beams forth with deathless glory.



FAREWELL TO ALBEMARLE.

Farewell, ye verdant hills and vales, Farewell thou rolling river, Whose waves flow onward to the sea, Returning, never, never.

From all thy scenes, I might have gone, I might in joy have parted, But since my love remaineth here, I wander broken-hearted.

I go from one with whom to part, Is grief that can't be spoken, From whom to rend my faithful heart, That heart, even now, is broken.



SHE WOULD HAVE IT SO.

I loved her; and beneath the moon, We met among the flowers of June; I gave her my all, my love's rich boon, I loved her, but we parted soon, She would have it so.

I loved her; through my span of life, She might have been my cherished wife; And I had striven, with ceaseless strife, To make her days with pleasures rife; She would not have it so.

I loved her; for she bent on me A smile and look of sorcery; Until my heart could not be free; Alas! that such deceit should be;— But she would have it so.

I loved her; and my heart was broke, Beneath the heavy, crushing stroke; As 'neath the lightning dies the oak When she in scorn and anger spoke; She would have it so!



TO FANNIE.

Fair maid, in those beloved eyes, The dream of pensive beauty lies, The radiance when the day grows less, The charm of twilight loveliness.

Those eyes are mirror of thy soul; As in the waves that deeply roll, The sun and moon and stars are seen, Reflected with undimmed sheen.

Thus in the depths of those fair eyes, I see the brightness of the skies, I would my image there might shine In orbs so blessed and divine.



ON HEARING THAT MY LOVE WAS ANGRY.

Sweet love! and wast thou angry then, And did a lovely frown, O'ershade that brow of whitest pearl, That cheek of softest down?

Nay, be not so; thou can'st not be, Less lovely to my sight; Though darkness shade the cliff and vale, Yet starry is the night!



TO A POET.

O poet, would'st thou make a name That ne'er will die, But be coeval with the lights In yonder sky?

Strike not a single, trembling chord, In the heart-lyre; But wake the full and sweet accord Of every wire.

Of joy, of grief, of hopeless love And pining care, Of terror, pain, and deep remorse, And wild despair.

Of Hope, of Faith, of Piety: Each fibre move; But yet the sweetest note shall be The note of Love.

Strike! poet! strike each quiv'ring chord, In that strange lyre, Then, men thy golden songs will hoard, Till time expire.



THE CHILD'S PRAYER.

O Lord, I kneel at mother's knee, And lift my trembling heart to thee. Send down thy grace, I meekly pray, To drive my evil thoughts away: Alas! even now I feel my heart, From God is learning to depart.

But Thou, even now, canst change my heart, For very good, O God, thou art; And thou can'st give me ample grace, To run aright my earthly race; Nor wander whither I must die, Far from the comfort of Thine eye.

Yes Lord! I beg thy Heavenly love, To fit me for a home above; That I may sing the anthems sweet Where pardon'd children all shall meet; And that on earth my walk may be, O God, forever nigh to Thee.



CRITICUS.

The Southern Muse—so long with drooping wing,— The Southern Muse, alas! too sad to sing— Her fair head drooped and dim her mournful eye, While pitying breezes sighed in sorrow by,— At last—at last—a wondrous friend has found, Whose power shall make her through all time renowned: Oh! now to her what magic shall belong, To charm the nations with a peerless song!

Hail Criticus! thou marvel of the age! Oh! thou wilt fire her with a noble rage! Oh! thou her song wilt kindly patronize, And make her honored in the nation's eyes.

Oh! glorious vision which transports my soul, While thoughts of triumph through my bosom roll; The Goddess comes, she brightly smiles once more, Nor sadly sighs, as long she sighed of yore; Her breath the fragrance of the Southern grove, Her voice the voice of victory and of love;— Approaching proudly now, with sweetest strain, Greets Criticus, her godsire—but in vain.

How modest! Criticus! thou wilt not wear A single honor—nobler is thy care— Thou wilt not, merely, reign the Muse's sire; But thou wilt sometimes woo her willing lyre!

Earth! hear that song! The strains that softly sweep From mermaid's shell, across the moonlit deep— The tones of visions which have only dwelt In that deep bosom which has wildly felt— Those notes like far off music from the plain, Where grief nor hate can e'er be known again— That haunt the spirit 'midst this lower sphere, And wake the dreamer's ever faithful tear— How die away in saddest silence all Those strains, O Criticus! when thou dost—"squall!"

Sagacious Criticus! no witling's wit, Compares with thine, or durst compare with it.

How could Parnassus rise in days of yore, Ere thou had'st taught the clumsy rocks to soar? How could the muses in their ambient bower, In loftiest lays, anticipate thy power! How could the sparkling Helicon flow free, How durst it ripple, and not wait for thee? No business had the Stagyrite to name The rules of verse; old Homer was to blame, For laying out too soon the Iliad's plan; Homer was nothing but a "blind, old man!" Light, light that Ajax prayed for, now has come, And poetasters hence may read their doom!

O Grant us, sweetly, Grant, thy gentle roar, And pigs shall squeal, and asses bray no more![F]

Great Criticus! illustrious lord of song! To thee a double wreath shall e'er belong: The Critics' cypress and the Poet's bay Shall twine in love to deck thy brow for aye; For far o'er Dunciad's heroes shall thou reign, And ne'er shalt lose that honored seat again.

And still, while future ages roll along, Our Southern minstrels to thy court shall throng; There lowly fall, and humbly beg thee grant The sweet reward of their melodious chant; A verdant laurel for each beaming brow, To bloom through ages, as it bloometh now— Or, if thou frown, receive thy chastening rod, Thou, Bard's Maecenas, and thou Poet's god!

[Footnote F: 16 lines above were written by Prof. E. Longley.]



TO MARY.

Now lovely Vesper shows her lamp, In yonder slowly darkening sky; It is the hour, when musing here, I heave for thee the bursting sigh.

Thus, Mary, as yon mournful pall Of darkness falls on all things round, Ah! tell me shall the gloom of fate, My cheerless pathway thus surround?

But, as yon lamp—the lamp of love! With brilliant smile, relieves the gloom, Say, shall thy heavenly smile relieve The darkness of my mortal doom?

Alas! I do not know thy thoughts, If thou wilt slay, or sweetly save; Yet I shall love thee fondly still, Until I rest within the grave.



SONG OF THE CONVERTED HEATHEN.

The sky to me did never speak, The sea rolled ever dumb,— Of him beneath whose wondrous power, Their mystic forms had come.

The sacred light was curtained back From my exploring eye, And I seemed left to grope in night, And there at last to die.

When lo! upon a day there came A Man, with placid brow, Who rent the curtain—and the light Is gushing on me now.

The sky doth speak to me of God, The deep and rolling sea Is ever grandly singing, Lord, To my bowed soul, of Thee.

Oh! I can see around them now A radiant light doth shine, A light that mocks the pencil's pride, A light that is divine.



SIN OF THE CHORAL SINGER.

Hark! the organ's solemn peal Ascends the lofty fane, To win the soul's repeal, From everlasting pain:

To waft the voice of praise To Him who reigns above, Which blends with burning lays Of Seraph's holy love.

Hark! the deep-toned, solemn peal! Again it strikes the air! My trembling accents steal To join the anthem there.

I strive to lift my mind To God's most holy throne; And, with my thought refined, To think on Heaven alone.

But earth-born love intrudes And brings me back to earth; To dreamy solitudes My spirit wanders forth:

To walk with one, a youth, With bright and sunny hair, Whose words are only truth, Whose love is heavenly fair.

God! forgive my grievous sin! God! forgive my erring love! Write not my sentence in Thine awful scroll above!

God! forgive thy creature's love, Who only loves too well! Let not that virtue prove My doleful doom to hell.

But make my passion less— Its burning purify; And make it meet to bless My spirit in the sky.



A PORTRAIT.

In those mild eyes, there is a light Which dwells not with the evil; and A calm repose upon thy features, which Says thou art innocent. Around thee gleaming There is a robe of more than loveliness, Of form, and face, and hair: it is the charm Of most majestic Goodness; which exalts An earth-born frame into an angel's stature. Oh! if this world had many like thyself, It were a heaven for blessed ones to dwell in.



HALLOWED GROUND.

What bids the soul of man to gaze, Upon a spot of earth, As a sun of focal rays? The spell of human worth!

The spot where human virtue stood, And struck for holy truth, Still stirs the world's ecstatic blood, A thing of mighty youth!

When can the name of Marathon, Fall powerless, on the soul; Whilst thoughts of right, or injury, done, Along its fibres, roll?

Can Waterloo grow trite by time, Or Yorktown fail to fire, Man's breast, with hatred most sublime, To wrong, till time expire?

What hallows thus the hills of Greece, And flings that light o'er Rome, Which when her very fragments cease, Still crowns her history's dome?

'Tis truth's great warfare bravely fought, That hallows in the core, A mount—a plain—a barren spot— With fame which dies no more.

And when can earth forget to glow, Beside each glorious shrine? Not till yon stars shall dart below, And sun shall cease to shine.



TO SPRING.

Hail, beauteous maiden, gentle spring! I see thee slowly move, On lowering wings, on yon green hill From yon blue fields above.

Hail, beauteous Spring! my bosom swells With joy to feel thee near, Thy joyful advent now dispels The winter, dark and drear.

Hail, beauteous Spring, the meads are green, The lordly elms rejoice; Yon river flashes in the light, The springs send up a voice.

The blue-bird sings thy welcome sweet From yonder blooming tree, The redbreast pours his simple note, A tribute glad, to thee.

The cuckoo comes to join thy train, With his melodious lay, Until his song, a rapture! runs O'er all thy pleasant way.

Hail, heavenly Spring! a thousand throats, Re-echo with thy praise; Thou bring'st the time of flowers and light Of bright and cloudless days.

Hail, beauteous earth! thou art the type Returning with each year, To tell us of another land Whose sky is always clear.

All hail, bright spring, celestial maid! Who fill'st my singing heart; But never tongue or lyre shall speak The Transport which thou art!



ON HEARING THAT MY LOVE WAS PROUD.

And art thou proud, my darling love? Thus should it ever be; For beauty hath, the clearest right, Of sovereign majesty.

Oh! art thou proud, my darling love! Then not to do thee wrong, Thou e'er shalt reign the sole, bright queen, Within my heart and song.



TO LIZZIE.

Oh, Lizzie, when I read your card, Which you had printed in the paper, Wherein you said your case was hard, My fancy cut a glorious caper.

I said, that is a prudent fair Who has the true idea of living, And would not on the "desert air," Her fragrance still be giving.

So I at once resolved to try So conquer all my vacillation, And fix my wand'ring heart and eye On only you, in all creation.

I know that I had often sigh'd To other ladies quite as pretty, But then it could not be denied, To let you pass, would be a pity.

With real pain and much ado, I cut the other chords that bound me, And said the ties proposed by you, Should now be tightly drawn around me.

Farewell, I said, to blooming Nell, Who is too long my passion trying, For here is one, whose stanzas tell, Like me, for marriage she is dying.

I am a student small and neat, Not twenty-five, and somewhat dashing, With active limbs and beard complete, And wear a vest that's slightly flashing.

My brow is broad, my eye is black, And quickly changes with my feeling, And to your own, it flashes back, The thought their glance was just revealing.

Some gentle blood runs through my veins, And I suppose you truly know it, And then, to crown my boastful strains, The world has sworn I am a poet.

I'd like to wed and with you dwell, Within some happy rural valley, Where zephyrs round the lily's bell, In summer sigh, and faint, and dally.

Now Lizzie! I have written back, In answer to your publication; So let us promptly tread the track, Before the first of next vacation.

I'll get the license; get your dress, And flowers to make a bride's adorning; Then let us to the chapel press, With bridal friends, at early morning.

We shall be happy. So will, too, Both clerk, and priest, and mantua-maker; My tailor—ah! a fellow true, Will say "I'm proud to see you take her."

And then must come the honey moon, Ah me! that sets me deeply sighing, You leaning on my heart, whose tune, To yours is still in love replying.



MONTICELLO.

'Tis true that when the god-like die, Their glorious monument Are earth's great mountains and the sky, Their names with all things blent— But, then, some storied heap should show The grave of worth entombed below.

'Tis true, the pilgrim wandering slow, O'er sad Achaia's plain, Will feel his bosom warmly glow, And memory fire his brain— Achilles' strength—and Homer's song Across his breast will roll along.

But, had the Grecian chisel wrought, No pile above their graves, Say, could ye point out, save in thought, Their own, from tombs of slaves? A crumbling column, only shows Where Greece's mighty dead repose.

But tombs of men, more wise, more free, Amid a brighter day, Are like the mounds ye scarcely see, And note not by the way. No Mausoleums climb the skies, To tell where greater Glory lies.



YOU TOLD ME THAT YOU LOVED ME.

When summer's rosy twilight fell, Upon yon river's gentle swell, Leading the spirit by its song, As through the land it sweeps along;

We watched the stars, those worlds of love, That swim yon azure seas above— We heard each other's heart-pulse beat, In unison divinely sweet.

Your virgin hand was laid in mine, I gazed into your spirit's shrine: We lost the sense of stars and earth, And of the dancing waters' mirth:

We only saw each other then; We look'd as if no more again, And our tumultuous hearts should die, In that wild dream of ecstasy.

I clasped you to my bosom there, I played with your dishevell'd hair; And then the thoughts which long had slept Within us, waken'd; and we wept.

We wept to think of what had past— The doubt—the trial—joy at last— We wept to think of mournful fears— We wept to hail the future years.

I ceased to shed such happy tears, I whisper'd comfort in your ears, I press'd you closer to my heart, Till mine no more could throb apart.

But then we smiled, we laughed to feel The heaven which deep love can reveal; We laughed that Love had ever bound, His golden bands our souls around!

Do you not know the boundless bliss Which follows true love's lightning kiss; For, in that hour with heaven above, Your cheeks, your mouth received my love.

And when that deep, blest trance was o'er, And we could clasp and kiss no more; Love's dear confessions had been made, And we no more could be afraid;

When Angels' pens had writ the vow Which nothing can dissever now; Our hearts return'd to Nature's face, To planets, and the waters' race.

All, all was calm; all, all was bright; The moon was climbing to yon height, Of Heaven's blue cone, rough round with stars, With Venus—but no angry Mars.



THE SONG OF THE SLAIN AT THE BATTLE OF TICONDEROGA.

Farewell to the land which we sought o'er the wave; We made it our home; it will now be our grave: Farewell, ye proud mountains, and valleys uneven, And thou, bright shining Glory, now setting in heaven.

Farewell to our hearthstones, our cherished ones there, Our wives and our children, now reft of our care: Farewell, everloved of our souls—nevermore, Shall we look on your faces—our lifetime is o'er.

We march to the field—'twill be red with our blood, Which shall make of its soil there a horrible mud; Where our bones by wild beasts on the desolate plain, Shall be torn, and be whiten'd by tempest and rain.

We march to the field—and our comrades in war, Shall shout to the heavens their triumph afar— And Victory shall perch on our banners on high And Tyrants fore'er from our country shall fly;

Yet never shall we view that glorious sight— We sink, with yon sun, in the deathgloom of night; Farewell to our homes and our country for aye, We go to our graves, with the setting of day.

Farewell, yes, farewell, Earth, Heavens and all Which here in the last hour of life we recall: Farewell! we are doomed to the night of the grave,— But our mem'ry shall live with the names of the brave.



TO MY COPY OF SHAKSPEARE WHICH HAD BEEN LOST.

Hast thou come back, my Shakspeare! bard, Who didst dethrone and drive away those others, From cold Parnassus, fate that seem'd too hard, To be inflicted on thy gentle brothers.

Thou didst spare one, left him enthroned fast, The blind old man of Scio, hoary Homer, So that of all the harpers first and last, To call him king, is not a base misnomer.

There on those far and ever whiten'd rocks, You two sit monarchs of a rich dominion; But I forgot dark Milton's sacred locks, Serenely resting from his seraph pinion!

Hast thou come back, great bard, to charm and bless My heart with many a grand, illusive vision, And show those gorgeous fields of happiness, With vistas and with rivers all Elysian?

Stay now with me; no more through all the years, Wilt thou and I, O glorious friend! be parted; Or, if e'er so, my overflowing tears, Will prove that I am grieved, or broken-hearted.

Yes stay, and I shall haste to thy converse, With full delight, at rosiate morn, calm even, And I shall dream of rich and golden verse From angel lyres within the bowers of Heaven.



I LOVE THEE.

I love thee—oh! I love thee, With fervor, deep and wild, Thy beauty's charm most strangely, My spirit hath beguiled.

I love thee—oh! I love thee, The Spring's first, freshest flower, Comes not across my spirit, With such a holy power.

I love thee—oh! I love thee, The fibres of my heart Are closely twined about thee, As if by magic art.

I see thee—oh! I see thee, In the sunbeam, in the bud, In all that's fair in nature, In all that's bright and good.

I hear thee—oh! I hear thee, In the melting music-words, That swell, at joyous morning, From the woodland choir of birds.

I crave thee—oh! I crave thee, Thou angel sent from God! To beautify the pathway, Which must by me be trod.

I love thee—oh! I love thee! And, dearest, I implore, That bliss may still await thee, On Heaven's far brighter shore.



ON ——.

A brainless beauty, a would-be coquette, A brow of marble, but a heart of jet; An eye that shows no vestige of the deep And stained thoughts that in her bosom sleep: By day a vestal, but by night a bawd; Her ways a riddle, her whole life a fraud; At church an angel, but at home a shrew, Cheating her mother, to her sire untrue; Vain without talent, without merit proud; By all who see her, still a fool allow'd; Without all love, with but the show of truth, She stares and simpers at the scornful youth; Or ambling loosely on the village street, While strangers sneer upon the fool they meet: She lives and moves the true epitome And climax of all d——mn'd Hypocrisy. Here I enshrine her, where all time shall see Her name preserv'd in deathless infamy.



SERENADE.

Far o'er the landscape green, The moonlight like a lake, Lies; 'tis a lovely scene, To bid my lady wake; My lady, lady, wake, Wake, oh! wake!

The night is rich with smells, Like thoughts from heart of love, Wafted from flower bells, On unseen wings above; My lady, lady, wake, Wake, oh! wake!

The Nightingale, a wo! Within the grove complains!— The stars are coming low To hear her killing strains! My lady, lady, wake, Wake, oh! wake!

O see! my lady, far Beyond yon western steeps, The moon, with one white star, In paly parting, weeps: My lady, lady, wake, Wake, oh! wake!

Before the envious day, Shall gaze upon thy charms; Come, lady, come away, And rest lock'd in these arms! My lady, lady, wake, Wake, oh! wake!

Oh lady, see! the moon Her silver chariot stops, (A list'ning to my tune,) On yonder green oak-tops! My lady, lady, wake, Wake, oh! wake!

My song can make her pause, But wake and doff that frown, Nor man's, nor God's great laws, Forbid thee to look down: My lady, lady, wake, Wake, oh! wake.



THE OLD MILL WHEEL.

The old mill-wheel, it turns, it turns Throughout the livelong day, And flings the current of the stream, Abroad in glist'ning spray: That old, black wheel has turn'd for years, Beside the mossy mill, That stands, like some old, sacred thing, Beneath the clay-red hill.

The old mill-wheel, it turns, it turns Like time's unresting one, Which day and night, and night and day, Hath never ceased to run: The old mill-wheel, an emblem true, Of Time that ne'er stands still, I love to see it turning so, Beside the mossy mill.

The old mill-wheel, it turns, it turns, As in my childhood's hour;— As when I bathed beneath its rim, In its refreshing shower: But they who were my comrades then, Are sleeping on the hill, And now, to them, forever now, The old Mill-wheel stands still.



SERENADE.

How sombre is the gloom! I see no beam of star, Gleam o'er the garden's bloom, Or silent wood afar; So dark the thoughts which shroud His soul who sings to thee; Oh lady, cold and proud; Who scorn'st to think on me; Lady, lady, wake! List oh! list.

The firefly lights the night, A moment and then dies; The lilacs pine for light, With sweet and odorous sighs: So Hope's deceitful beam, Illumines my despair, While I still sigh and dream, With many a sobbing prayer, Lady, lady, list! List and smile!

Lo! now the clouds break off, And heaven once more is free; The mounts their garments doff, The mists rise from the sea; From yonder casement high She looks, she looks, oh see! She bends on me her eye Of heavenly brilliancy: Lady, lady, dear; Lady dear!



VIRGINIA HOME OF HONOR.

Oh, home of honor, native land, When roaming o'er the sea, The eye still turns, the heart still yearns, O dearest home, for thee. When ranged around the social board, We bid our sorrows flee, We own a pride that we are sons, O dearest home, of thee.

If earth retains one single draught Of pure and tranquil joy, Within whose sweet and sparkling wave, Is mixt no sad alloy; 'Tis here we taste it while we sit, Beneath our natal tree, 'Tis here it glads our heart of hearts, O dearest home, with thee.

When we are cast on foreign shores, Beyond the dark-blue sea, Sad memory oft returns to weep, O dearest home, with thee, And when the knell of death shall come, And set our spirits free, Our hearts shall find their sweetest rest, O dearest home, with thee.



HYMN TO THE FATHER.

Heavenly father, God of mercy, Look upon a sinful soul; For, the waves of sad contrition, Now above me darkly roll. Ah! my crimes are dark and grievous, The huge burthen hard to bear; All the day and night I'm sighing Whelm'd in grief and dark despair.

Ah! how deeply I have fallen From my high and happy state, Where, enrob'd in thy dear image, Once, in tranquil peace, I sate. Black with sores, a loathsome leper, Lo! I wait before Thy throne; Cans't thou, Maker, wilt thou heal me, Make me whole and all thine own?

Oh! Thy grace is freely gushing, Boundless is Thy wondrous Love; And for all Thy erring children, Lord, Thy tender bowels move. Hail! Supreme, Exhaustless Mercy, Christ hath freed my soul from sin; And a holy calm comes o'er me, And a heavenly peace within.



O BIRDIE! SPEAK TO ME.

O Birdie! speak to me, Speak from thy silent grave; It doth not roll o'er thee, Death's dark and Stygian wave! Sweet! speak, I'm sick, to hear The heaven of thy voice, Which wont, while life was dear, To thrill me and rejoice.

Speak, Birdie! speak to me! Speak from the flowers which bloom, Beneath the cedar tree That hides thy dearest tomb! Speak, angel! speak to me; I know thou art not dead, That the dear soul in thee But, bird-like, upward sped!

Yes! Birdie! speak to me, Maid most bright, most dear; Ask, if I'm true to thee, Ask if my grief's sincere? Ask if the warm tears roll From my devoted heart? O Birdie! then my soul In peace shall hence depart.



TO ONE.

I love thee, and my trembling lyre Will learn no other strain; I marvel if thy gentle heart Will ever cease disdain; I marvel if our future lives, Will mingle into one, And glitter like a happy stream, In an unclouded sun.

I see that mid a wooing throng, Thou art a central star, And vying youths, with noble pride, Have brought their gifts from far: I only think the smiles thou giv'st, So freely unto them, If given to me, would bless me more, Than thrones or diadem.

I love thee, and this throbbing heart, From thrall no longer free, Must heave in joy, or ache with wo, Till Death's dark hour, for thee. I feel that I must know thy love, Or all of life will be One long, deep wail, one throb of pain, One speechless agony.



THE WANDERER.

With none to share my ship with me, A wand'rer o'er life's stormy sea, One brilliant star, like lamp of love, Smiles calmly from its throne above. Oh! brightly o'er the surging wave, That lustre shines to bless and save; And on through billows thund'ring roll, Conducts me to my heavenly goal.

That star by gracious Love was placed, To look, in beauty uneffaced, Over the wildest wrath of storms, And scatter round its glittering charms: It is Religion, and its ray Is fed by angel hands alway: It beams with beauty so divine, The wand'rer smiles to see it shine.

Hail, one bright star on all life's main; Though surf roll high, and cordage strain; And cowards, ship! may quake for thee; Thou walk'st victorious o'er the sea. Oh! proudly, as an ocean-queen, Thy frame, majestic still is seen— Until thou rest in heaven at last, Thy sailing done, thy anchor cast.



TO BETTIE.

Why, beauteous Bettie, longer shed Pearly showers of causeless grief, Why bend down that lovely head, Like the autumn's rain-wash'd leaf?

Though in weeping, sad distress, Thy dear charms have lovelier grown, As drench'd Nature o'er her dress, Wears the rainbow's splendid zone.

Yet why shed those beaded pearls From those eyes of softest blue, And why loose those auburn curls O'er that sweet neck's damask hue?

Every liquid, falling gem, Flashing like the diamond's ray, In an eastern diadem, Let me kiss them all away.

Then, from out this stormy gloom, Thy dear smile shall brightly steal; O'er my heart's enliven'd bloom, O'er the joy thy thoughts reveal.

Why, beauteous Bettie! longer shed, Showers of pearls so bright to see? Bid dark doubt be quickly sped, I am faithful still to thee.



BABY SONG.

Rock'd on Mamma's heaving breast, Heaving like the pearly deep, Hugg'd to that sweet, honey rest, Sleep, little baby, sleep, Baby sleep.

White like the new moon's falling beams, O'er the wooded, westward steeps, Falls the white throng of her dreams, While my baby sleeps, Oh, she sleeps.

Closed her soft and sparkling eyes, Oped her mouth like a tulip's cup, In a starry trance she lies, Like a bud at night shut up; Baby sleeps.

Around her scarcely parted lips, Now a smile—a laughter!—creeps, Losing all their sad eclipse— Angels near! while baby sleeps Deeply sleeps.

Rock'd upon dear Mamma's breast, Heaving like the wild sea deeps, Joy hath brought Mamma sweet rest, While our baby sleeps, Softly sleeps.



MY OLD VIRGINIA HOME.

Around my old Virginia home, My heart forever clings; Whene'er I hear its name pronounced, I think a thousand things. I think how once a little band, Came to these forest lands; And struggling long, built this fair home, And left it to our hands.

I think how our forefathers fought, To keep it free from chains, How they rejoic'd at vict'ry won, With loud, triumphal strains. My cherish'd old Virginia home, Tears, tears come to my eyes, When thinking on thee, loveliest land, Beneath the boundless skies!



TAKE THOSE PLEDGES BACK.

Take back those pledges, dearest maid, Which once I warmly gave, For then I dreamed I would be free, And nevermore thy slave. Yes! take them back once more, for love Hath made me only thine; And I should give these gems away, Whose heart's no longer mine.

'Tis said the heart can often love, But that can never be; Though I have bow'd at other shrines, I never loved but thee. I feel that thou art dearer far Than aught this world can give, And come what may, come grief or joy, For only thee I live.

Yes! take those pledges back, dear maid, And let them fondly speak, The deathless flame that will not fail, In spring, or winter bleak: For they have told an honest tale, That I shall change no more, Till I shall clasp thy form again On Heaven's eternal shore.



SONG.—UNDYING AFFECTION.

I loved thee in my happy youth, When I was free from guile, And I have kept that early truth, And wear as fond a smile: I've look'd to thee, through every storm That lower'd upon my way, Thou say'st my fair and fairy form Hath made thy rainbow's ray.

I loved thee in that early time, Life's best and brightest years; I gave thee in thy manhood's prime, My changing smiles and tears: And now when evening shades come o'er The length'ning path of life, And we must think of love no more, I am thy faithful wife.



FREEDOM'S HOME.

O freedom's home! thy banner streams, A meteor on the gale; And I behold the haughty flags Of Europe fade and pale. And, crowding on the surging sea, They cleave the billows bright; They come to rest beneath its folds, Attracted by its light.

O freedom's home! forevermore We'll join our hearts and hands, To make thee bright with peaceful wealth, The gem of richest strands: But, if a tyrant e'er should threat, This Eden of the free, Dear home of freedom, we will bleed, And yield our life for thee.



NATIVE MOUNTAINS.

Native Mountains! on your summits, Stream the gleaming floods of day, While a thousand silver cascades, Leap within the early ray; There amid your flowery valleys, Stands the cot of her I love; Clamb'ring o'er your rocky summits, I behold it from above.

Native Mountains! how my bosom Swells with happiness and pride, When I gaze upon ye soaring O'er your vales so green and wide. All my wishes, all my pleasures, Still are closely, sweetly bound, To ye, lofty native Mountains, With your valleys blooming round.



THE TRAIN IS COMING.

The train is coming, coming, It whistles, don't you hear? I saw the smoking engine, And soon they will be here. The train is coming, coming, It is already here, I think that handsome Willie, I'm sure, he'll soon appear.

I've waited long to see him, And thought the train was slow; But now I see it stopping, And Willie's come, I know. I got, on Sunday morning, The sweetest billet-doux, It had a white envelope, And his initials, too.

I read it, then I started, To hear the sermon through, But I could not hear the sermon, For all that I could do. For it said that he was coming, Without mistake to-day, That he was growing weary Of things and folks away.

But list! the bell is ringing, And here is Willie's card; I'll meet him in the parlor, For I am quite prepar'd, To answer any questions That Willie now may ask, And then to serve and love him, Will be my daily task.



LINES.

Far hath lovely Fanny flown, O'er the mountains, o'er the sea; All our peace with her hath gone, We are wed to misery.

As the rainbow fades away, As the short-lived spring departs, Shone she brightly o'er our way, Fled from our repining hearts.

Yet the rainbow will return, And the Spring will come once more; But the fair whose flight we mourn, Walks on Death's Elysian shore.



LOVE SONG.

My heart is newly gushing, With love for thee, with love for thee, With thoughts as wild and wasteful, As yonder sea, as yonder sea.

Oh yes! my soul is wretched With longing pain, with longing pain, It gives a ceaseless moaning, Like yonder main, like yonder main.

Thy strange and matchless beauty, Is like the sea, is like the sea; Thy face in love or anger, Is sweet to me, is sweet to me.

Thy maiden soul is precious As yonder deep, as yonder deep, Within its glassy clearness, Bright jewels sleep, bright jewels sleep.

Thy sinless mind resembles Yon deep, blue sea, yon deep, blue sea; The glorious things of heaven Are seen in thee, are seen in thee.

Oh main! as some poor sailor Is lost in thee, is lost in thee, My soul is lost in sighing, No hope for me, no hope for me.



PARTING SONG.

We meet with smiles, we part in tears; This is our earthly lot, We cannot find a place on earth, Where friends have parted not. And oh! it is the saddest thought, That we no more may meet, That we may see their face no more, Whose friendship was so sweet.

We meet with smiles, we part in tears, But Mem'ry long will bring, Their image in our waking thoughts, A blest and sacred thing: And we shall pause amid the crowds, Where we are strangers now; And deeply think of what has been, Till grief will shade our brow.

Till grief will shade our aching brow, And tears will freely flow, Till we shall weep, as we have wept, O'er friends now sleeping low; For, who may tell, if e'er again, Those friends shall meet our gaze; Who've wander'd forth from all our love, Where Death's dark angel strays?



THE SONG OF MAY.

To mountains hoar and russet plain, A joyous sprite, I come again; With many a sweet and joyous strain, And break grim winter's icy chain.

From yon blue chambers far above, On brilliant wings, I lightly move; I come, and lead the cooing dove, And all the choir that fill the grove.

To leafy wild, and city's hum, The queen of joy, I come, I come; The little rills no more are dumb; But hail me, as I come, I come.

With breath that glads both land and main, I come again, I come again! On hillside, bank, and level plain, The flowers appear, in beauteous train.

To blooming land and azure main, Each year I duly come again; A stranger from yon heavenly plain Of light and bliss; as poets feign.



TO MY LYRE.

O harp, with whom my childhood played, Within that verdant dell, O'erbower'd by boughs of grateful shade, I go—Farewell! farewell!

If I have durst to raise thy tone To sing a theme too high, Thou, thou must bear the sin alone, O harp, not I, not I.

For, thou had'st witch'd me with a love Where reason had no part; I felt that thou would'st e'en approve, And fondly heard my heart.

The song hath ended. Silence falls Round the enchanted dell; Awhile I heed no more thy calls, Sweet harp! farewell! farewell!



YOU ASK WHY I AM LONELY NOW.

You ask why I am lonely now, In all this brilliant scene, And why I look on beauty's charms, With cold, unalter'd mien.

You say that, many a loving heart, Would joy to be my own, That none of all the human race, Should ever live alone.

I'll tell you why I'm lonely now, If grief will let me speak, And why I glance on woman's charms With cold, unalter'd cheek.

'Twas in my boyhood's happy days, I loved a blue-eyed maid; The light of heaven o'er that young cheek, In changeful feeling stray'd!

I loved her with a love as true, As ever dwelt on earth; Oh sure my worship was too deep, Even at that shrine of worth.

She loved me not, that knowledge fell, Upon me like a blight; Ah me! I am too fondly weak? Is this a teardrop bright?

You asked why I am lonely now, And I the tale have told: And I shall yet be lonely, till The grave my heart shall hold.