Rose.

Ay, more! My heart, And its full treasury of maiden love, Never before surrendered to another, I pledge to thee, as thine, for evermore!

[Exeunt.

An Aerial Chorus.

Seek the dell and seek the bower, Pluck the bud and pluck the flower, Search for buds of sweetest breath, Search for flowers of brightest hue; Fit to weave the bridal wreath, Of a maid so fair and true.

She has bowed the haughty heart, Won the stubborn will from guile, With no aid of other art Than the sweet spell of her smile!

Seek the dell and seek the bower, Pluck the bud and pluck the flower, Search for buds of sweetest breath, Search for flowers of brightest hue; Fit to weave the bridal wreath, Of a maid so fair and true!

[Exeunt.

Note to the Misanthrope

"Then seek we, for the maiden's pillow, Far beyond the Atlantic's billow, Love's apple,—and when we have found it, Draw the magic circles round it."

Considering the Mandrake, many fabulous notions were entertained by the ancients; and they never attempted to extract it from the earth, without the previous performance of such ceremonies as they considered efficacious in preventing the numerous accidents, dangers, and diseases, to which they believed the person exposed who was daring enough to undertake its extraction. The usual manner of obtaining it was this:—When found, three times a circle was drawn around it with the point of a naked sword, and a dog was then attached to it and beaten, until by his struggles it was disengaged from the earth.

It was supposed to be useful in producing dreams, philters, charms &c.; and also to possess the faculties of exciting love, and increasing population.

The Emperor Adrian, in a letter to Calexines, writes that he is drinking the juice of the Mandrake to render him amorous: hence it was called Love-apple.

It grows in Italy, Spain, and the Levant.



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS



TO ISABEL

A Beautiful Little Girl.

Fair as some sea-child, in her coral bower, Decked with the rare, rich treasures of the deep; Mild as the spirit of the dream whose power Bears back the infant's soul to heaven, in sleep Brightens the hues of summer's first-born flower Pure as the tears repentant mourners weep O'er deeds to which the siren, Sin, beguiled,— Art thou, sweet, smiling, bright-eyed cherub child.

Thy presence is a spell of holiness, From which unhallowed thoughts shrink blushing back,— Thy smile is a warm light that shines to bless, As beams the beacon o'er the wanderer's track,— Thy voice is music, at whose sounds Distress Unbinds her writhing victim from the rack Of misery, and charmed by what she hears, Forgets her woes, and smiles upon her tears.

And when I look upon thee, bearing now The promise of such loveliness, I ask If time will blight, that promise; if thy brow, So sunny now, will learn to wear the mask Of hollow smiles, or cold deceit, whilst thou Art learning in thy soul the bitter task Time teaches to all bosoms, when the glow Of hope is o'er—but this I may not know.

My path will not be near to thine through life,— Kind ones will guard and fondly shelter thee; Me bitterness awaits, and care and strife, And all that sorrow has of agony; My future, as my past was, will be rife With heartaches, and the pangs that "pass not by;" Each hour shall give thee some new pleasure; years, Long years can bring me only toil 'and tears.

'Tis meet that it should be so,—I have made A wreck of my own happiness, and cast Across my heart, in youth, the dull, deep shade That wrinkled age flings over all at last But let it go,—I have too long delayed The remedy, and what is past is past;— And could I live those vanished moments o'er, My heart would wander as it strayed before.

I know not how it is,—my heart is stern, And little giv'n to thoughts of tenderness; Yet looking on thy young brow it will yearn, And in my bosom's innermost recess, Thoughts that have slumbered long awake and burn With a wild strength which nothing can repress! Be still, worn heart, be still; does not the cold And heavy clay—clod mingle with her mould?

Yes, 'tis that in thy soft check's tender bloom, Thy black eyes' brightness, in each graceful move, I trace the lineaments of one to whom My soul was wedded in an early love,— 'Twas in my boyhood; but the insatiate tomb Claimed her fair form, and for the realms above Her spirit fled the earth; oh! how I wept That mine should in its bondage still be kept.

I mind the hour I stood beside the clay I had so loved in life—it still was fair, Surpassing fair, in death; and as she lay With the thick tresses of her long dark hair Gathered above the brow whence feeling's ray Had fled, because death's shadow darkened there, Her more than earthly beauty made her seem The incarnation of some pure bright dream.

I stood and gazed: the pale grave sheet was wound About the form from which life's spark was fled, For ever fled,—wet eyes were weeping round, And voices full of sorrow mourned the dead; I could not weep; a sadness more profound Than that from which those heart-drops, tears, are shed, Was in my soul,—for then the icy spell Of desolation freezing o'er me fell.

And from that hour I have been alone, Alone when crowds were round me. May thy fate Be coloured with a brighter hue, and strown With flowers where mine is thorns;—where mine is hate, And strife, and bitter discord, may thine own Be love, and hope, and peace—for these create The sunshine of existence; may their light Beam ever round thee, warm, and glad, and bright.



THE LOCK OF HAIR.

It is in sooth a lovely tress, Still curled in many a ring, As glossy as the plumes that dress The raven's jetty wing. And the broad and soul-illumined brow, Above whose arch it grew, Was like the stainless mountain snow, In its purity of hue.

I mind the time 'twas given to me, The night, the hour, the spot; And the eye that pleaded silently, "Forget the giver not." Oh! myriads of stars, on high, Were smiling sweetly fair, But none was lovely as the eye That shone beside me there!

Above our heads an ancient oak Its strong, wide arms held out, And from its roots a fountain broke, With a tiny laughing shout; And the fairy people of the wild Were bending to their rest, As trustingly as sleeps the child Upon its mother's breast.

Soft, silvery cloudlets, pure and white, Along the sky were hung, As if the spirits of the night Their mantles there had flung; And then the night-breeze pensively Sighed from its unseen throne, And far o'er field, and flower, and tree, A hallowed light came down.

But in our breasts was springing up A something lovelier far, Than field, or tree, or flow'ret's cup, Or sun, or moon, or star! We heeded not the fountain near, Its song of gladness singing, For in our hearts a fount more dear, And pure, and sweet, was springing.

And she was one whom fortune's smile Had gladdened from her birth, Yet her high spirit knew no guile, No blot nor stain of earth; And I was but a friendless boy, And yet her heart was mine; I knew it, and the thought was joy, A joy all, all divine!

From out a braided mass she took This single lock of jet, And gave it with that pleading look Which, said, "Do not forget." Forget! as soon the waves that roll The ocean's caves above, May tell their secrets, as the soul Forget its earliest love.

It has been with me now for years, Long years of care and strife, And shall be with me till time wears Away my web of life. And when death's keen, resistless dart, Shall bid its sorrows cease, This tress shall rest upon my heart, Its talisman of peace.

"'Twas little she thought that I stood breathless by her side listening to the song she sang as she sat by the sea's edge, pondering so deeply, upon me too perhaps, that the white foam glimmered on her brow unheeded."

Onagh, The Pale Child of the Brehon King.

She stood beside the wide wild sea, The winds howled hoarse and high, And dark clouds, drifting drearily, Swept o'er the starless sky.

Her breast was white as mountain snow, Her locks hung loose and free, The foam that glimmered on her brow, Was scarce so pale as she.

She sang a mournful song of love, Of trusting love betrayed; Ah, why did he who won her, prove So faithless to the maid?

"Why pines my heart so wearily, Why heaves my aching breast, And why is sleep so far from me, When others are at rest?

"Thou, truant wanderer o'er the deep, The cause of all my cares; For thee at night I wake and weep, When none may mark my tears.

"I seek the festive hall no more, Its mirth no more I crave; My heart is lonely as the shore, And restless as the wave.

"My soul has struggled to forget Its sleepless, fatal flame; I know thy vows were false, and yet My love is still the same.

"Still o'er the dream I nursed too well, My bursting heart will yearn; For ever with me must it dwell,— Oh, wanderer, return!"

A white sail fluttered in the wind, A light bark skimmed the sea,— It came like hope across the mind, As swift and silently.

The shell-strewn beach that edged the main, A manly footstep pressed; The wanderer had returned again,— The maiden's heart was blessed!



THE DESERTED.

"Come, sit thee by my side once more, 'Tis long since thus we' met; And though our dream of love is o'er, Its sweetness lingers yet. Its transient day has long been past, Its flame has ceased to burn,— But Memory holds its spirit fast, Safe in her sacred urn.

"I will not chide thy wanderings, Nor ask why thou couldst flee A heart whose deep affection's springs Poured forth such love for thee! We may not curb the restless mind, Nor teach the wayward heart To love against its will, nor bind It with the chains of art.

"I would but tell thee how, in tears And bitterness, my soul Has yearned with dreams, through long, long, years, Which it could not control. And how the thought that clingeth to, And twineth round the past, For ever in my heart shall glow, And be save one my last.

"They say thou hast another's love,— Well, cherish it, but thou Its lack of strength and depth wilt prove, Should sorrow cloud thy brow. Though she may own a statelier form, A fairer cheek than mine, Her heart cannot so well and warm, Respond each throb of thine."

Her words were gentle, but their tone Was sad as sorrow's sigh,— A tear-drop trembled in his own As he sought her downcast eye. A chord was struck within his breast That long untouched had lain, Old memories started from their rest,— The maid was loved again.

Stanzas.

On! there are hours of sadness, when the soul, Torn from its every stay, and crushed beneath Its many griefs, and spurning faith's control, Pants with an earnest longing for the death Which would for ever close its dark career, With the pale shroud and the remorseless bier; When the harsh, sterile nothingness of life, First breaks upon the hope-deluded breast, And the heart sickens with the bootless strife That wrings its chords, and longs to be at rest; Ev'n if the blow that frees it from distress, Should strike it into utter nothingness.

Ah, nothingness! The thought at times will come, The mind will wrestle with the mystery That clouds its being! from its clay-made home, Its dwelling of a moment, it will flee Into the far depths of the vast UNKNOWN, In its vain searchings for th' eternal throne Of that Omnipotence which gave it birth, And, giving it a nature which might suit A seraph, bound its destiny to earth! And a few years, in which to eat the fruit Of life's strange tree, so bitter at its core, Then death, the quiet grave, sleep, and—what more?

Whence came we? whither go we? All is still And voiceless in the past! A veil is drawn Across the future! by life's mystic rill We sit and ponder, watching for the dawn Of some yet unconceived, far-reaching thought, By which our nature's secret shall be taught! Why sorrow is our element—why sin Is native in us—by what curse we bear An ever aching, crushing void within Our secret souls! and why the little share Of happiness that mingles with our fate, Is of such fleeting, transitory date 1

Our loves! our hopes! what are they? fruits which turn To ashes on our lips! illusive lights That cast a moment's brightness while they burn, Then die, and leave a darkness which affrights Our spirits with its thrice redoubled gloom, Making the sky a pall—the earth a tomb! And yet these are the all of life for which 'Tis worth the wearing of its chain to know, Wealth, fame, and power are but toys! the rich, The high and mighty, with the base and low, Alike before the reaper Death must fall,— So be it! in the grave is rest for all.

Stanzas.

When the leaf is on the tree, And the bird is in the bower, And the butterfly and bee, Bear its treasures from the flower; When the fields put on the sheen, That to young-eyed Spring belongs; When the groves and forests green, Echo with a thousand songs;

When wild Beauty wanders forth, Giving, with no stinted care, All her loveliness to earth, All her sweetness to the air: Then the heart, with gladness stirred, Mindful of its griefs no more, Mounts and carols, like a bird When the pearly shower is o'er!

But the summer's sunny hours, As we count them, pass away; And its fairest fruits and flowers, Are but food for stern decay. Then with wailings, deep and loud, Like the sea's in its unrest, Winter spreads his icy shroud, O'er the bare earth's frozen breast.

Thus the spirit's early gladness, Sorrow chills or time removes; And the soul, in tears and sadness, Mourns its perished joys and loves. Hope will lose its trusting boldness, One by one its beams depart, And Despair, with icy, coldness, Winds its mantle round the heart.



AFTER WITNESSING A DEATH-SCENE.

Press close your lips, And bow your heads to earth, for Death is here! Mark ye not how across that eye so clear, Steals his eclipse?

A moment more, And the quick throbbings of her heart shall cease, Her pain-wrung spirit will obtain release, And all be o'er!

Hush! Seal ye up Your gushing tears, for Mercy's hand hath shaken Her earth-bonds off, and from her lip hath taken Grief's bitter cup.

Ye know the dead Are they who rest secure from care and strife,— That they who walk the thorny way of life, Have tears to shed.

Ye know her pray'r, Was for the quiet of the tomb's deep rest,— Love's sepulchre lay cold within her breast, Could peace dwell there?

A tale soon told, Is of her life the story; she had loved, And he who won her heart to love, had proved Heartless and cold.

Lay her to rest, Where shines and falls the summer's sun and dew; For these should shine and fall where lies so true And fond a breast!

A full release From every pang is given to the dead,— So on the stone ye place above her head, Write only "Peace."*

When Spring comes back, With music on her lips,—joy in her eye,— Her sunny banner streaming through the sky,— Flow'rs in her track—

Then come ye here, And musing from the busy world apart, Drop on the turf that wraps her mouldering heart, Sweet Pity's tear.

* The most touchingly beautiful epitaph I have ever read, was written in that one word, "Peace." It seemed like the last sigh of a departing spirit, over the clay which it was about to abandon for ever.



LOVE AND FANCY.

"Whenever, amid bow'rs of myrtle, Love, summer-tressed and vernal-eyed, At morn or eve is seen to wander, A dark-haired girl is at his side." De La Hogue.

One morn, just as day in the far east was breaking, Young Love, who all night had been roving about, A charming siesta was quietly taking, His strength, by his rambles, completely worn out.

Round his brow a wreath, woven of every flower That springs from the hillside, or valley, was bound; In his hand was a rose he had stol'n from some bower, While his bow and his quiver lay near on the ground.

Wild Fancy just came from her kingdom of dreams, The breath of the opening day to enjoy, And to catch the warm kiss of its first golden beams On her cheek, caught a glimpse of the slumbering boy!

With a light, noiseless step she drew near to the sleeper, And gazed till her snowy-breast heaved a soft sigh; Then she bade sleep's dull god bring a sounder and deeper And heavier trance for Love's beautiful eye.

Then back to her shadowy kingdom she flow, And called up the bright mystic forms she has there; And filling an urn from a fountain of dew, She bade them all straight to Love's couch-side repair.

They came, and stood round, as her hand, o'er his pillow, From a chalice of pearl, poured its magical stream: While his red rosy lips, that now sighed like a billow At play with the breeze, told how sweet was his dream.

He dreamed that he sat on a shining throne, wrought Of the purest of gold that the earth could supply, While a trio of beautiful maids, who each brought A gift for his shrine, in succession past by.

First Fame, with the step and the glance of a queen, Came up, and before him bent down her proud knee, And held up a garland, whereon played the sheen Of the beams which insure immortality!

Next Wealth, the stern mistress of men, for whose smile They toil like the galley slave,—brought in her hand The fair gems of many an ocean isle, And the diamonds of many a far off land.

And Beauty came too, with her blue, laughing eye, Her fair flowing locks, and her soft rosy cheek, And red lips, whose sweet smile told silently The tale which they seemed ashamed to speak.

'Neath the shade of a palm branch a fourth one stood by, With locks like in hue to the tresses of Night, With a pale, pensive brow, and a dark dreamy eye, Where the soul of sweet softness lay gleaming in light!

It was Fancy: Love gazed, and his eager eye shone With a lustre of feeling, deep, fervent, and sweet; And he thought it were better to give up his throne For a place, on his knees, at the coy maiden's feet.

And from that bright hour, through calm and through storm, Through the sunlight of summer, and winter's dark reign, These twain have been bound by ties, tender and warm, Which ne'er through all time shall be severed again.

And ever where Love weaves his fond witchery, Will Fancy the aid of her brightness bestow, And give the loved object, whatever it be, A purer, a dearer, a heavenlier glow!



LINES WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM

'Tis not in youth, when life is new, when but to live is sweet, When Pleasure strews her starlike flow'rs beneath our careless feet, When Hope, that has not been deferred, first waves its golden wings, And crowds the distant future with a thousand lovely things;—

When if a transient grief o'ershades the spirit for a while, The momentary tear that falls is followed by a smile; Or if a pensive mood, at times, across the bosom steals, It scarcely sighs, so gentle is the pensiveness it feels

It is not then the, restless soul will seek for one with whom To share whatever lot it bears, its gladness or its gloom,— Some trusting, tried, and gentle heart, some true and faithful breast, Whereon its pinions it may fold, and claim a place of rest.

But oh! when comes the icy chill that freezes o'er the heart, When, one by one, the joys we shared, the hopes we held, depart; When friends, like autumn's withered leaves, have fallen by our side, And life, so pleasant once, becomes a desert wild and wide;—

As for her olive branch the dove swept o'er the sullen wave, That rolled above the olden world—its death-robe and its grave!— So will the spirit search the earth for some kind, gentle one, With it to share her destiny, and make it all her own!



TO A LADY.

Suggested By Hearing Her Voice During Services At Church.

At night, in visions, when my soul drew near The shadowy confines of the spirit land, Wild, wondrous notes of song have met my ear, Wrung from their harps by many a seraph's hand; And forms of light, too, more divinely fair Than Mercy's messenger to hearts that mourn, On wings that made sweet music in the air, Have round me, in those hours of bliss, been borne, And, filled with joy unutterable, I Have deemed myself a born child of the sky.

And often, too, at sunset's magic hour, When musing by some solitary stream, While thought awoke in its resistless pow'r, And restless Fancy wove her brightest dream: Mysterious tongues, that were not of the earth, Have whispered words which I may not repeat,— But Thought or Fancy ne'er have given birth To form and voice like thine,—so fair and sweet! Nor have I found them when my spirit's flight Had borne me to the far shores of delight.

Above the murmurs of an hundred lips, They rose, those silvery tones of praise and pray'r, Soft as the light breeze, when Aurora trips The earth, and, lighting up the darkened air, Carols her greetings to the waking flow'rs! They fell upon my heart like summer rain Upon the thirsting fields,—and earlier hours, When I too breathed th' adoring pray'r and strain, Came back once more; the present was beguiled Of half its gloom, and my worn spirit smiled.

Pray, lady, that the sad, soul-searing blight, Which comes upon us when we tread the ways Of sin, may not be suffered to alight On thy pure spirit in its youthful days; Or like the fruitage of the Dead Sea shore, Tho' outward bloom and freshness thou may'st be, Stern bitterness and death will gnaw thy core, And thou wilt be a heart-scathed thing like me, Bearing the weight of many years, ere thou Hast lost youth's rosy cheek and lineless brow.



IMPROMPTU, On The Reception Of A Letter.

I would love to have thee near me, But when I think how drear Is each hope that used to cheer me, I cease to wish thee here.

I know that thou, wouldst not shrink from The storms that burst on me, But the bitter chalice I drink from, I will not pass to thee.

I would share the world with thee, were it With all its pleasures mine, But the sorrows which I inherit, I never will make thine!



THE OLD MAN AND THE BOY.

"Glenara, Glenara, now read me my dream." Campbell.

Father, I have dreamed a dream, When the rosy morning hour Poured its light on field and stream, Kindling nature with its pow'r;—

O'er the meadow's dewy breast, I had chased a butterfly, Tempted by its gaudy vest, Still my vain pursuit to ply,—

Till my limbs were weary grown, With the distance I had strayed, Then to rest I laid me down, Where a beech tree cast its shade,

Soon a heaviness came o'er me, And a deep sleep sealed my eyes; And a vision past before me, Full of changing phantasies.

First I stood beside a bower, Green as summer bow'r could be; Vine and fruit, and leaf and flower, Mixed to weave its canopy.

And within reclined a form, As embodied moonlight fair, With a soft cheek, fresh and warm, Deep blue eye and sunny hair.

By her side a goblet stood, Such as bacchanalians brim; High the rich grape's crimson blood, Sparkled o'er its gilded rim.

As I gazed, she bowed her head, With a gay and graceful move, And in words of music said, "Drink, and learn the lore of love!"

Next I stood beside a mountain, Of majestic form and height; Cliff and crag, and glen and fountain, Mingled to make up its might.

On its lofty brow were growing Flowers never chilled by gloom, For the sky above them glowing, Dyed them with a deathless bloom.

And I saw the crystal dome, Wondrous in its majesty, Where earth's great ones find a home, When their spirits are set free.

By its portals, I espied One who kept the courts within; High he waved a wreath and cried, "Come up hither,—strive and win!"

Then my vision changed again: In a fairy-coloured shell, O'er the wide sea's pathless plain, I was speeding, fast and well.

Suddenly, beneath its prow, Parted were the azure waves, And I saw where, far below, Yawn the vast deep's secret caves.

Where the Syren sings her song, To old Ocean's sons and daughters; And the mermaids dance along, To the music of the waters.

Where the coral forest o'er, Storm or tempest ne'er is driven And the gems that strew its floor, Sparkle like the stars in heaven.

Treasures, such as never eye Of the earth has looked upon, Gold and pearls of many a dye, There in rich profusion shone.

And a voice came to my ear, Saying, in a stern, cold tone, Such as chills the heart with fear, "Seize and make the prize thine own."

Then across a clouded wild, Lone and drear and desolate, Where no cheerful cottage smiled, I pursued the steps of fate.

Ever bearing in my breast, Thoughts almost to madness wrought; Ever, ever seeking rest, Never finding what I Sought—

Till I gave my wanderings o'er, By a black and icy stream,— Deep I plunged and knew no more:— Father, read me now my dream.

The old man bowed his head, And pressed his thin hand to his withered brow, As if he struggled with some rising thought Which should have kept its place in memory's urn Till he had cast the shadow from his soul, Which for a while had bound it in a spell Born of the bygone years,—then thus he spoke:

Now listen, boy, and I will show to thee The import of thy vision,—I will tell Thee what its scenes and shapes of mystery Foreshadow of the future,—for full well I know the wizard lore, whose witchery Binds e'en the time to come in its wild spell! And from approaching years a knowledge wrings Of what they bear upon their viewless wings.

Along life's weary way of pain and care, From earliest infancy to eldest age, Forms, viewless as the soft-breathed summer air, Attend man's footsteps in his pilgrimage; And if his destiny be dark or fair, If Pleasure gilds, or Sorrow blots the page Whereon is traced his history, still his ear Will ever catch their warning voices near.

And they—those guardian ones, who, while thy sleep Hung o'er thee like a curtain, came around And fanned thee till thy slumber grew more deep,— Flung o'er thy rest, so perfect and profound, A dream whose mem'ry thou shouldst ever keep Bound to thy spirit, for altho' it wound, Thy young heart now, perchance, in after years, 'Twill save thee much of toil, and many tears.

It was a dream of life: of boyhood's strong And soul-consuming yearnings after love! His eager search to find, amid the throng, Some heart to give him thought for thought—to move And mingle with his own, as twines the song From Beauty's lyre and lips! to know and prove The dearest joy to care-cursed mortals given, The one with least of earth, and most of heaven

Of manhood's ceaseless strivings after fame,— The veriest phantom of all phantasies— For which he wields the sword, or lights the flame Whose red glare mocks a nation's agonies,— Or by his star-outwatching taper, plies His pen or pencil, to gain—what? a name, A passing sound—an echo—a mere breath, Which he, vain fool, dreams mightier than death!

And of a later period, when the soul Forsakes its high resolves and wild desires, When stern Ambition can no more control, And Love has shrouded o'er its smothered fires; When Expectation ceases to console, And Hope, the last kind comforter, expires; And Avarice, monster of the gilded vest, Creeps in and occupies the vacant breast.

And then the last sad scene: The sick heart, sore And fainting from its wounds—the palsied limb— The brow whose death-sweat peeps from every pore— The eye with its long, weary watch grown dim— The withered, wan cheek, that shall bloom no more— The last dregs dripping slowly from the brim Of life's drained cup,—behind all gloom, before A deep, dark gulf—we plunge, and all is o'er!



ACLE AT THE GRAVE OF NERO.

It is a circumstance connected with the history of Nero, that every spring and summer, for many years after his death, fresh and beautiful flowers were nightly scattered upon his grave by some unknown hand.

Tradition relates that it was done by a young maiden of Corinth, named Acle, whom Nero had brought to Rome from her native city, whither he had gone in the disguise of an artist, to contend in the Nemean, Isthinian, and Floral games, celebrated there; and whence he returned conqueror in the Palaestra, the chariot race, and the song; bearing with him, like Jason of old, a second Medea, divine in form and feature as the first, and who like her had left father, friends, and country, to follow a stranger.

Even the worse than savage barbarity of this sanguinary tyrant, had not cut him off from all human affection; and those flowers were doubtless the tribute of that young girl's holy and enduring love!

Whose name is on yon lettered stone? whose ashes rest beneath? That thus you come with flowers to deck the mournful home of death; And thou—why darkens so thy brow with grief's untimely gloom? Thou art fitter for a bride than for a watcher by the tomb!

"It is the name of one whose deeds made men grow pale with fear, And Nero's, stranger, is the dust that lies sepulchred here; That name may be a word of harsh and boding sound to thee, But oh! it has a more than mortal melody for me!

"And I,—my heart has grown to age in girlhood's fleeting years, And has one only task—to bathe its buried love in tears; The all of life that yet remains to me is but its breath; Then tell me, is it meet that I should seek the bridal wreath?"

But maiden, he of whom you speak was of a savage mood, That took its joy alone in scenes, of carnage, tears and blood; His dark, wild spirit bore the stain of crime's most loathsome hue, And love is for the high of soul—the gentle and the true.

"The voice that taught an abject world to tremble at its words, To me was mild and musical, and mellow as a bird's— A bird's—that couched among the green, broad branches of the date, Tells, in its silvery songs, its gushing gladness to its mate.

"I saw him first beside the sea; near to ray father's home, When like an ocean deity he bounded from the foam; Ev'n then a glory seemed to breathe around him as he trod, And my haughty soul was bowed, as in the presence of a God.

I knew not, till my heart was his, the darkness of his own, Nor dreamed that he who knelt to me was master of a throne! And when the fearful knowledge came, its coming was in vain,— I had forsaken all for him, and would do so again."

Is love the offspring of the will? or is it, like a flower, So frail that it may fade and be forgotten in an hour? No, no! it springs unbidden where the heart's deep fountains play, And cherished by their hallowed dew, it cannot pass away!



THE VENETIAN GIRL'S EVENING SONG.

Unmoor the skiff,—unmoor the skiff,— The night wind's sigh is on the air, And o'er the highest Alpine cliff, The pale moon rises, broad and clear. The murmuring waves are tranquil now, And on their breast each twinkling star With which Night gems her dusky brow, Flings its mild radiance from afar.

Put off upon the deep blue sea, And leave the banquet and the ball; For solitude, when shared with thee, Is dearer than the carnival. And in my heart are thoughts of love, Such thoughts as lips should only breathe, When the bright stars keep watch above, And the calm waters sleep beneath!

The tale I have for thee, perchance, May to thine eye anew impart The long-lost gladness of its glance, And soothe the sorrows of thy heart; Come, I will sing for thee again, The songs which once our mothers sung, Ere tyranny its galling chain On them, and those they loved, had hung.

Thou'rt sad; thou say'st that in the halls Which echoed once our father's tread, The stranger's idle footstep falls, With sound that might awake the dead! The mighty dead! whose dust around An atmosphere of reverence sheds; If aught of earthly voice or sound, Might reach them in their marble beds.

That she to whom the deep gave birth,— Fair Venice! to whose queenly stores The wealth and beauty of the earth Were wafted from an hundred shores! Now on her wave-girt site, forlorn, Sits shrouded in affliction's night,— The object of the tyrant's scorn, Sad monument of fallen might.

Well, tho' in her deserted halls The fire on Freedom's shrine is dead, Tho' o'er her darkened, crumbling walls, Stern Desolation's pall is spread; Is not the second better part, To that which rends the despot's chain, To wear it with a dauntless heart, To feel yet shrink not from its pain?

Then let the creeping ivy twine Its wreaths about each ruined arch, Till Time shall crush them in the brine, Beneath its all-triumphant march! Then let the swelling waters close Above the sea-child's sinking frame, And hide for ever from her foes, Each trace and vestige of her shame.

Shall we at last less calmly sleep, When in the narrow death-house pent, Because the bosom of the deep Shall be our only monument? No! by the waste of waters bid, Our tombs as well shall keep their trust, As tho' a marble pyramid Were piled above our mangled dust!

Written in the National Gallery, at the city of Washington, on looking at a Mummy, supposed to have belonged to a race extinct before the occupation of the Western Continent by the people in whose possession the Europeans found it.

Sole and mysterious relic of a race That long has ceased to be, whose very name, Time, ever bearing on with steady pace, Has swept away from earth, leaving thy frame, Darkened by thirty centuries, to claim, Among the records of the things that were, Its place,—Tradition has forgot thee—Fame, If ever fame was thine, has ceased to bear Her record of thee,—say, what dost thou here?

Three thousand years ago a mother's arms Were wrapped about that dark and ghastly form, And all the loveliness of childhood's charms Glowed on that cheek, with life then flushed and warm; Say, what preserved thee from the hungry worm That haunts with gnawing tooth the gloomy bed Spread for the lifeless? Tell what could disarm Decay of half its power, and while it fed On empires—races—make it spare the dead!

How strange to contemplate the wondrous story, When those deep sunken eyes first saw the light, Lost Babylon was in her midday glory,— Upon her pride and power had fall'n no blight; And Tyre, the ancient mariner's delight, Whose merchantmen were princes, and whose name Was theme of praise to all, has left her site To utter barren nakedness and shame,— Yet thou, amid all change, art still the same.

And she who, by the "yellow Tiber's" side, Sits wrapped in her dark veil of widowhood, With scarce a glimmer of her ancient pride, To cheer the gloom of that deep solitude Which o'er the seat of vanquished pow'r doth brood, Since thou wast born has seen her glories rise, Burn, and expire! quenched by the streams of blood Which her slaves drew from her own veins, the price Of usurpation, proud Ambition's sacrifice!

And darker in her fate, and sadder still, The sacred city of the minstrel king, That proudly sat on Zion's holy hill, The wonder of the world! Destruction's wing Hath from her swept each fair and goodly thing; Her palaces and temples! where are they? Her walls and marble tow'rs lie mouldering, Her glory to the spoiler's hand a prey,— And yet time spares a portion of thy clay!

And thou art here amid a stranger race, To whom these shores four centuries ago, Tho' now proud Freedom's boasted dwelling-place, Were all unknown; the wide streams that now flow Where Cultivation's hand has steered her plough, Had then but seen the forest huntsman guide His light canoe across the waves which now Reflect the snowy sails that waft in pride The stately ship along their rippling tide.

Thou art the silent messenger of ages, Sent back to tread with Time his constant way, To shame the wisdom of conceited sages, Whose lore is but a thing of yesterday; What would their best, their brightest visions weigh Beside the fearful truths thou couldst reveal? The secrets of eternity now lay Unveiled before thee, and for we or weal, Thy doom is fixed beyond ev'n heaven's repeal.

I will not ask thee of the mysteries That lie beyond Death's shadowy vale; but thou Mayst tell us of the fate the Destinies Wove for thine earthly sojourn. Was thy brow Graced with the poet's, hero's garland? How Dealt Fortune with thee? Did she curse or bless Thee with her frown or smile? Speak! thou art now Among the living,—they around thee press. Still silent? Then thy lot we can but guess.

Perhaps thou wast a monarch, and hast worn The sceptre of some real El Dorado! Perhaps a warrior, and those arms have borne The foremost shield, and dealt the deadliest blow That drew the life-blood of a warring foe! Perhaps thou wor'st the courtier's gilded thrall,— Some glittering court's gay, proud papilio! Perchance a clown, the jester of some hall, The slave of one man, and the fool of all!

Oh life! and pride! and honour! come and see To what a depth your visions tumble down! Behold your wearer,—who shall say if he Were monarch, warrior, parasite, or clown! And ye, who talk of glory and renown, And call them bright and deathless! and who break Each dearer tie to grasp fame's gilded crown, Come, hear instruction from this shadow speak, And learn how valueless the prize ye seek!

See where ambition's loftiest flight doth tend, Behold the doom perhaps of blood-bought fame, And know that all which earth can give must end, In dust and ashes, and an empty name! Ye passions! which defy our pow'r to tame Or curb your headlong tides, behold your home! Love! see the breast where thou didst light thy flame! Immortal spirit! see thy shattered dome! When shall its hour of renovation come?

Shall life possess, and beauty deck again That withered form, and foul and dusky cheek? Will Death resign his dull and frozen reign, And the immortal soul return to seek Her long-deserted dwelling, and to break The bondage which has held in icy chains All that was mortal of thee? will she make Her home in thee, and shall these poor remains Share with her heaven's pleasures or hell's pains?

Wonder of wonders! who could look on thee And afterward survey with curious eye The mouldering shrines where dupes have bent the knee, Where superstition, by hypocrisy Nurtured and fed with tales of mystery, Has oft with timid footstep trembling trod,— All these are worse than nothing; come and see Where once a deathless soul held its abode,— The wrecked and ruined palace of a God!

Farewell! Not idly has this hour been spent. Thy silent teachings I may not forget,— More deeply, strangely, truly eloquent, Than all the babbled words which ever yet Have fall'n from living lips,—they shall be set With the bright gems which Wisdom loves to keep; And when my spirit against fate would fret, My eyes shall turn to thee and cease to weep, Till I too sleep death's deep and dreamless sleep!



TO ISABEL.

Come near me with thy lips, and, breathe o'er mine Their breath, for I consume with love's desire,— Thine ivory arms about me clasp and twine, And beam upon mine eye thine eye's soft fire; Clasp me yet closer, till my heart feels thine Thrill, as the chords of Memnon's mystic lyre Thrilled at the sun's uprising! thou who art The lone, the worshipped idol of my heart!

There! balmier than the south wind, when it brings The scent of aromatic shrub and tree, And tropic flower on ifs glowing wings, Thine odorous breath is wafted over me; How to thy dewy lips mine own lip clings, And my whole being is absorbed in thee; And in my breast thine eyes have lit a fire That never, never, never shall expire!

Eternal—is it not eternal—this Our passionate love? what pow'r shall part us twain? Not even Death! Life could bestow no bliss Like death with thee, and I would rend its chain If thou shouldst perish, for my heaven is To gaze upon thee! I could bear all pain Unsighing, so not parted from thy side, My beautiful! my spirit's chosen bride!

They try to woo me from thy fond embrace, To lure me from the light of those dear eyes; They tell me that in fortune's arduous chase, I have such fleetness as would win the prize;— But all the pomps of circumstance and place, A glance, a word, a smile of thine outvies! Leave Fortune to her parasites! mine be The blessed lot to dwell with love and thee.

To lead thee on through life, and to enlarge Thy soul with added knowledge, day by day, To guard thee, as an angel guards his charge, From every ill that lurks along the way! To smooth that rugged way, and strew its marge With the bright flowrs that never can decay,— This were a lot too glorious, too divine, And yet Hope whispers that it shall be mine.

Now listen, love,—this plan shall rule my life And thine:—In some remote and sunny dell, Far from the crowded city's silly strife, My hands shall rear the home where we will dwell; Shall till the soil, with fertile fruitage rife, And teach the golden ear to shoot and swell; And my sole wished for recompense shall be My ever growing, deep'ning love for thee.

Thy task shall be to train the trailing vine, To watch, and cherish in its growth, the flow'r Whose breath and cheek are sweet and fair as thine; To bless and brighten the domestic bow'r Where we will build to Love a hallowed shrine, And bow us, in his worship, every hour; Till, chastened by thy smile, my heart has grown As pure, and soft, and sinless as thine own.

Oh, hasten, love! to realize the dream,— Come from the world,—the crowd is not for thee; Forsake it then, ere the contagious steam Of its foul breath has soiled thy purity;— Come, for my heart would burst could I but deem That such as they are, thou couldst ever be! Come, for my soul adores thee with a love As burning as the seraphs feel above.

These lines are inscribed to the memory of John Q. Carlin, killed at Buena Vista.

Warrior of the youthful brow, Eager heart and eagle eye! Pants thy soul for battle now? Burns thy glance with victory? Dost thou dream of conflicts done, Perils past and trophies won? And a nation's grateful praise Given to thine after days?

Bloodless is thy cheek, and cold As the clay upon it prest; And in many a slimy fold, Winds the grave-worm round thy breast. Thou wilt join the fight no more,— Glory's dream with thee is o'er,— And alike are now to thee Greatness and obscurity.

But an ever sunny sky, O'er thy place of rest is bending; And above thy grave, and nigh, Flowers ever bright are blending. O'er thy dreamless, calm repose, Balmily the south wind blows,— With the green turf on thy breast, Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest!

When the alarum first was sounded, Marshalling in arms the brave, Forth thy fearless spirit bounded, To obtain thee—what? A grave! Fame had whispered in thine ear, Words the high-souled love to hear,— But the ruthless hand of death From thee snatched the hero's wreath.

Often will the grief-shade start O'er thy sister's mood of joy, Vainly will thy mother's heart Yearn to greet her absent boy; Never sister's lip shall press On thine own its fond caress,— Never more a mother's eye Flash in pride when thou art by!

Where the orange, bending lowly With its golden fruit, is swaying; And the Indian maiden, slowly By her native stream is straying; O'er thy dreamless, calm repose, Balmily the South wind blows,— With the green turf on thy breast, Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest!



A LEGEND OF THE HARTZ.

Many ages ago, near the high Hartz, there dwelt A rude race of blood-loving giants, who felt No joy but the fierce one which Carnage bestows, When her foul lips are clogged with the blood of her foes.

And fiercer and bolder than all of the rest Was Bohdo,(1) their chieftain;—'twas strange that a breast, Which nothing like kindness or pity might move, Should glow with the warmth and the rapture of love.

Yet he loved, and the pale mountain-monarch's fair child Was the maid of his heart; but tho' burning and wild Was the love that he bore her, it won no return, And the flame that consumed him was answered with scorn.

Now the lady is gone with her steed to the plain,— Save the falcon and hound there is none in her train; She needs none to guide, or to guard her from harm There's no fear in her heart, there is strength in her arm.

From her white wrist unhooded her falcon she threw, Her bow like Diana, the huntress, she drew; And fleet as the fetterless bird swept the sky, So on her proud steed swept the fair lady by.

See how her eye sparkles, and how her cheek glows, As onward so fearless and proudly she goes, With her locks streaming back like a banner of gold, Were she not, say, a bride meet for Nimrod(2) of old?

And he saw her—the chief, from his tower afar— As she glanced o'er the earth like some wandering star; And he swore she should come in that tower to dwell, Or his soul be a prize to the spirits of hell.

His war-horse he mounted, and, swift as the shoot Of the night-gathered meteor, he sped in pursuit,— Breathing out, as he went, mad with love and with hate, Bitter curse upon curse against heaven and fate.

Urging on his fleet courser with spur and with rein, He swept o'er the earth as the storm sweeps the plain,— And the fair lady knew, by the gleam of his shield, It was Bohdo, the scourge of the red battle field!

Then spurred she her steed over valley and hill, Over rock, marsh and moor, over river and rill, Yet still her eye sparkled, and still her cheek glowed, As onward so fleetly and bravely she rode.

Thus over Thuringia sped she away, With the speed of the hawk when he darts on his prey,— Or an arrow let loose from a warrior's bow, When it speeds with sure aim to the heart of his foe.

Then the Hartz, the wild Hartz—the terrific—the proud! Where the mist-spirit dwells in his palace of cloud! Where the evil ones gather in envious wrath, To blight and to blast,—towered up in her path.

Still her cheek kept its glow, still her eye flashed in pride, As onward she flew up the steep mountain side; And fierce as the tempest, and fleet as the wind, Stern Bohdo, the ruthless, still followed behind.

To a fearful abyss, whose unhallowed name(3) By the powers of darkness was given, she came, And the whirlpool's wild voice, from the dark gulf below, Came up like the wail of a soul in its we.

Beyond rose the rocky shelf, barren and bare, Beneath lay the whirlpool, around her despair, Behind her came one, sweeping on in the chase, Whose grasp was more dreaded than death's cold embrace.

Then she called on the spirits who watch round the brave, In peril to nerve, to assist and to save, Closed calmly her eyes, as one sinking in sleep, And urged her proud steed to the terrible leap!

A moment it paused on the high precipice, Then sprang, boldly sprang, o'er the frightful abyss! And struck its firm hoof in the rock till the sound Shook the hills, and the sparks flew like lightning around!

And the foot-print it left has remained to this day, And no rain-flood or tempest shall wear it away; She was saved—the brave Emma was saved—but her crown, From her fair brow unloosed, in the whirlpool sank down.

On, on came the chief, in his fierceness and wrath, Nor saw he the wide gulf that yawned in his path,— And soon, in the depths of its fathomless tide, The warrior and war-steed were laid side by side.

And the mountaineer tells how in sullen despair, His ghost, imannealed of its sins, lingers there; Ever watching, pale, silent, untiring, unmoved, The bright golden crown of the maiden he loved.

A diver once, lured by the wealth of the prize, Sought out the deep cave where it lay, and still lies, And where, chained by a spirit-breathed spell, it shall stay, Till the whirlpool and mountain alike pass away.

Twice he rose with the crown, till its gleaming points blazed On the eyes of the wondering thousands who gazed, Twice it fell from his grasp, and sank quickly again To the bed where for years undisturbed it had lain.

He followed,—this effort the treasure may earn— But vainly they watch who await his return; A red hue of blood tinged the deep waters o'er, But the diver came up from their dark depths no more.

1. Bohdo. This hero, as his character is drawn in the original legend, or tradition, from which the material of these verses was taken (a tradition which gives the popular account of the formation of an immense mark or cavity in a rock, called the "Rosstrappe" or "Horse's footstep,") is worthy of being enrolled among Odin's Berserker.

2. Nimrod. "A mighty hunter before the Lord." He built Babylon and founded that royal line which terminated with the death of Sardanapalus; whose gentleness and aversion to blood spilling, together with his passion for his "Ionian Myrrha," cost him an empire, and gained him an immortality.

3. "It was named," says the tradition, "The Devil's dancing-place, from the triumph there of the spirits of hell."

THE END