X "Were I the Poet-Laureate of the Fairies"

(Written on a very small sheet of note-paper)



Were I the poet-laureate of the fairies, Who in a rose-leaf finds too broad a page; Or could I, like your beautiful canaries, Sing with free heart and happy, in a cage; Perhaps I might within this little space (As in some Eastern tale, by magic power, A giant is imprisoned in a flower) Have told you something with a poet's grace. But I need wider limits, ampler scope, A world of freedom for a world of passion, And even then, the glory of my hope Would not be uttered in its stateliest fashion; Yet, lady, when fit language shall have told it, You'll find one little heart enough to hold it!



XI "Which Are the Clouds, and Which the Mountains? See"



Which are the clouds, and which the mountains? See, They mix and melt together! Yon blue hill Looks fleeting as the vapors which distill Their dews upon its summit, while the free And far-off clouds, now solid, dark, and still, An aspect wear of calm eternity. Each seems the other, as our fancies will— The cloud a mount, the mount a cloud, and we Gaze doubtfully. So everywhere on earth, This foothold where we stand with slipping feet, The unsubstantial and substantial meet, And we are fooled until made wise by Time. Is not the obvious lesson something worth, Lady? or have I wov'n an idle rhyme?



XII "What Gossamer Lures Thee Now? What Hope, What Name"



What gossamer lures thee now? What hope, what name Is on thy lips? What dreams to fruit have grown? Thou who hast turned ONE Poet-heart to stone, Is thine yet burning with its seraph flame? Let me give back a warning of thine own, That, falling from thee many moons ago, Sank on my soul like the prophetic moan Of some young Sibyl shadowing her own woe. The words are thine, and will not do thee wrong, I only bind their solemn charge to song. Thy tread is on a quicksand—oh! be wise! Nor, in the passionate eagerness of youth, MISTAKE THY BOSOM-SERPENT'S GLITTERING EYES FOR THE CALM LIGHTS OF REASON AND OF TRUTH.



XIII "I Thank You, Kind and Best Beloved Friend"



I thank you, kind and best beloved friend, With the same thanks one murmurs to a sister, When, for some gentle favor, he hath kissed her, Less for the gifts than for the love you send, Less for the flowers than what the flowers convey, If I, indeed, divine their meaning truly, And not unto myself ascribe, unduly, Things which you neither meant nor wished to say, Oh! tell me, is the hope then all misplaced? And am I flattered by my own affection? But in your beauteous gift, methought I traced Something above a short-lived predilection, And which, for that I know no dearer name, I designate as love, without love's flame.



XIV "Are These Wild Thoughts, Thus Fettered in My Rhymes"



Are these wild thoughts, thus fettered in my rhymes, Indeed the product of my heart and brain? How strange that on my ear the rhythmic strain Falls like faint memories of far-off times! When did I feel the sorrow, act the part, Which I have striv'n to shadow forth in song? In what dead century swept that mingled throng Of mighty pains and pleasures through my heart? Not in the yesterdays of that still life Which I have passed so free and far from strife, But somewhere in this weary world I know, In some strange land, beneath some orient clime, I saw or shared a martyrdom sublime, And felt a deeper grief than any later woe.



XV In Memoriam—Harris Simons



True Christian, tender husband, gentle Sire, A stricken household mourns thee, but its loss Is Heaven's gain and thine; upon the cross God hangs the crown, the pinion, and the lyre: And thou hast won them all. Could we desire To quench that diadem's celestial light, To hush thy song and stay thy heavenward flight, Because we miss thee by this autumn fire? Ah, no! ah, no!—chant on!—soar on!—Reign on! For we are better—thou art happier thus; And haply from the splendor of thy throne, Or haply from the echoes of thy psalm, Something may fall upon us, like the calm To which thou shalt hereafter welcome us!



POEMS NOW FIRST COLLECTED



Song Composed for Washington's Birthday,

and Respectfully Inscribed to the Officers and Members of the Washington Light Infantry of Charleston, February 22, 1859



A hundred years and more ago A little child was born— To-day, with pomp of martial show, We hail his natal morn.

Who guessed as that poor infant wept Upon a woman's knee, A nation from the centuries stept As weak and frail as he?

Who saw the future on his brow Upon that happy morn? We are a mighty nation now Because that child was born.

To him, and to his spirit's scope, Besides a glorious home, We owe that what we have and hope Are more than Greece and Rome.



A Bouquet



Take first a Cowslip, then an Asphodel, A bridal Rose, some snowy Orange flowers; A Lily next, and by its spotless bell Place the bright Iris, darling of the showers; Set gold Nasturtiums, Elder blooms between, And Heart's-ease to the Orchis marry sweetly; Then with red Pinks, and slips of Evergreen, You will possess—all folded up discreetly— In one bouquet, that none but you may know, The name I love beyond all names below.



Lines: "I Stooped from Star-Bright Regions"



I stooped from star-bright regions, where Thou canst not enter even in prayer; And thought to light thy heart and hearth With all the poesy of earth.

Oh, foolish hope! those mystic gleams To thee were unsubstantial dreams; The paltry world had made thee blind, And shut thy heart and dulled thy mind.

I was a vassal at thy feet, And cringed more meanly than was meet, And since I dared not to be free, Was scouted as a slave should be.

I gave thee all—my truth, my trust— I bowed my spirit in the dust, I put a crown upon thy brow, And am its proper victim now.



A Trifle



I know not why, but ev'n to me My songs seem sweet when read to thee.

Perhaps in this the pleasure lies— I read my thoughts within thine eyes.

And so dare fancy that my art May sink as deeply as thy heart.

Perhaps I love to make my words Sing round thee like so many birds,

Or, maybe, they are only sweet As they seem offerings at thy feet.

Or haply, Lily, when I speak, I think, perchance, they touch thy cheek,

Or with a yet more precious bliss, Die on thy red lips in a kiss.

Each reason here—I cannot tell— Or all perhaps may solve the spell.

But if she watch when I am by, Lily may deeper see than I.



Lines: "I Saw, or Dreamed I Saw, Her Sitting Lone"



I saw, or dreamed I saw, her sitting lone, Her neck bent like a swan's, her brown eyes thrown On some sweet poem—his, I think, who sings Oenone, or the hapless Maud: no rings Flashed from the dainty fingers, which held back Her beautiful blonde hair. Ah! would these black Locks of mine own were mingling with it now, And these warm lips were pressed against her brow! And, as she turned a page, methought I heard— Hush! could it be?—a faintly murmured word, It was so softly dwelt on—such a smile Played on her brow and wreathed her lip the while That my heart leaped to hear it, and a flame Burned on my forehead—Sa'ra!—'t was my name.



Sonnet: "If I Have Graced No Single Song of Mine"



If I have graced no single song of mine With thy sweet name, they all are full of thee; Thou art my Muse, my "May", my "Madeline": But "Julia"!—ah! that gentle name to me Is something far too sacred for the throng Of worldly listeners 'round me. Yet ev'n now I weave a chaplet for thy sinless brow;— Wilt thou not wear it? 'T is a fashionable song,— I will not say of what,—but on it I Have wreaked heart, mind, my love, my hopes of fame, Yet after all it hath no nobler aim Than thy dear praise. Ere many moons pass by, When the lost gem is set, the crown complete, I'll lay a poet's tribute at thy feet.



To Rosa——: Acrostic



I took a Rosebud from a certain bower, And by its side placed an Orange flower, Then with the Speedwell, blended the perfume And the sweet beauty of an Apple-bloom, And thus, 't is one of the loveliest feats, Is spelled a gentle lady's name in sweets.



Dedication

To Fairy



Do you recall—I know you do— A little gift once made to you— A simple basket filled with flowers, All favorites of our Southern bowers?

One was a snowy myrtle-bud, Another blushed as if with blood, A third was pink of softest tinge, Then came a disk with purple fringe.

You took them with a happy smile, And nursed them for a little while, And once or twice perhaps you thought Of the fond messages they brought.

And yet you could not then divine The promise in that gift of mine,— In those bright blooms and odors sweet, I laid this volume at your feet.

At yours, my child, who scarcely know How much to your dear self I owe,— Too young and innocent as yet To guess in what consists the debt.

Therefore to you henceforth belong These Southern asphodels of song, Less MY creations than your own, What praise they win are yours alone.

For here no fancy finds a place But is an affluence of your grace;— And when my songs are sweetest, then A Dream like you hath touched my pen.

THE END