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LIZZIE'S POEMS, 
 
''Oh! glorious Youth 
 Is the true age of prophecy, when Truth 
 Stands bared in beauty, and the young blood boils 
 To hurl us in her arms, before the blur 
 
 Of time makes dull her rounded form, 
 
 Or the cold blood recoils 
 From the polluted swarm 
 Of armed Chimeras that environ her." 
 
POEMS 
 
 BY LIZZIE WILSON, 
 
 WITH A 
 
 BIOGRAPHY 
 
 •• Break, break, hveak ! 
 
 On thy cold grey ston*, oh Sea ! 
 And I would that my tongue could utter 
 The thoughts that arise in me ! "' 
 
 LOUISVILLE: 
 
 HULL & BKOTHER, MAIN S T R E K T. 
 ] 8 G 0. 
 

 ?33 
 
 
 
^ .)t 4c- * * 4t ^ "What hast thou to do 
 With looking through the lattice-lights at me, 
 
 A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through 
 The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree? 
 
 The chrism is on thy head — on mine the dew — 
 And Death must dig the level when these agree,' 
 
TO 
 
 GEORGE D. PRENTICE, 
 
 THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED, 
 BY THE 
 
 MOTHER OF THE AUTHORESS, 
 
 AS AN EARNEST EXPRESSION OP THANKS FOR THE 
 
 KIND ASSISTANCE, JUDICIOUS ADVICB, AND CHEERING ENCOURAGEMBNf 
 
 WHICH HE BESTOWED ON THE 
 
 FIRSTLINGS OF HER DAUGHTER'S MUSE. 
 
 THOUGH THE YOUNG OBJECT OF HIS SOLICITUDE NOW 
 
 " SLEEPS THE SLEEP THAT KNOWS NO WAKING," 
 
 HER ANGEL SPIRIT WILL RE-ECHO A MOTHER's PRAYER FOR THE 
 
 HEALTH AND PROSPERITY OP ONE 
 
 WHO HAS GIVEN SO MUCH GENIAL AID TO THE 
 
 EARLY ASPIRATIONS OP THE YOUNG POETESSES OP AMERICA. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Obituary, .17 
 
 Biography, 23 
 
 To Lily S. Clark, 28 
 
 To Lizzie W., 29 
 
 To the Memory of Lizzie, 30 
 
 To the '* '^ ..... 33 
 
 To Lizzie, 35 
 
 Poe:ms — 
 
 Love's Changes, 49 
 
 My Sixteenth Birth-Day, 56 
 
 I Love to be Loved, 58 
 
 To My Mother, 60 
 
 To Emmeline Fontaine, 62 
 
 i 
 
xii. Contents. 
 
 To R P., 64 
 
 Night, 66 
 
 To Emma Knight, . . . . . . .68 
 
 The Child's Prayer, 70 
 
 Audly Egerton to his Beloved, .... 72 
 
 On Meeting a School Teacher, .... 74 
 
 Impromptu. — At a Party, 77 
 
 To G * * * *, 78 
 
 The Black Veil, 79 
 
 Whom do I Love, 81 
 
 Memory's Spell, <S4 
 
 My Own, . . ' si 
 
 Thou art Gone, 88 
 
 Respect thy Mother, ...... 90 
 
 To Lida H. Dow, 92 
 
 To Mary, . 94 
 
 A Reverie, 96 
 
 Take back the Ring, 97 
 
 Think of Me, 99 
 
 To James Oldham, 101 
 
 To * * * ^ ^.— A Love Song, .... 103 1 
 
 A Song, 105 
 
Contents. xiii. 
 
 The Triumph of Duty,— A Song, . . . .106 
 
 I Miss Thee, .108 
 
 Regrets of Life, .110 
 
 You Cannot Forget Me, 112 
 
 Genius, 114 
 
 To Mr. John F. and Mary Wilson, ... 116 
 
 To My Phantom Lover, 118 
 
 To Miss Lou Gross, ...... 120 
 
 To * « * * * 123 
 
 Haunted. — A Memory, 125 
 
 Language of the Heart, . . . . . .128 
 
 To Carrie WUson, ■ 131 
 
 Love Plaint, 133 
 
 The Watcher, 135 
 
 To a Poetess, 137 
 
 Nature and Art, 140 
 
 A Prayer, . . 146 
 
 Leoline, Z' ^^^ 
 
 OnaBoquet, ....*.... 154 
 
 Aline. — A Fragment, 155 
 
 To Mary J ^ * * n 161 
 
 Two Portraits, ...... 162 
 
xiv. Contents. 
 
 To Amelia W "^ * ^ *, 167 
 
 Love's Musings, 169 
 
 Second Love, 173 
 
 To May, 177 
 
 Tlie Mockery of Life, 179 
 
 A Girl's Thoughts, 183 
 
 Stanzas, 186 
 
 To Lizzie's Eyes, . - . . . . 188 
 
 Anna Maria Welby, 191 
 
 Wind o'er Graves, . . ... 194 
 
 Lizzie, 198 
 
 The After-Thought, .... .200 
 
"0 Land! Land! 
 
 For all the broken-hearted 
 
 The mildest herald by one fate allotted, 
 Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 
 To lead us with a gentle hand, 
 
 Into the land of the great Departed — ■ 
 Into the silent Land ! " 
 
PETIT AD ASTRA, 
 
 BORN 
 
 December 30, 1835, 
 
 DIED 
 
 March 19, 1858. 
 
BIOGRAPHY. 
 
"O Child I O new-born denizen 
 
 Of life's great city ! on thy head 
 The glory of the morn is shed, 
 Like a celestial benison!" 
 
BIOGEAPHY. 
 
 It is a task of no ordinary difficulty to do justice to the 
 gifted who die young. It is impossible to tell what the 
 subject of this brief biography might have accomplished had 
 a long life been vouchsafed to her. There was an unusual 
 degree of the poetic faculty manifest, not only in her writ- 
 ings, but in her conversation, She not only won friends 
 by her universal warmth of heart, but they remained stead- 
 fast throughout her brief existence. The editor of this vol- 
 ume had the good fortune to know her well during life, and 
 the sad fate to lament over her early tomb. 
 
 In preparing this volume for the press, some unavoidable 
 delays have occurred; but when it is taken into considera- 
 tion, that many of the pieces had to be somewhat revised, 
 it is presumed the delay will be forgiven. In many instan- 
 ces copies were taken from the original manuscripts, The 
 
 i 
 
24 Biography. 
 
 loving heart of a surviving mother would have been pained 
 beyond measure to have had the manuscripts of her beloved 
 child subject to the careless gaze of a compositor. 
 
 Though Lizzie Wilson was almost always gay and joyous, 
 still there was a vein of deep gloom in her nature that has 
 tinged nearly all her poems — a strain of melancholy, such 
 as few young hearts will fail to cherish with tearful re- 
 membrance, 
 
 The following sketch of her life was handed to the editor 
 by the devoted and heart-broken mother of Lizzie. He has 
 thought best to give it in her own language, as any changes 
 would mar the holy feeling that pervades it. 
 
 "You ask me for a few incidents in Lizzie's life; alas! 
 I have but little to write ; and yet again volumes could not 
 express the beautiful traits of her character and disposition. 
 
 "Lizzie was the third child of William and Narcissa 
 Wilson. She was bom in Louisville December the 30th, 
 1835, and died on Friday night, at 1 o'clock, March 19th, 1858. 
 
 " Her life was one continuous gushing forth of the heart 
 toward all that was good, and beautiful, and pure. 8he 
 possessed less envy, jealousy, or vanity, than any being I 
 ever knew. Lizzie was no common character. She des- 
 pised every thing that was low or mean. 
 
 " From her earliest childhood 1 taught her to worsihip the 
 beautiful in all tiiing.i. Many a time «hp has sat by my 
 
Biography. 25 
 
 side and eagerly listened to stories from books, and that 
 greater volume, human nature. As her young mind unfolded 
 she would look up into my face and exclaim, ' mama ! 
 how I should like to visit Europe, and see those haunts of 
 Art and Poetry in Italy; I almost envy those who can go 
 there.' 
 
 " She became a great reader at an early age. When only 
 seven years old I have frequently found her hid away in 
 some quiet corner, reading books which I supposed entirely 
 beyond her comprehension. 
 
 " She was generous and forgiving, sincere in her friend- 
 ships, and the most dutiful, obedient, and devoted child a 
 parent was ever blessed with. Lizzie was the life and joy 
 of the house. Her clear, sweet voice rang through the halls 
 of her home, falling on our hearts like dew-drops on flow- 
 ers. Our hearts were refreshed and strengthened with her 
 universal gayety. 
 
 " She never permitted any one to murmur or look sad 
 where she was. ' Be gay, be joyful, be thankful ! ' she would 
 say, 'it is sinful to repine and complain.' She possessed 
 great reverence and love to God, and about a year previ- 
 ous to her death she was confirmed in the Episcopal Church 
 of St. John's. This occurred on the Sabbath of March 20th, 
 1857. 
 
 "Lizzie was a sincere christian. The day before she 
 
26 Biography. 
 
 died she looked upward and exclaimed, ' Oh, what a bright 
 light!' I asked her what she saw. 'Ma, I see heaven, — 
 the angels are calling me. I hear a voice that seems to 
 say. Come away from earth! The angels are around me; 
 I see them clothed in white, but I cannot distinguish their 
 faces.' Her last words were addressed to myself: ' Ma, don't 
 be discouraged — I am not suffering; come nearer — tell 
 John [her brother] good-bye!' 
 
 " Calm and composed her bright spirit passed from earth. 
 Her long illness of six months duratioa, she bore without 
 one murmur or word of complaint. She told her friends 
 she did not wish to distress me ; therefore, when I was at 
 her bed-side, she made no allusion to her sufferings. Even 
 when dying, her thoughts were more for me than about her 
 own situation. It was indeed 'love stronger than death.' 
 
 "Lizzie was part of my soul. I love my other children, 
 but she was the idol of my heart. I walk the world now 
 like one bereft of hope and joy. T am not the only one 
 who adored Lizzie — father, brother, sisters, friends and rela- 
 tions, all loved her with equal devotion. Had she been a 
 bright and beautiful being from some distant heaven, their 
 feelings could not have been more hearferfelt. 
 
 " Lizzie had neither vanity nor pride. She did not even 
 seem to think her gift of poetry was any thing. She always 
 called her poems trash, and a waste of time ; — said that 
 
Biography. 27 
 
 she would give all her talent to be beautifiil. She seemed 
 to be impressed with the idea that she was very ugly. 
 
 "She was rather abrupt in speaking to her friends, and 
 when I reproved her, she would say, ' Ma, I cannot help it, 
 I despise deception and hypocrisy.' Lizzie's mind was clear, 
 strong, and decided; but her heart was all love and gen- 
 tleness." 
 
 Lizzie Wilson, we are informed, kept a journal from the 
 the time she was 16 years of age. In this was treasured 
 up her most secret and heart-felt thoughts. The following 
 are the last words she ever penned in that now sacred 
 volume : 
 
 "January 21st, 1858. — The long and weary blank that 
 has elapsed since I was able to hold a pen, I dare not 
 think upon. Near to the shores of the silent Sea, long trod 
 my feet. Out, far out on that ocean of eternity, my soul 
 often seemed to float. Death, when near does not seem so 
 terrible. Naught but the final struggle do I dread. Through 
 that trial I soon will pass into a world of shadows. Too 
 weak to write any more." 
 
 The last poem she ever wrote was inspired by a lovely 
 child that called to see her as she was preparing to depart 
 for the spirit land. Though not so perfect in rhythm as 
 her other poems, the lines breathe all the original beauty 
 and tenderness of this gifted girl: 
 
28 Biography. 
 
 TO LILY S. CLARK. 
 
 Beautiful child ! in thine eyes of blue 
 Heaven's own angels seem smiling through ! 
 As calm and holy their earnest gaze, 
 As the mystic twilight's brooding haze. 
 
 Immortal flower of celestial bloom, 
 Unstained is the breath of thy soul's perfume ! 
 Angelic lips have kissed thy fair brow. 
 Lily, iu thy sweet baby-hood now! 
 
 Spring-tide of the year and noon of the heart. 
 When dear Lily came to bear life's part ; 
 Love's chalice was filled when bright Lily lay 
 A spell to charm our life-gloom away. 
 
 Peerless gem from our God above, 
 Stirring the founts of maternal love! 
 Thy mother's soul is now filled with bliss, 
 At her babe's sweet smile and her babe's sweet k 
 
 Mrs. Clark, the mother of Lily, and one of her most 
 cherished friends, often ministered to the wants of Lizzie 
 Wilson during her last illness, 
 
 We cannot refrain from giving the subjoined poem a 
 place in this brief account of our gifted poetess. It was 
 written by a charming young girl, whose spirit of poesy 
 was in beautiful harmony with Lizzie's. We trust the fair 
 authoress will pardon the liberty we have taken. So brill- 
 iant a gem should not be lost in the darkness of obscurity. 
 
Biography. 29 
 
 When friends pay such tributes of affection to each other, 
 the world should know and profit by it. There is already 
 too little of the " milk of human kindness " extant in this 
 vale of tears; too much head and too little heart "makes 
 countless thousands mourn," 
 
 This poem is dated at " Haerem Height, Tennessee," and 
 subscribed "Georgie V. K ." 
 
 TO LIZZIE W. 
 
 Ah ! linger not, but breathe again 
 
 Those words replete with mystic art ; 
 Yes, swell thy wild sweet music strain, 
 
 Which makes of thy young life in part 
 A paradise on earth — a treasure given, 
 To fill thy soul with lovely dreams of heaven. 
 
 What are those dreams, whose voiceless power 
 
 Hath waked thy inmost soul to rise, 
 With rapture in some secret hour, 
 
 And round thee thrown their phantom guise ? 
 Aye ! of a future bathed in light — 
 One long, long day without a night ? 
 
 Now touch, dear girl, thy dulcet chord, 
 
 And waft to me thy spirit's joy ; 
 And may my heart, as thine, be stirred, 
 
 Even by thft same rich melody ; 
 And when our life's glad song is o'er, 
 We'll sing on high and part no more ! 
 
 Above all others, however, is the in memoriam by that 
 
30 Biography. 
 
 peerless poetess, and most beautiful and facinating woman, 
 Mrs. Anna Maria Welby. If any thing could reconcile one 
 to the gloom of the grave, it would be to have such a 
 sweet, sad lament sung over it. This is one of the highest 
 tributes we ever saw paid to departed genius: 
 
 TO THE MEMOET OF LIZZIE. 
 
 BY ANNA MABIA WELBY. 
 
 •' The dear departed gone before, 
 To the unknown and silent shore, 
 Sure we shall meet as heretofore, 
 Some summer morning." 
 
 Lamb's Essays of Elia. 
 
 Where with tears wo laid her, the child of song, 
 
 Away from the well know faces ; 
 Though we know that the grave to keep is strong, 
 
 Her dust from the loved embraces ; 
 Yet we also know to a clime more blessed 
 
 Than the one our glance o'ersweepeth ; — 
 Ho hath called her home that loved her best — 
 " She is not dead, but sleepeth." 
 
 Though we list in vain for her light foot-fall, 
 
 And her voice's music flowing; 
 And weep the face in M'hose smile the thrall 
 
 Of a thousand smiles seem glowing ; 
 Though a silken lock of her sunny hair, 
 
 That our secret tear-drops steepeth. 
 Is all that is left us of her to wear — 
 " She is not dead, but sleepeth." 
 
Biography. 31 
 
 Though her heart was once like a tropic clime> 
 With its young pure thoughts and blushing; 
 
 With its dreams of truth and its hopes sublime^ 
 With its bird-like songs and gushing, 
 
 And that heart's no more of the voiceful thingSj 
 That life's fitful breath o'erstreepeth ; 
 
 Yet the songs of God in His sight she sings — 
 *' She is not dead, but sleepeth." 
 
 Though much that our hearts may not forget, 
 With the fail, eweet face was shrouded* 
 
 In every glance, like a g^im, was set 
 The tone of her heart unclouded ; 
 
 Though the thought that none else her place may fill- 
 Through our mournful bosom creepeth, 
 
 We know that in heaven she loves us still — 
 "She is not dead, fetttjsleepeth.''' 
 
 Oh ! much that her heart with grief might wring 
 
 She hath left behind unknowing,— 
 For life for all hath a poisoned sting, 
 
 Though a boon of God's bestowing ; 
 Though sadness seems where her smile is not. 
 
 Where His flock the Shepherd keepeth, 
 We know that unchanging joy is her lot — 
 " She is not dead) but sleepeth." 
 
 Though a star hath set in the household sky, 
 For whose loss each dear one.'pineth, 
 
 Yet its light shall lead them to where on high, 
 On the Saviour's brow it shineth ; 
 
 Ah ! the thought alono should her heart sustain, 
 That an earthly child still weepeth — 
 
 That an angel here on that heart hath lain — 
 "She is not dead, but sleepeth." 
 
32 Biography, 
 
 In closing this biographical sketch, it would be doing great 
 injustice not to mention the name of the person who dis- 
 covered the first dawning of genius in Lizzie Wilson. It is 
 unnecessary to pause here to pay a compliment to a man 
 who is; sa universally knovra for his genius as an editor, 
 a statesman, and a poet. George D. Prentice is in no need 
 of an eulogy from any source. 
 
 It was in the columns of the Louisville Journal the poems 
 af "Lizzie" first came before the world. To the keen po- 
 etic appreciation of the editor is the world indebted for many 
 of the best gems of AVestern literature. 
 
 Seeing true merit in the early efiorts of the subject of 
 this sketch, he gave to her that encouragement he is always 
 so ready to give to rising genius. From the encouragement 
 he gave to Lizzie there was evidence of an immediate and 
 marked improvement in her style. A new spirit was awak- 
 ened within her. She grasped her thoughts and gave them 
 utterance in so masterly a manner as proved she had talent 
 of no unusual degree, if not genius of a high order. 
 
 The annexed tribute to the memory of Lizzie, we quote, 
 in conclusion, from the columns of the Journal. The kind 
 and tearful pathos of the prose shows the heart-felt grief 
 of the editor: The contribution in rhyme is from the pes 
 of one who keenly felt the loss of the departed : 
 
 " We publish below a beautiful tribute to the memory of 
 
Biography. 33 
 
 Miss Lizzie Wilson, of this city, from the hand and heart 
 of a kindred spirit. Miss Wilson was known to m^anj of our 
 readers as the writer of a number of very charming pieces 
 of poetry, that were much and generally admired. Her mind 
 was full of bright thoughts and exquisite fancies, and sh© 
 uttered them in rich and glowing words. The b^reath of 
 the Divinity passed over her soul's garden, and flowers of 
 rare beauty and perfume sprang up in its pathway. 
 
 " It is a sad reflection that such personal, and moral, and 
 mental loveliness as Lizzie Wilson's has perished from the 
 earth. But it is the decree of Heaven that beautiful things 
 should be brief. The dew quickly passeses from the flower^ 
 the rainbow soon fades from the clouds, and the shadow of 
 the flying bird vanishes in a moment fram the depth of the 
 sleeping stream. 
 
 " They have laid thee down in the grave Lizzie, but thy 
 home is not there — it is in the mourning hearts of thy 
 friends, and in the Paradise so often and so beautifully 
 pictured in thy living dreams." — 
 
 TO THE MEMOKY OP " LIZZIE." 
 
 Our bitter tears we shed for thee — 
 
 So young, so lovely, early fled — 
 
 Eejoicing -with the heavenly dead. 
 Where mortal eye shall never see ! 
 
 Our loss was thy eternal gain, 
 
 Yet we must have our parting grief, 
 
34 Biography 
 
 And tears may bring a brief relief, 
 To ease the heart and soothe the brain. 
 
 * The good die first," was said of yore ; 
 The early gifted fade away, 
 Their life is but a summer day, 
 Yet memory holds them evermore. 
 
 Dear ** Lizzie I '* thou our loved and lost \ 
 Though it has brought a lasting pain, 
 It was to thee eternal gain, 
 
 However painful was the cost \ 
 
 As long as earth shall bear a bloom, 
 
 Aa long as skies contain a star, 
 
 No Vandal foot shall ever mar 
 The flowers that grow around thy tomb ! 
 
 W. P. Bbannin. 
 
B I a R A p H y . 35 
 
 TO LIZZIE. 
 
 BY CAPTAIN WILLIAMS, 
 
 Thou art lovely as morning, 
 
 When the bright sun is beaming — 
 Thou art lovely as evening, 
 
 When bright stars are gleaming t 
 Thy cheeks have the tints 
 
 Of the delicate flowers, 
 That mingle their fragrance 
 
 In sweet sunny bowers. 
 There 's a charm thrown around thee, 
 
 That wins every heart. 
 Causing pleasure to meet thee, 
 
 And sorrow to part ! 
 There 's a beauty will linger 
 
 When thy bright cheek has faded ; 
 When no more for gay meetings 
 
 Thy dark hair is braded — 
 When the hues of life's summer 
 
 Are passing away. 
 Like the last twilight smiles 
 
 Of a bright sunny day ; — 
 There 's a beauty will linger 
 
 That never will die — 
 THs the soul that beams forth 
 
 From thy 90ft, gentle eye. 
 
POEMS 
 
"In the language wherewith Spring 
 Letters cowslips on hill." 
 
POEMS. 
 
 LOVE'S CHANGES. 
 
 It was tlie twilight hour; the summer sun 
 Had sunk to rest — his daily work was done; 
 
 Eve's pallid brow was decked with one bright star, 
 
 And, while soft music floated from afar, 
 
 Beneath the shadow of an old oak tree 
 
 Two fair girls stood, with spirits light and free. 
 
 One — ah, far brighter than the twilight star 
 That shone above the wooded hill-top far, 
 
50 Poems, 
 
 And lovelier than the holy sunset skies 
 Was the deep blue of her sweet violet eyes j 
 Her raven tresses from her forehead flung, 
 In wavy ringlets round her white neck hung, 
 And beauty from each feature seemed to glea,ra 
 Fair as the vision of a sculptor's dr-eam. 
 Yes, she was lovely ; but a haughty air 
 Told that the soul of pride was reigning there. 
 It was a strange bright picture as she stood 
 Musing in that dark forest's solitude. 
 
 '' Lenora, speak ! what are thy drcamings now, 
 Grirl of the scornful lip and mocking brow?" 
 
 " Florence, I dream of dark and earnest eyes. 
 And a high brow where intellect e'er lies 
 Like a bright God, and of a voice whose tone 
 Tells of a love, wild, rapturous like my own. 
 
Poems. 51 
 
 Such is the bright ideal of my dreams, 
 And, oh ! how beautiful the future seems. 
 
 "Beware, Lenora, for a heart like thine 
 
 Will waste its hoarded wealth at love's pure shrine ; 
 The one thou lovest may be false as fair, 
 For man's love fades like music on the air, 
 And woman's proud, high heart must often feel 
 A sharper arrow than the barbed steel ; 
 A warm love slighted and a heart betrayed 
 Are bitterer than aught else by falsehood made ; 
 Then love not, love not, for thy heart of pride 
 "Will pour its waters on life's desert wide." 
 
 A year has passed — it is a fairer spot 
 Than e'er was pictured by a poet's thought; 
 
52 Poems. 
 
 Bright, glorious were the beings that now stood 
 Beneath the gnarled oak of that ancient wood, 
 And words of tenderness each spirit stirred, 
 And love's low sighs and love's low vows were heard. 
 Dark was the gleam of his keen falcon eye, 
 Her's blue as the blue glory of the sky ; 
 Bright as the pair that first in Eden stood, 
 Were Ernest and Lenora in that wood. 
 
 " I love thee dearly," were the words he spoke 
 Beneath the canopy of that old oak, 
 Bowed was his proud head to those sweet young lips, 
 Red as the flower from which the wild bee sips; 
 Fondly her white arms round his neck were thrown. 
 And fondly his became her living zone ; 
 Kneeling he calls her his forevermore — 
 A moment — he is gone, and all is o'er! 
 
Poems, 53 
 
 She standetli dreamily, fixed is her gaze, 
 
 Though purpling now the twilight's deep'ning haze 
 
 Far, far away his horse's hoof resounds. 
 
 Her lone heart wildly echoes back the sounds ! 
 
 Ah ! passionately she loves him ; her whole soul 
 
 Is bowed beneath his spirit's strong control. 
 
 A year has passed ; — the scene is different far 
 From that we 've gazed on 'neath the twilight star ; 
 Proud at the altar now we see him stand, 
 As one but born to rule and to command. 
 Shrinking beside him, a young girl is led, 
 A bridal veil sweeps from her drooping head ; 
 Say, is it young Lenora ? speak ! oh, speak ! 
 No ; golden are the locks that shade her cheek ; 
 It is another — gold has had the power 
 
54 Poems. 
 
 To win him from his bosom's cherished flower ! 
 
 Again it is a scene in that old wood, 
 Where last Lenora with her lover stood ; 
 Wild is that wail of passionate despair. 
 Wretched the young girl that is kneeling there ; 
 Bowed is her burning forehead to the earth, 
 Hushed now forever her glad notes of mirth ; 
 Wildly she loves him still — alas ! how well 
 Those burning tears of agony can tell ! 
 In her despair her young brain seems to reel. 
 For oh ! she feels, and must forever feel, 
 That warm love slighted and a heart betrayed, 
 Are bitterer than aught else by falsehood made. 
 
 And Ernest, has he no heart-felt regret? 
 
Poems. 55 
 
 Can he so soon his soul's first love forget? 
 
 Whene'er he gazes in his bride's fair face. 
 
 Doth not another steal into her place? 
 
 Haunts not his soul those blue and starry eyes? 
 
 No! gold has broken all love's holy ties! 
 
 He bears not in his bosom one regret ; 
 
 For, ah ! it is man's nature to forsret! 
 
56 Poems. 
 
 MY SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY. 
 
 O ! GAY are the hopes that around me cling I 
 Care o'er the future no shadow can fling; 
 Short and brilliant the years I have seen, 
 And to-morrow will hail me as sweet sixteen. 
 
 I have not one sorrow to sully my brow ; 
 May it ever be free from all care as now; 
 And my heart is careless, and wild and free, 
 As the zephyrs that revel in glorious glee. 
 
Poems. 57 
 
 Before me the world as a fairy scene lies; 
 With beauty and brightness the winged hour fiies, 
 And my heart, like a quiet and tropical sea, 
 Is glassing the glories of heaven and thee. 
 
 They may tell me I am too thoughtless and wild— ~ 
 They forget I am only half woman and child ! 
 Oh ! bid me not crush the fond hopes of my youth, 
 The love of all beauty and virtue and truth I 
 
z>S Poems. 
 
 I LOVE TO BE LOVED. 
 
 " I LOVE to be loved " said a merry young child, 
 And her eyes were beaming with loveliness mild ; 
 
 " I love to be loved by thee, mother dear, 
 For I know that my love will not cost thee a tear. 
 
 " I love to be loved," said a fair young maid, 
 "For there's nothing so sweet on this earth," she said; 
 Thus said, as she stood in the moonlight pale, 
 As she whispered her vows in an Eden -vale. 
 
Poems, 59 
 
 " I love to be loved," said a gentle bride, 
 To her dark-eyed lover who stood by lier side ; 
 And her heart and her lips were joined in a kiss, 
 In a sweet and bewildering tide of bliss. 
 
 0! God has implanted in mortals here, 
 A spirit of love that is holy and dear ; — 
 This bright and beautiful love is given 
 
 To call our thoughts from this earth to heaven. 
 
60 Poems. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 I 'VE sought among the young and gay, 
 In crowded hallos for many a day, 
 But found no love like thine, dear mother — 
 ' Twas holier far than friend or brother. 
 
 The world would be dark and sadly drear, 
 If, dearest mother, thou wast not here ; 
 Talk not of dying — you must not go. 
 And leave your child in this vale of woe. 
 
Poems. 61 
 
 You have shared in my every joy and pain ; 
 I shall never know love like thine again : 
 Yet often, dear mother, you think me cold, 
 But you know not the love my heart doth hold. 
 
 Let the star of hope beam on thy brow. 
 
 For anguish and sorrow o'ershadow it nowj 
 Dear mother, as long as my spirit is here, 
 I'll comfort your sadness and dry every tear. 
 
62 Poems. 
 
 TO EMMELINE FONTAINE. 
 
 There is not a star in the lovely sky 
 
 That has half the beauty of thy bright eye ; 
 
 No roses bloom in the sunny South, 
 
 That can vie with thy beautiful rose-bud mouth 
 
 I have gazed on faces of loveliness rare, 
 
 But never saw one that was half so fair. 
 
 Thy musical laugh is as soft and clear 
 As tones to memory ever dear ; 
 
Poems, 6S 
 
 Thy step as light as a wild young fawn. 
 Just waked from its slumbers at early dawn ; 
 "Whilst the golden floss of thy flowing hair^ 
 Makes up a picture exquisitely fair ! 
 
64 Poems 
 
 TO E. P. 
 
 It was not thy bright and chiseled face, 
 That won my heart in its wayward race, 
 
 And made it all thine own ; 
 But 'twas thy voice and 'twas thine eyes 
 That caught my heart in silken ties. 
 
 I heard thy voice; its music seemed 
 Like tones of some forgotten dream, 
 So soft and sweet in its witchery; 
 
Poems, 65 
 
 In the clear soft light of thy gentle eye 
 A magic spell there seemed to lie. 
 
 Yes, it was thy voice and it was thy eyes — - 
 
 Those clear, those soft and loving eyes ! 
 
 Not bright and flashing were they. 
 
 But of calm and purest J'ay, 
 
 And the color of the sky in the noontide day. 
 
66 Poems. 
 
 N I a H T. 
 
 Night is a mantle wMch o^er the earth is cast, 
 Like a veil which o'ershadows the deeds of the past; 
 When our senses are wrapt in the hush of repose, 
 And all rest alike, both our friends and our foes ; 
 It is now the hour of holy communing, 
 Whilst He now above us the wide world is ruling. 
 
 When myriad of stars stud the dark ether space, 
 As onward they move in their ne'er changing race : 
 When brightly shines the fair goddess of night, 
 
Poems. 67 
 
 And bathes the earth in her pure silver light. 
 Then silence o'er this sleeping earth reigns, 
 And all wearied spirits find balm for their pains, 
 
 I love not the splendor of the Day-god's light I 
 
 G-ive me the calm hush of the holy night : 
 
 ' T is then my spirit bursts its chain, 
 
 And freedom of thought is bright again. 
 
 And soars on pinions all unsought, 
 
 To the far off realms of glorious thought. 
 
 Oh, night ! what glorious thoughts will rise 
 As the past comes before us with smiling eyes ! 
 Hopes, long since dead, that we know are vain, 
 Till night and memory bring them again. 
 There 's a mystic spell in thy sway, oh Night ! 
 In thy sad sweet stars and thy pale moonlight I 
 
Poems. 
 
 TO EMMA KNiaHT. 
 
 Fairer tlian the orb of night, 
 When she sheds her beeming light — 
 Purer than the star of morn, 
 In thy beauty's early dawn — 
 Lovelier than all these thou art, 
 Chere amie, friend of my heart ! 
 
 Warm and pure thy heart's affection; 
 
 For I have known each thought's direction. 
 
P E M g. 60 
 
 Thy life lias been like some bright drearily ' 
 Calin as a bright and sunlit stream ; 
 May grief from thee withold its dart^ 
 Chere amie, friend of my heart ! 
 
 I have seen your bright eyes glisten, 
 When to loving vows you listen — 
 I have watched the crowds that hung 
 To list the music of your tongue ; 
 And yet was envy far apart, 
 Ohere amie, friend of my heart. 
 
70 Poems, 
 
 THE CHILD'S PRAYER, 
 
 List ! what is that sweet voice saying ? 
 ' Tis a fair young child that is praying. 
 Down her face of marble whiteness 
 Stream Jlong curls in golden brightness; 
 Prom her blue eyes tears are streaming, 
 All her heart-felt woes revealing. 
 
 For a mother's life she is praying — 
 That mother on hov death-bed laying; 
 
Poems. 71 
 
 Her heart is filled with the holiest love, 
 As she prays to her God who reigns above. 
 Oh ! could there be a holier sight 
 Than that fair child to-night! 
 
 Now her voice is sunk in sadness; 
 
 She has not the angels' gladness — . 
 
 She sees not their forms as fondly they spread 
 
 Around her dying mother's bed ; 
 
 And though that mother's soul is fled, 
 
 She prays, for she knows not that she is dead ! 
 
72 Poems, 
 
 AUBLY EGERTON TO HIS BELOVED, 
 
 COMPOSED ON READING "MY NOVEL." 
 
 When bright stars are keeping 
 
 Their vigils on high, 
 Then thy lonely grave seeking. 
 
 Where the pale moon-beams lie ; 
 Where thy white tomb-stone glistens, 
 
 There the yew trees wave ; 
 For the winds sigh I listen, 
 
 As it wails o'er thy grave. 
 
Poems. 
 
 I feel the utter loneliness 
 
 Of this deserted place, 
 And think of all thy loveliness — • 
 
 Thy dear angelic grace. 
 
 And again I seem to hear 
 Thy last accent of despair, 
 
 Low and soft upon my ear. 
 In the tones of angel's prayer. 
 
 Yet I see thee and I hear thee! 
 In the darkness thou ast near me, 
 With thy revelations tender, 
 In thy supra-mortal splendor ! 
 
T4 Poems 
 
 ON MEETING A SCHOOL TEACHER. 
 
 Oh ! can it be that I o'er whose head 
 Sixteen summers have quickly fled, 
 Should see what changes Old Time will bring. 
 And what dark lines o'er fair brows fling, 
 When I remember the eyes dark and wild 
 Which gleamed on my own when I was a child. 
 
 Thy hair, so long, and glossy, and black, 
 From thy proud brow was parted back; 
 
Poems. 75 
 
 But snow is now on its blackness laid, 
 
 Still thy eyes beam a beauty tbat never will fade. 
 
 I, too, am changed ; but like a flower 
 Opening its leaves on life's morning hour, 
 I, too, have felt how blaak and cold 
 Is the world to all who are growing old. 
 
 Where are the dreams that once were mine — 
 For I had bright dreams in that early time ! 
 Oh, would I again could wander back 
 In my childhood's long forgotten track ! 
 
 Gone, all gone, is the golden past, 
 And from my memory 'tis fading fastj 
 Now, as I dreamed, it is my lot 
 
76 Poems. 
 
 T© dream of love and be forgot; 
 
 Yet still in my dreaming I think of thee, 
 
 And think I 'm a child upon thy knee 1 
 
Poems. 77 
 
 IMPROMPTU — AT A PARTY. 
 
 Tell him his lightest tone 
 Is treasured in my heart, 
 
 And that his form alone 
 Is king of all my heart; 
 
 And deep in my heart shall be 
 
 Enshrined his blessed memory. 
 
78 Poems. 
 
 TO a * ^ >}c 5K 
 
 No ! I do not love him now ! 
 
 The dream is o'er — the spell has fled ; 
 Calmly I look upon his brow, 
 
 For hope itself is dead ! 
 
Poems, 
 
 [ THE BLACK VEIL. 
 
 Hark IJ the vesper bells are pealing ! 
 See the cloistered nuns come stealing 
 From their sad and moonlit cells, 
 Awakened by the midnight bells. 
 Now the bells have ceased their ringing 
 Pure and holy was their ringing. 
 
 In this deep hour of silent night 
 They ever hold a holy rite. 
 
80. Poems. 
 
 Now one a holy vow is taking — 
 From earthly ties forever breaking ; 
 Earth for her has now no charms, 
 She quits it for her Saviour's arms. 
 
 Now the black veil fling around her ; 
 Sad sweet vows have ever bound her. 
 'T is done ! Is there no wild regret 
 In her dear heart? Can she forget 
 Her burning dreams of life and love, 
 And fix her thoughts on heaven above? 
 
Poems. 81 
 
 WHOM DO I LOVE? 
 
 Oh ! ask me not to tell yon his name f 
 I love, and that is enough of shame ; 
 I loved with the love of a trusting child, 
 But soon I awoke with an anguish wild. 
 
 And though even hope itself was gone, 
 I loved him still and trusted on ; 
 Can lovers' vows be again believed 
 After the loved one has been deceived? 
 
82 Poems, 
 
 I loved him fondly, and oh ! too well, 
 As my tears of anguish alone can tell ; 
 In the halls of fashion and when alone, 
 My deep heart-thoughts were all his own. 
 
 I have trembled full oft at his scornful sneer, 
 And my eyes were dimmed with many a tear ; 
 Why did I love him ? Can woman's will 
 Say to her troubled heart, " peace, be still ? " 
 
 Why I had loved him, oh ! none could tell ; 
 I have learned to hide that misery well. 
 With smiles on my lips, none ever knew 
 Those smiles were false, though my tears were true. 
 
 Now that dream is over and past. 
 
 And my heart, thank God, is free at last; 
 
Poems. 83 
 
 Still in the deep, quiet hours of night, 
 I see his eyes with their flashing light j 
 
 His soft white fingers once more entwine 
 
 Lovingly still in this hand of mine. — 
 
 I have nerved my heart with a woman's will, 
 
 But I know and feel that I love him still. 
 
84 P E M s. 
 
 MEMORY'S SPELL. 
 
 No more ! no more ! I would forget, 
 But the chain of memory binds me yet, 
 And the present a mockery only seems — 
 The past alone must be but dreams. 
 In the midnight hour then all is brought 
 Back again to my fevered thought. 
 
 Oh, memory ! a wretched thing thou art ! 
 Is the frequent cry of my bursting heart; 
 
* Poems. 85 
 
 Would for one moment Oblivion's wave 
 Could bury the past in a lonely grave ! 
 But even now I can see with surprise, 
 From out the gloom those brilliant eyes. 
 
 I look on the future as those alone 
 
 Who all heart-worship and pain hath known ; 
 
 For thou hast wandered afar from me — 
 
 I worship no longer a falsehood like thee. 
 
 Away! for I will not dream again. 
 
 When I know 't is more than a mortal pain ! 
 
86 Poems. 
 
 MY OWN. 
 
 I WOULD have tbee with me always, 
 In sadness and in mirth; — 
 
 And when the glorious sunshine 
 Makes glad the joyous earth. 
 
 When night's dark robe of b«auty 
 Is flung across the skies, 
 
 I love to gaze deep into 
 Thy tender love-lit eyes. 
 
Poems, 8T 
 
 I love to hear, low murmuring, 
 Thy voice's delicious tone ; 
 
 And hear thee call me dearest, 
 Eternally thine own. 
 
88 Poems. 
 
 THOU ART GONE. 
 
 'Tis over nowl the hopes, the fears, 
 The crushing hack of heart-felt tears, 
 The reckless love and hopeless longing, 
 The night of sorrow — no ray of morning ! 
 Aud must I love and still weep on, 
 When thou art gone — forever gone? 
 
 An ardent heart at thy feet I laid, 
 And a worship wild my heart hath p^: 
 
Poems. 89 
 
 Thy name was murmured in midnight prayer, 
 For thou wert loved in my wild despair. 
 Thou art gone ! why do I dream of thee, 
 When thy image^brings only a mockery? 
 
 I have loved an ideal and worshiped it long— 
 My love has been deep, and ardent, and strongs 
 As a young devotee when at the shrine, 
 I poured my warmest love on thine. 
 Let me awake from my dream to-day; 
 I will bow no more to that iron sway 1 
 
 In vain my spirit is longing for rest — 
 There 's an aching void within my breast ; 
 For thou alone art reigning there, 
 And thou T love in my wild despair ; 
 But pride will conquer this fond devotion. 
 And still my heart of its gad emotion, 
 
 8 
 
90 Poems 
 
 RESPECT THY MOTHER. 
 
 Hush ! it is thy mother, and never dare to raise 
 
 Thy voice to her but in the sound of praise, 
 
 For she hath borne with thy every whim and mood. 
 
 And shed her silent tears in the midnight solitude. 
 
 Then close your heart if any anger 's there 
 
 For one who taught you childhood's holy prayer. 
 
 Ah ! none can know a mother's pure devotion — 
 The depth or strength of her deep heart's emotion. 
 
Poems. 91 
 
 For her own darling child the feeling and the care. 
 As low and soft she pleads for it in her daily prayerj 
 And none can know that anguish fierce and wild, 
 Unless it is a mother for the sins of her dear child. 
 
 Yes, the brightest and holiest, and purest and best, 
 Is the fervent love that dwells within a mother's breast ; 
 And though the young heart may dream of another, 
 It will not find the love of a dear mother; 
 Long may ye seek, young dreamer, and not find 
 A love so endearing, so tender and so kind. 
 
92 Poems, 
 
 TO LIDA H. DOW, 
 
 Fair as a water nymph tliat haunts a fabled stream, 
 As wild and as lovely thy dark eyes gleam ; 
 Thy finely chiseled face is of a Grecian mould. 
 Like the Venus of an artist, carved in the days of old. 
 Thy sylph -like form and thy airy grace 
 But adds new beauties to thy fair face. 
 
 Dark is the gleam of thy raven hair- 
 Clustering around thy forehead so fair 
 
Poems, 93 
 
 Pure are the shadows of feeling that lie 
 Enshrined in the depths of thy star-like eye, 
 And thy long, dark lashes droop lowly and meek 
 O'er the virgin blushes of thy fair cheek. 
 
 -*<^S»-V^^S^*.«r^f«-^«*^ 
 
94 Poems, 
 
 TO MARY. 
 
 Thou, whose soft and starry eyes : 
 
 Wear the bright blue of the skies ; — 
 Thou whose dark and raven hair 
 Shades a forehead more than fair; — 
 I love to gaze on thy face — i^s light 
 Would chase the darkness from the night! 
 
 But to hear thy voice when proudly swelling — 
 Hushing the laughter when pleasure is dwelling,- 
 
Poems. 95 
 
 When thy syren-tone in melody falls 
 In the crowded courts of Fashion's halls ; 
 For thy voice is like the tones we hear 
 When heaven is bursting upon the ear ! 
 
Poems. 
 
 A REVBEIE, 
 
 I am weary of life's gayety — I am weary of its mirth, 
 For it never for one moment soars above the things 
 
 of earth ; 
 To me it is but mockery — this heartless, smiling 
 
 throng ; 
 And for the higher things of life I passionately do 
 
 long* 
 
Poem s. 97 
 
 TAKE BACK THE RING. 
 
 Take back the ring again, 
 Since thy love has proved so vain ! 
 Take back the ring since it has brought 
 Wreck and ruin to my heart, 
 
 I knew, I knew thy love would change ! 
 That I still love yet is not strange ; 
 But I '11 break the spell, for my dream is o'er, 
 Love's chain is severed forevcrmore ! 
 
 9 
 
08 
 
 Poems, 
 
 Yes, the dream is o'er, and I have lost — 
 On thy scornful lip a smile h£iS crossed ; 
 Take back the ring — 't was nothing to thee 
 Twas one wild dream of life to met 
 
 I have loved thee deeply with woman's pride — 
 Thy genius had charmed m& unto thy side ; 
 Thy lightest words were treasured with care — ■ 
 Had thy weirds proved true I would never despair. 
 
Poems. 99 
 
 THINK OF ME. 
 
 When voices soft as the cooing dove, 
 
 Murmur thy name in tones of love, 
 
 And eyes that are bright as the midnight star, 
 
 Beam o'er thy soul like a gleam from afar — 
 
 When all is bright, and gay, and fair, 
 
 Think not of me then, think not of me there 1 
 
 When thy heart is sad, and a bitter mood 
 Steals o'er thy spirit in solitude — 
 
100 Poems. 
 
 When thy proud heart feels sorrow's control, 
 And darkness and sadness come o'er thy soul, 
 Then turn thy thoughts, for an earnest prayer 
 Is breathed for thee then — is breathed for thee here. 
 
Poems. 101 
 
 TO JAMES OLDHAM. 
 
 There 's a wail of sorrow round thy hearth — 
 G-lad voices have hushed their sounds of mirth 
 And a mother's tears are falling there, 
 As she breathes in sorrow her silent prayer. 
 Young, proud and brave, he has passed away, 
 Ere his dreams of manhood had known decay. 
 
 Will we hear his voice no more in son<^, 
 As in wild, sad music it floated along? 
 
102 Poems. 
 
 'T was the sweetest strain that ever was woke, 
 As on the ear its silver tones broke ; 
 But his song is hushed, and silent the lute — 
 Earth's sweetest minstrel forever is mute. 
 
 He died far from home in a sunny clime, 
 Where roses bloom 'midst the orange and lime, 
 Where all that was fairest of earth and air — 
 Could sorrow e'er come to a land so fair? 
 Yes ! over it hovered the angel of death, 
 And the air was heavy with funeral breath. 
 He fell in that beautiful land of bloom, 
 And his manly form now rests in the tomb. 
 
Poems, 10'^ 
 
 TO ^>^^^.^A LOVE SONa. 
 
 I AM lonely, I am lonely, for I pine in vain for thee j^. 
 
 Wild thoughts my bosom swelletli, as the tears full 
 silently. 
 
 In my dreams my spirit's with thee, and my waking- 
 thoughts are thine j 
 
 As a pagan to his idol, bows my soul before thy shrine. 
 
 Oh ! wild my soul by sadness hath ever yet been wrucg 
 For strong the spell around me thy magic art hatb 
 flung ; 
 
104 Poems. 
 
 Thy words of winning gentleness I treasured, as men 
 
 keep 
 Those things of priceless value that robs them of their 
 
 sleep. 
 
 You may never know nor guess with what worship- 
 ing divine 
 
 How my spirit boweth down, oh ! my idol, at thy 
 shrine ! 
 
 Oh ! vain is this pining and this passionate appeal, 
 
 To a bosom that is stone, and to a heart that is steel. 
 
Poems. 105 
 
 A SONGf, 
 
 I love tbee in the eve's calm liusli f 
 I love tliee in tlie red dawn's blush ; 
 And when night's shadows round me fall 
 I love thee, dearest, best of all ! 
 
 I think of thee in the gayest throng ; 
 I think of thee where thrills the song ; 
 When holy prayer ascends on high 
 I think of thee, then, with a sigh. 
 
106 Poems. 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF DUTY.— A SONG. 
 
 Oh, my baby's bands are on my heart, 
 And my baby's kisses are on my brow ; 
 
 Oh, Gerald, dear, I cannot depart 
 
 Though thou art loved to madness now ! 
 
 Away ! No kisses upon my cheek. 
 If, Judas-like, thou wouldst betray; 
 
 Thy smile of love, a treachery speaks, 
 Would lure me from my child away ! 
 
Poems, 107 
 
 How I have loved thy own heart feels ; 
 
 Not mine the hand that made it crime ; 
 Let this dark hour its might reveal. 
 
 That heart and soul, I'm thine, all thine! 
 
 Can I forsake and leave my child, 
 
 Though honor and fame to me are nought? 
 
 O Grerald, dear, the struggle is wild — - 
 
 My child, my child ! Oh, agony of thought ! 
 
 Oh, why was lie so harsh and cold — 
 
 Thou but to be loved, he but to be feared ? 
 
 Why did those chains around me fold, 
 
 Like burning fire till my heart was seared? 
 
 But, Gerald, dear, this night we must sever '— 
 
 Every fond tie must broken be ! 
 Fare thee well — it must be forever ! 
 
 My child has saved my soul and thee! 
 
108 Poems. 
 
 I MISS THPJE. 
 
 Thou 'rt- -with me in my dreams of joy, 
 That for tlieir very sweetness cloy ; 
 And in my liours of heavenly prayer 
 Thy image blends — yes, even there I 
 
 I miss thee when they murmur love — 
 Then soars my thoughts to things above 
 I miss thee when the stars, so bright, 
 Shine on me like thine eyes' soft light. 
 
Poems. 109 
 
 I miss thee when the moon's pale beam 
 Falls on me like our love's wild dream ; 
 When tears are falling and I am lonely, 
 I wish for thee, the dearest, only ! 
 
110 Poem s 
 
 REaEETS OF LIFE. 
 
 Dreams, dreams, why do you haunt me, 
 Mocking the depths of my proud despair? 
 
 Thought, thoughts, what have ye brought me. 
 Years of suffering, sorrow and care? 
 
 Love, love, thou, too, hast gone from me — 
 In darkest midnight is sunken my soul ; 
 
 Grrimly the future now lowers before me — 
 My heart is passionless, still and cold ! 
 
Poems. Ill 
 
 Friendship, friendsMp is but a dream now ; 
 
 Its purest faitb shone but to deceive 
 All the warm vows that have been made me^ 
 
 Never again am I to believe! 
 
1 12 Poems. 
 
 YOU CANNOT FOKGET ME. 
 
 You cannot forget me — the struggle is vain, 
 Your heart knows but one image and feels but one pain ; 
 Over lands or on seas, roam wherever you will, 
 The spell of bright beauty is holding you still. 
 You have loved me and madly — I wildly, too well 
 To ever forget that soul-thrilling spell. 
 
 The chain it is strong that binds you to me; 
 Its links in the past is fond memory. 
 
Poems. 113 
 
 Ohp love, it is mighty, and rules the strong heart, 
 Though reason and duty may bid it depart. 
 You cannot forget me though deep you regret; 
 But, farewell forever, you'll never forget, 
 
114 Poems. 
 
 GENIUS. 
 
 The perfumed air, laden with Summer's sweets, 
 Stole into a room where slept the moonlight; 
 Faintly the curtains stirred, as gently heaves 
 A woman's bosom; the moonbeams flickered 
 Over a couch where a pale youth lay dreaming; 
 The night winds kissed his cheek, and lifted 
 Dark curls from a calm, white brow 
 Where Genius and Love seemed sleeping. 
 The color th:it went and came, like a dying flame, 
 
Poems. 116 
 
 Told his life-lamp had wasted low. 
 
 His proud lips curled, even in slee,p 
 
 And spake of a heart that slept not. 
 
 Anon a change came o'er the sleeping face. 
 
 And a smile brake over it radiant with love; 
 
 ' Twas like a gleam of sunlight o'er a sleeping sea i 
 
 The red lips stirred, and in passionate tenderness 
 
 Broke forth one burning word — Isabel 1 
 
 In the wild cadence of those sad tones 
 
 A whole heart's history was revealed. 
 
 Oh, sad, that love should come desolating the shrine 
 
 Where that son of genius worshiped! 
 
116 Poem s 
 
 TO MR. JOHN F, AND MARY WILSON 
 
 AN ACROSTIC, 
 
 Joy again is round our hearth, 
 Once more our brother joins our mirth ; 
 He wandered long away from homo — » 
 Never more will we let him roam. 
 
 Ah, many a prayer went up for him : 
 Never a day but hope grew dim — 
 Death's cold caress we feared for him. 
 
May every blessing be tbine, fair brid*?. 
 And angels fair around tbee glides 
 Radiant hopes will ligbt tliy gloom; 
 Youth's sweetest flowers for thee shall bloom! 
 
 Whenever sorrows come over thy heart, 
 In Heaven trust, they will soon depart ; 
 Love and hope, young heartSj are thine, 
 Such pure love is almost divine; 
 One home, one heart be thine forever; 
 Nothing but Death can fond hearts sever. 
 
118 Poems, 
 
 TO MY PHANTOM LOVEK 
 
 When Sleep's lioly kisses tliine eyelids have prest, 
 When in warm, wanton fancies thy visions are drest, 
 When heard in low breathing thy passionate sigh. 
 Awake from thy dreaming, my spirit is nigh. 
 
 Awake, and we'll wander together afar, 
 To the wild, dreamy light of a love-lit star, 
 And the burning glow of thy radiant eyes 
 Shall thrill my soul into extncics. 
 
Poems. 119 
 
 We' 11 float through yon heaven to sun-lit spheres, 
 See night fade in beauty, bedewed with tears, 
 In rapturous bliss, for we'll burst the control 
 That binds to the earth every gifted soul. 
 
 Enchanted, we'll sail through the moon's pale light. 
 Whilst the kiss of the sun breaks the spell of the night; 
 On the wings of the morning our souls will arise, 
 Till the angels shall welcome us home to the skies! 
 
V20 Po£M^.. 
 
 TO MISS LOU GROSS, 
 
 Ah! rein in thy charger, impatient to start! 
 Like Diana, tlie huntress, impatient thou art; 
 The curl of that proud lip, the scorn of that eye, 
 The snow of that forehead, so full and so high! 
 Ah, Beauty may claim thee with truth as her queen, 
 For one more enchanting was never yet seen ! 
 
 There's a glow on thy lips, there's a light in thine eye* 
 Which t<^lls of a spirit proud, earnest, and high; 
 
Poems. 121 
 
 There 's a bloom on thy cheek of a passionate glow, 
 That speaks the pure spirit that's lurking below; 
 Even cupid himself might succumb to thy sigh, 
 And shrink from the glance of thy wonderful eye ! 
 Thy heart beats a music unknown to despair, 
 And thy smile is as sweet as an angel's at prayer. 
 
 Dost thou list to the strain that pleasure oft sings? 
 Dost thou care for the homage proud hearts often 
 
 bring ? 
 Does thy heart bow down at one passionate shrine, 
 And own but one image as only divine? 
 What dreams of the midnight steal over thy thought? 
 Are thy dark starry eyes by sweet memories brought? 
 
 Has thy heart ever treasured a word or a tone, 
 Of a spell in the past but to thee known alone? 
 
122 Poems. 
 
 Hast ever counted the long moments o'er 
 
 For a dear one's return who came nevermore? 
 
 Oh ! sad are such moments, such dreams of the soul, 
 
 Which brings us a torture that knows not control. 
 
 Perchance thou hast never yet yielded to love, 
 Or bowed at a shrine with the faith of a dove. 
 Or felt the deep spell of a long earnest gaze, 
 And longing, yet fearing, thy own eyes to raise; 
 If so you 've escaped all the pleasure and woe 
 That most human beings are fated to know. 
 
 From thy gifted touch wild music will start, 
 That lingers in beauty like dreams of the heart; 
 It stills the rush of the magical waves. 
 That sweep o'er thy heart's lost, ruined graves — 
 It sway 's on the heart as the moon 's on the tide, 
 And it steals like a star on this life-ocean wide ! 
 
Poems. 123 
 
 TO >K * 5ji jh ^ 
 
 O'er no weary waste of feeling 
 Koam no more, sad heart of mine 
 
 While, the depths of love revealing, 
 All its hopes and faith are thine. 
 
 In his blue eye dwells a splendor — 
 Angel-light from far off skies ; 
 
 Dreamy glances, mild and tender, 
 Lead my soul to Paradise. 
 
124 Poems. 
 
 Young his heart and wildly throbbing 
 Fire of hope in eyes of blue ; 
 
 Hush ! my soul, thy ceaseless sobbing • 
 Oh, believe his love is true i 
 
 Nights of sorrow passed in weeping, 
 G-rief hath long my bosom torn ; 
 
 Still my vigils sadly keeping, 
 
 All my broken dreams to mourn. 
 
 Like a ray of moon-light stealing, 
 Soft and clearly came his voice — 
 
 Stilled my rush of wounded feeling, 
 Bidding heart and soul rejoice. 
 
 Now my heart, te deum ringing, 
 Gone is every doubt and fear ; — 
 
 Angel voices ever singing 
 In my soul when he is near. 
 
r OEMS. 125 
 
 HAUNTED. — A MEMORY. 
 
 My lonely heart is haunted 
 By many a sweet, sad tone ; 
 
 With anguish it hath panted 
 To still its wailing moan. 
 
 My cheeks have ceased their flushing, 
 
 I smile not as of yore : 
 No more thou 'It see my blushing, 
 
 For thou art now no more. 
 
126 Poems. 
 
 I 've lost my quftenly beauty — 
 My life now fades away ; 
 
 Life claims no more my duty — 
 My form will soon be clay. 
 
 The years grow dark and dreary, 
 The vales are paled with snow; 
 
 My heart is sad and weary, 
 My spirit longs to go ! 
 
 My eyes have lost their splendor 
 
 In gazing on the tomb ; 
 No more will darkness render 
 
 A fearfulness to gloom. 
 
 The solemn stars are shining, 
 The moon lights up the earth, 
 
Poems. 127' 
 
 Yet cease I not repining, 
 That once was full of mirth. 
 
 I cannot still this feeling 
 
 That time and space are gone : 
 
 Thy spirit seems revealing 
 We twain shall soon he one. 
 
 My heart ! keep still your throbbing ! 
 
 I know that he is here ; 
 My soul has ceased its sobbing, 
 
 Since heaven is now so nearl 
 
128 Poem s. 
 
 LANGUAGE OF THE HEART. 
 
 The language of the heart is full of love, 
 Taught here on earth by angels from above; 
 It hath a spell of sad and wondrous power 
 To sooth the soul in misery's darkest hour ; 
 Lightly it falls upon the stricken heart, 
 New rapture to the spirit to impart. 
 
 The language of the heart speaks in the eye, 
 'T is heard, low breathed, in the half stifled sigh, 
 
Poems. 129 
 
 Felt in the pressure of the trembling hand 
 As wildly from the loved, the cherished band, 
 We turn and dash aside the parting tear, 
 
 Leaving behind all that on earth are dear. 
 
 'T is not the language of coarse, vulgar minds ; 
 Its breathings are as soft as summer winds; 
 Sweet are the tones of each low, whispered word. 
 By Fancy's children only is it heard ; 
 In the sad requiem of the last farewell, 
 lie v/ail the secret of the heart doth telL 
 
 It throws a halo round the lips of youth, 
 Of glorious beauty, the bright smile of truth ; 
 Dark eyes it lights up with a holier ray. 
 And gentle blue ones melt beneath its sway ; 
 When the full heart beats low, and the lips sigh, 
 The heart's deep language murmur softly by. 
 
130 Poems. 
 
 That language breathes from out the flowery sod, 
 Rising like incense to the Throne of God ; 
 It is that far-off music of the spheres, 
 Which the rapt child of fancy often hears., 
 'T is breathed in all that 's holy, pure and fair, 
 The lover's sigh, the gentle mother's prayer. 
 
 When glances meet, and not a word is said, 
 But a prized hoard in memory's store-house laid, 
 O'er which we dream as fond hopes fade away 
 Like the last lingering tints of dying day, 
 The language of the heart, who hath not felt 
 ( Its influence, and before its altar knelt ? 
 
Poems. 131 
 
 TO CARRIE WILSON, 
 
 By thy forehead white and fair 
 By each tress of amber hair, 
 By thy blue eyes deepest ray, 
 Take from me this votive lay. 
 
 In thy yonng and guileless mind 
 Beams a spirit pure and kind ; 
 In thy voice, so sweet and low. 
 Music only seems to flow. 
 
132 Poems. 
 
 Thou art young, and grief nor pain 
 Yet upon thy brow remain ; 
 Years may come when thou wilt know 
 Woman^s lot is dark with woe. 
 
 I will wish thy life may be 
 Full of beauty^ wild and free : 
 Though dark days come you'll learn 
 
 Trials unto blessings turn. 
 
Poems. 133 
 
 LOVE PLAINT. 
 
 They say that I am dying now ; 
 
 They say my cheek no roses wear; 
 I know I mourn the broken vow 
 
 Of one I thought divinely fair. 
 
 Oh ! tell him that I love him still, 
 Tell him that I forgive his pride ; 
 
 I bowed me to his stubborn will — 
 Oh ! I would bless him as his bride ! 
 
134 Poems. 
 
 Yes, tell him that my lips still bless, 
 * Though all my happiness is o'er; 
 Eor him my heart's deep tenderness 
 Remains as ardent as of yore. 
 
Poems, 135 
 
 THE WATCHER. 
 
 She watched for his coming, bright flashed her dark 
 
 eyes ; 
 Oft her red lips were parted with love's saddest sighs ; 
 
 The sun-light was fading far over the plain — 
 
 Her heart will break if he comes not again. 
 
 Her hands were clasped over her agonized heart ; 
 She felt all life's keenness — its sweetness and smart ; 
 She dreamed of the past as she paced through the hall, 
 And waited his coming, oh ! dearer than all ! 
 
136 Poems. 
 
 Now strains of sweet music are filling the air — 
 Her loved and her lost one must surely be there ! 
 Oh, no ! it has faded in twilight away, 
 And her heart is now broken forever and aye. 
 
Poems. 137 
 
 TO A POETESS. 
 
 Long years have passed, and again thou hast come 
 To the olden haunts of thy childhood's home; 
 And the voice I hear, like a wild, sweet song 
 That hath rung through the halls of memory long— - 
 Our childhood's mirth and our girlhood's glee. 
 Come back with thy laughter, dear one, to me. 
 
 In those starry eyes still I love to gaze, 
 
 On those midnight curls that I used to praise ; 
 
138 Poems. 
 
 They are still the same, hut thy hrow hath caught 
 Another trace, as of deeper thought. 
 Fame's clarion-peal on thine ear hath rung, 
 And the laurel shade on thy brow is flung. 
 
 Five years, five years, oh ! what have they brought 
 To thy woman's heart, to thy girlish thought? 
 Dost thou turn, fair girl, like me, away 
 From the idol you worshiped, to find it clay? 
 Dost thou keep the hopes of thy childhood still. 
 With an infant's trusting and woman's will? 
 
 Hast thou lived, since then, on those fairy dreams. 
 In the lull of fountains, the song of streams, 
 Till thy spirit caught from their mystic chime, 
 The burning thoughts of music and rhyme — 
 TilMhy dreaming soul hath been steeped in lore 
 That hath filled fame's cup till it mantled o'er? 
 
Poems, 139 
 
 Thy ideal hopes may have floated by, 
 
 But thy wild young dreams — ah, they cannot die! 
 
 For thy burning spirit hath touched a strain 
 
 Whose every echo fond hearts retain : 
 
 But I cannot sing all my heart would say, 
 
 This strain, now hushed, on thy altar I lay. 
 
140 Poems, 
 
 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 Beautiful ! thy sacred smiles 
 Have sent composure to my heart; 
 
 1 wander to enchanted isles, 
 
 And find a youth, whose name is Art. 
 
 O'er charmed seas to ancient isles — 
 O'er seas of air in barques of dream 
 
 I sail — where, rapt in childi.sh smiles, 
 
 And eye-bright with Time's morning beam, 
 
Poems. 141 
 
 The first born child of earth — the youth, 
 Instinct with Love and Life — alone 
 
 In silent rapture and in ruth, 
 Endeavors to create his Own, 
 
 Upon a bright elysian slope, 
 
 He walks in trances, and conceives 
 
 The childish image of his hope. 
 And in sweet phantasy he weaves 
 
 Its outer symbol queer and quaint — 
 A branch, torn from the jagged thorn, 
 
 He takes to shape the phantom faint 
 That in his happy brain is born. 
 
 Two vines he plucks, and tastes the wine, 
 Until, possessed, to rapture v/rought, 
 
142 Poems, 
 
 He cries, "My Fancy is divine!" 
 
 And on the thorn -brancli wreaks his thought. 
 
 '* These vines shall be her arms," he cries. 
 And grafts them to the thorny stem; 
 Then in his simple extacies 
 
 He finger-twines and fashions them. 
 
 And all possessed, he comes and goes, 
 As some wild swallow, when she weaves 
 
 Her little cottage in the close 
 
 And shadowy covert of the eaves ; 
 
 And gathers slender twigs and slips 
 Of plants and tender things to twine; 
 
 While still his half unconscious lips 
 Exclaim, " My Fancy is divine ! " 
 
Poems. 143 
 
 He sings, " My happy Fancy warms ! " 
 And weaves with tendril and with bloom, 
 
 And gives the thorn a guise of arms 
 And hands, that glimmer in the gloom. 
 
 And humming songs, and chanting hymns. 
 In natural forms of child-conceit;— 
 "Two other vines shall be the limbs," 
 
 His Fancy saith, " and flowers the feet ! " 
 
 And twining parasite and thyme, 
 
 From sun to sun, in light and storm — 
 
 Without a written word or rhyme — 
 Art's first-born Thought becomes a Form, 
 
 Of clustering grapes he shapes the head, 
 Of tinted bloom-leaves forms the face. 
 
144 Poems. 
 
 The lips, a crimson rose dispread — 
 He yearnetli quaintly after grace. 
 
 He binds a hyacinthine crown, 
 
 And, kneeling, sets it on the brow ; 
 
 Then gathering lillies up and down, 
 
 Saith: "These shall be her thoughts, I trow!'* 
 
 While he arrays them in her hair; 
 
 The golden, free, fantastic tress, 
 Whose fine, fair fibres, culled with care, 
 
 Disheveled, drape her loveliness. 
 
 Then bears his idol to her shrine, 
 
 A quiet grotto, strange and still, 
 And sings: "My Goddess is divine!" 
 
 And loves and worsMps at his will. 
 
Poems. 145 
 
 Then in maturer mood conceives 
 Another idol and a shrine ; 
 
 And ever in his heart believes, 
 The last dear idol most divine. 
 
 Beautiful ! thy blessed smiles, 
 Have sent composure to my heart; 
 
 1 leave the poet to his isles, 
 
 And come to seek thee as thou art. 
 
 I leave young Art to his conceits, 
 And cross again the charmed sea; 
 
 For all his dreams are counterfeits — 
 Are wretched counterfeits of thee I 
 
146 Poems, 
 
 PRAYER. 
 
 A PRAYER, a prayer for the doomed, 
 With the morn's first light he dies ; 
 
 Oh, pray for the spirit sad, 
 
 And the soul that in darkness lies. 
 
 A prayer, a prayer for that pale girl, 
 Who dies at the close of day; 
 
 Angels gather round, and waft 
 Her spirit pure away. 
 
Poems. 147 
 
 A prayer, a prayer for the sailor brave, 
 
 Who sinks in the foaming main ; 
 The tempest lowers, the sea bird shrieks, 
 
 He rises not again. 
 
 But breathe no prayer, no prayer 
 
 For the babe who sinks to rest; 
 Pray for the heart- wrung mother here, 
 
 Whose babe has left her breast. 
 
150 Poems. 
 
 As it had there in frenzied pain been flung. 
 
 Her feet, like Arab coursers, spurned the ground, 
 
 Scarce bent the dewy grass beneath their bound ; 
 
 With agony too deep to be subdued 
 
 She had rushed out in night and solitude. 
 
 Years had she knelt to love's wild, maddening sway, 
 
 Her idol in cold scorn had turned away. 
 
 Oh woman's heart is fraught with grief and care, 
 
 Hope smiles on love's birth — on its end despair. 
 
 Her's was the common tale. She had believed 
 A flatterer's artful words and been deceived. 
 'T is a wild grief to know an idol changed. 
 The bright chain broken, love and hope estranged. 
 He was cold, gifted, proud ; he knew it well, . 
 And round her soul he threw a magic spell. 
 With gentle eyes he looked deep love on her, 
 
Poems, 151 
 
 Till at his feet slie knelt a worsMper. 
 
 He loved her as the bright dream of a day, 
 
 Then cast her, like a faded flower, away ; 
 
 He loved her much till she was his alone, 
 
 But man soon wearies of what 's_all his own. 
 
 While slept her soul in innocence and truth, 
 
 He waked her from the quiet dreams of youth ; 
 
 In her young heart sprang love with its wild pain. 
 
 That heart could never, never dream again. 
 
 Her love was held in mockery and scorn, 
 
 And that, even that, she might have borne. 
 
 But to behold him at another's shrine, 
 
 This crushed the soul of haughty Leoline. 
 
 One night in festal halls he stood apart 
 
 With one he called the idol of his heart. 
 
 They seemed the happiest in those halls that night, 
 
152 r E M s. 
 
 Her eyes looked love, his gleamed with starry-light; 
 
 And Leoline turned oflP with maddened Jieart, 
 
 Love, pride, scorn struggled, but the tear would start. 
 
 Why seemed the stream so peaceful in its flow? 
 
 Could there be quiet in its depths below? 
 
 And the stars mocked her, glittering on that stream, 
 
 They shone as erst in days of love's dear dream. 
 
 Hope's star had set forever, life was gloom, 
 
 And that lone river seemed love's fitting tomb. 
 
 Stole o'er her heart no strain of childhood's prayer? 
 
 Could she thus die in sin, so young and fair? 
 
 One murmur of his aame, one look to heaven — 
 
 Her parting thoughts were to her idol given ; 
 
 A wild shriek echoed far along the shore, 
 
 A white arm gleamed — gems flashed — and all was o'er ! 
 
 Another martyr to love's burning crown, 
 
Poems, 1 53 
 
 And life the sacrifice by her laid down. 
 
 Man goes throngli life from dreams of love apart, 
 
 But oh, the strength and depth of woman's heart I 
 
154 Poems. 
 
 ON A BOQUET. 
 
 Fade not ye flowers, supernally fair, 
 
 Linger awhile in this earthly air; 
 
 Bloom in the blast of the world's rough weather. 
 
 Be fragrant forever and ever and ever. 
 
 Faines ! forever whisper within 
 
 The happy rose-leaf's holy inn ; 
 
 linger and whisper alow and close, 
 
 And tell me your secrets under the rose. 
 
Poems. 155 
 
 ALINE.— A FRAaMENT. 
 
 It was a stately mansion 
 
 In a fair and happy clime, 
 Whose halls were grand with legends 
 
 Of the old heroic time ; 
 Of cavaliers and heroes, 
 
 Whose hands had held the brand 
 Of hope and truth in lusty fight 
 
 In Palestine's fair land; 
 
156 Poems. 
 
 When Richard of the Lion-Heart, 
 
 'Gainst Saladin did wield 
 His battle axe of temper true, 
 
 On Tabor's rugged field. 
 It was a noble mansion, 
 
 For sculptured art was there, 
 In carved wreaths of arabesque, 
 
 Round columns, rich and rare. 
 
 And there an ancient donjon-keep, 
 
 Whose ivied turrets high, 
 Loomed darkly and mysteriously 
 
 Against the azure sky. 
 And druid oaks their shadows cast 
 
 O'er mouldering walls and moats ; 
 True sentinels unto the last, 
 
 In somber, russet coats. 
 
Poems. 157 
 
 These sturdy oaks for centuries 
 
 The storms of life had borne, 
 But now like solemn mutes they stand, 
 
 O'er centuries to mourn. 
 They grieve for sire, they grieve for son, 
 
 They mourn o'er maiden fair, 
 Their earthly races all are run — 
 
 Yet still the oaks are there. 
 
 They had seen the infant warrior 
 
 When his war-horse was a broom, 
 They had seen him ride, a belted knight, 
 
 To battle and his doom; 
 They had watched by night, and watched by day. 
 
 For the glimmer of his blade. 
 But never again shall boy or man 
 
 Seek shelter 'neath their shade. 
 
160 Poems. 
 
 And now, as by the tower he flies, 
 He to the maiden raised his eyes; 
 He doffed his cap, and bending low 
 His head unto the saddle bow, 
 Then, parting like a meteor bright, 
 He left the maiden sunk in night; 
 Faint, dizzy with her feelings new, 
 A faultering sigh the maiden drew, 
 And gazed from out her casement high, 
 "With throbbing heart and straining eye; 
 But never more, to bless her sight, 
 Keturned that form of life and light. 
 
Poems. 161 
 
 TO MARY J4f4f4f4^4^N, 
 
 As PAIR as tlie visions in dreams that rise. 
 
 Is the beautiful gleam of thy dark blue eyes; 
 
 Thy chiseled features of Grrecian mold, 
 
 Like a statue seem of the days of old, 
 
 And thy sylph-like form and thy queenly grace. 
 
 New beauties add to thy fair young face. 
 
 The rippling length of thy long black hair 
 Falls over a forehead like moon -light fair, 
 
158 Poems. 
 
 O ! where is now the gallant heir 
 
 Of this mansion and domain; 
 Once sounds of revelry were here 
 
 Where silence holds her reign, 
 And brimming bowl, and cheerful song, 
 
 Turned darkest night to day, 
 Till morning brought her jovial throng 
 
 With whoop and wild hurra. 
 
 But hark ! a coming footstep falls, 
 
 Light as a zephyr's sigh, — 
 The heiress of these ancient halls, 
 
 A fair young girl, is nigh. 
 Her dark blue eye, her classic face, 
 Bespoke her high patrician race, 
 And lightly fell her golden hair 
 Upon a cheek as bright and fair. 
 
Poems. 159 
 
 As peach-blooms, when they early blow. 
 Ere spring has chased the winter snow ; 
 The maiden graces of her form 
 Had bloomed through sixteen summers warm, 
 Her heart had known nor care nor guile^ 
 Nor sorrow's shade, nor cupid's wile. 
 Such was Aline, as entering there 
 She paused before a casement fair. 
 
 And gazing out in careless mood, 
 What sees she in the distant wood? 
 The figure of a belted knight, 
 In green and gold, and armor dight, 
 As if he strayed from Arthur's court 
 And in the forest sought his sport ; 
 Swiftly he rides, and now his steed 
 Approaches with the arrow's speed. 
 
160 Poems. 
 
 And now, as by the tower he flies, 
 He to the maiden raised his eyes; 
 He doffed his cap, and bending low 
 His head unto the saddle bow, 
 Then, parting like a meteor bright, 
 He left the maiden sunk in night; 
 Faint, dizzy with her feelings new, 
 A faultering sigh the maiden drew, 
 And gazed from out her casement high, 
 "With throbbing heart and straining eye; 
 But never more, to bless her sight, 
 Returned that form of life and light. 
 
Poems. 161 
 
 TO MARY J ^^^^^1^, 
 
 As FAIR as tlie visions in dreams that rise. 
 
 Is the beautiful gleam of thy dark blue eyes ; 
 
 Thy chiseled features of Grecian mold. 
 
 Like a statue seem of the days of old, 
 
 And thy sylph-like form and thy queenly grace^ 
 
 New beauties add to thy fair young face. 
 
 The rippling length of thy long black hair 
 Falls over a forehead like moon -light fair, 
 
162 Poems. 
 
 Pure as the shadow of feeling that lies 
 Enshrined in the depth of thy star-like eyes, 
 While droopingly soft and sweetly meek 
 Are the long, dark lashes that fringe thy cheek. 
 
 Oh ! lady fair of the haughty brow ! 
 
 Of what is thy proud heart dreaming now? 
 
 Has love ever leveled his dart at thee. 
 
 Or sleeps thy soul in tranquility? 
 
 Does thy heart ever dream of a wilder bliss 
 
 Than the holy thrill of a mother's kiss? 
 
 Oh, lady ! lovely and proud and fair ! 
 To each shining tress of thy raven hair, 
 To each graceful line of thy peerless face. 
 Love, love would lend a more beauteous grace j 
 Ay, the light of love in a woman's eye 
 Hath ever a heart-spell holy and high. 
 
PoEMSc 16^ 
 
 TWOPOKTRAITS, 
 
 She was gazing on the twilight with a sad and long - 
 
 ing gaze, 
 As she mused on past and future in the evening's 
 
 purple haze ] 
 And she watched the stars above her as they stole 
 
 through dewy space, 
 And she longed to ask the meaning of their bright 
 
 unending race. 
 
 Heavy round her pale, sweet forehead hung her dark 
 and drooping hair, 
 
164 Poems. 
 
 And her blue eyes shone at intervals, with strange 
 
 and dreamy air ; 
 Her young lips parted gently with a look serene and 
 
 and proud, 
 As soft memories with their love-light all around her 
 
 seemed to crowd ; 
 For a spell was now upon her of a vision lost and 
 
 gone, 
 Of a dark eye's dreamy splendor that had once upon 
 
 her shone. 
 The love like that of heaven she had cast upon the 
 
 wind, 
 Nevermore to hear the echo for which all her spirit 
 
 pined ; 
 A wide gulf was now between them — and she knew, 
 
 alas, her doom — 
 
Poems. 165 
 
 That tlie faith so coldly broken would e'er haunt her 
 to the tomb. 
 
 He was standing in the moonlight with his wealth of 
 
 raven hair, 
 And his falcon eyes were gleaming with a proud and 
 
 haughty air ; 
 Yet the scornful lip was curling with an anguish wild 
 
 and strong, 
 For his heart was lashed with fury for a dark and 
 
 cruel wrong. 
 Time and space were now between them, and he knew 
 
 that all was past, 
 Yet his heart still wildly claimed her, madly, madly 
 
 to the last. 
 Had he thought she 'd ceased to love him, oh not 
 
 thus had been the woe. 
 
166 Poems. 
 
 But tis own heart by its throbbing told that it could 
 not be so. 
 
 There 's a chord of deepest sympathy in hearts when 
 love is there, 
 
 They know each wail of misery, they feel each ear- 
 nest prayer. 
 
 Now a storm of fiercest anguish swept across his tor- 
 tured brain, 
 
 For his wild and deep devotion had been all, alas, 
 in vain. 
 
 Ah, although before the altar she the vows of faith 
 had spoken, 
 
 Not thus, not thus, by solemn rites, could love's 
 strong ties be broken, 
 
Poems. 167 
 
 TO AMELIA W.^4f#4^ 
 
 The ripples of tliy golden hair, 
 Flow softly o'er a forehead fair; 
 
 Tliy lips have stolen the archer's bow. 
 Thine eyes have caught the starry glow. 
 
 Bright spirits wandering from heaven, 
 
 Have kissed thy cheek and sweetness given ; 
 
 And mortals gaze, and wondering blesa 
 Thy soul's reflected tenderness. 
 
168 Poems, 
 
 For purely to tliy tender face 
 
 Love's magic power hatli lent its grace 
 Peace ! while I write this lay for thee, 
 
 That thou may 'st ever think of me. 
 
Poems. 169 
 
 LOVE'S MUSINGS. 
 
 With clasp'd hands o'er a wild and burning brain, 
 I 'm dreaming of a love, proud, hopeless, and vain ; 
 I see a face whose soft and brilliant light 
 Could chase the shadows from the darkest night. 
 His glorious eyes appear like twin stars set 
 Beneath his brow's proud royal coronet j 
 And oh the beauty of that forehead high, 
 Round which his locks in dark luxuriance lie. 
 That manly form of high and noble bearing, 
 
 15 
 
170 Poems. 
 
 And the stern smile of pride those lips are wearing ! 
 Slowly the vision fades upon my sight, 
 And deepest sadness rules my soul to-night. 
 
 The scene is changed™ and revels wild are heard, 
 Bright, red lips murmur the fond, loving word ; 
 Again his laugh is ringing clear and free, 
 He clasps me in the dance's witchery. 
 'T was a glad night, I had no thought of pain. 
 But from that night we never met again — 
 Ah yes ! we met, but altered was his air, 
 He saw my face, but found no beauty there. 
 And I — I loved him with my soul's whole power, 
 I gave him all my heart's rich, burning dower — 
 Oh why com'st thou in beauty and in scorn, 
 Thou spirit of the past, when hope is gone? 
 The scene is changed — it is his bridal night, 
 
Poems. 171 
 
 An eye seeks his with love's own wild delight. 
 That gentle air, that form of winning grace, 
 And the soft beauty of that angel face — 
 Who would not love a thing so fair and bright, 
 Ay, worship such a form of love and light ! 
 His head was bowed, his arm around her thrown, 
 That proud lip murmuring, "my life! my own!" 
 The rite was o'er, upon the ground I fell, 
 The burning tide of grief I could not quell. 
 She was my sister, my sweet, beauteous one, 
 And he my star, my idol, and my sun. 
 
 The scene is changed — upon the ground I lie — 
 Why did I not in that wild moment die ! 
 How could I live with agony so deep? 
 There was no balm but death's eternal sleep. 
 For now 't was crime, my pure, my holy love , 
 
172 Poems. 
 
 Pure as the angels feel in heaven above! 
 
 Oh Grod ! I live with all my weight of woe, 
 
 'Tis not the wretched that are first to go, 
 
 For she, the beautiful, the glad, and free, 
 
 Has winged her way to Grod's eternity ! 
 
 The vision now is o'er, my dreaming done, 
 And my souFs phantoms fade out, one by one. 
 
Poems. 173 
 
 SECOND LOVE. 
 
 He gazed upon a portrait fair. 
 
 And the light of other days 
 Went up to flash in those brilliant eyes, 
 
 And gleam in their midnight rays; 
 And thought he then of the tears he shed, 
 When first his heart wept over her dead? 
 
 Bright smiled the lips, and the raven hair 
 Swept gracefully back from that forehead high, 
 
174 Poems. 
 
 Stately and proud; but it mocked him now, 
 
 As lie turned away with a sigh. 
 In silence she slept, and memory alone 
 Brought trembling back her low loved tone. 
 
 The^painter's power had caught the witchery 
 Of those eyes so soul-beguiling. 
 
 Though years had fled, not even now 
 
 Could he look on those false eyes smiling; 
 
 For burnt they now with life's proud fire — 
 
 To him 't was the light of the funeral pyre. 
 
 From the cold world her soul was hidden. 
 
 But glowed with a living fire. 
 The harp-chords slept, till his answering tones 
 
 Swept over her heart's deep lyre. 
 Her'sTwas a love all other loves above ; 
 The rose leaf on life's cup, a woman's love. 
 
Poems. 175 
 
 The beautiful, the gifted, must they fade 
 
 Like stars in the twilight of day; 
 Their memory be like the tones of a song 
 
 That dies faint in the distance away ; 
 Those eyes smiled once in life so bright. 
 But they mocked him now with their glittering light. 
 
 E'en while he gazed another voice 
 
 Rang sweet on his listening ear; 
 Ah, man will love, but the spell will pass 
 
 As stars fade away when dawn is near. 
 The love of the dead was a dream of the past — - 
 The living was before him — his idol, his last. 
 
 Those blue eyes now that on him shone 
 
 Laughed with a glad free light, 
 And the trembling touch of that fairy hand 
 
176 Poems. 
 
 Was his bride's — bright star of his night. 
 Man's love is a strange and mystical thing, 
 And bitter the changes that time will bring. 
 
 Thought he then of her that was sleeping 
 Her warm young heart in the tomb? 
 
 Eemorse sweep o'er him and wild regret; 
 Did he weep for her early doom? 
 
 No ! the spell of her beauty forever was o'er, 
 
 And he knew that she was loved no more. 
 
Poems. 177 
 
 TO MAY. 
 
 May ! those soft and starry eyes 
 
 Are as blue as the skies, 
 
 And as bright as the skies ; 
 
 And I cannot but murmur to myselfj 
 May ? thou art a little elf — 
 
 Thou art a fairy in disguise! 
 
 Oh thy softly blended features 
 Are my teachers, 
 
178 PoEjiSc 
 
 My sweet teachers ; 
 Ever be thy self same self. 
 May, the darling child-queen elf 
 
 G-entlest creature of all creatures ; 
 
 Be thyself in winsome worth, 
 In thy wayward, childish mirth, 
 In thy wild, heart-winning mirth ; 
 In thy sweetness be thyself, 
 In thy natural grace, sweet elf, 
 Be a ripple upon the earth ! 
 
Poems. 179 
 
 THE MOCKERY OF LIFE, 
 
 The empire of passion we never reveal, 
 
 The heart's battle-ground we darkly conceal, 
 
 The world never knows of the struggle of pride ; 
 
 It never has fathomed the soul's burning tide. 
 
 It would seek on the brow the whole history of life, 
 
 But can read little there of the bosom's deep strife j 
 
 For where find a spirit undaunted to go 
 
 To the depth of a being still strong in its woe I 
 
 Ah! little we reck, when the red lips beguile, 
 
180 Poems. 
 
 That the heart may be silently breaking the while! 
 
 For the world is a maelstrom, and on it we hurl 
 
 The heart's burning jewels, the soul's richest pearl, 
 
 We gaze on the vortex, our treasures are gone. 
 
 Yet vain are our efforts, stern fate draws us on. 
 
 For the spirit of Peace can alone still the wave 
 
 Or the lost treasure bring back again from its grave. 
 
 Could we look on the future with spirit of prayer 
 
 It only can live in that tempest of care ; 
 
 We worship false idols like Israel of old 
 
 Till like them unto bondage our spirits are gold. 
 
 Through wild, weary pathways Ambition lures on — 
 Ere we reach its proud summits the rose hues are 
 
 gone ; 
 'T is a mockery of life when the soul turns away 
 
Poems. 181 
 
 From the sunset of pleasure, the last flush of day j 
 We pour forth our heart-thoughts, our life's life for 
 
 fame, 
 All prized most we barter, for what but a name ! 
 Love's heritage priceless is purchased and sold, 
 Its faith offered up to the demon of Grold ; 
 Our idols we win when long years have gone by — ■ 
 What matters it then ? — we wish only to die ! 
 
 Oh ! the calm desolation when hope is all o'er, 
 And the future looks drear, that once sun -lighted 
 
 shore, 
 Where life's crimson tide floats an argosy of tears 
 Wept by eyes early dimmed o'er the crushed hopes 
 
 of years ; 
 For hope is life's coloring through all its spring 
 
 hours, 
 
182 Poems. 
 
 Giving beauty and glory to leaves, birds and flowers. 
 As the meteor of night makes the darkness more 
 
 drear, 
 So the heart, once love-lighted, doth darker appear. 
 Alas ! love is a thing as accursed as fair, 
 For what is love's blight but tears, suffering and care. 
 
Poems, 183 
 
 A aiRL'S THOUaHTS. 
 
 Where, where art thou ! in what far-off clime, 
 
 My love, at this our trysting time? 
 
 The sun in his glory has sunk to his rest, 
 
 And wild thoughts are busy within my breast ; 
 
 One pale star is glimmering in yon blue skies. 
 
 As my heart to thee all lovingly flies. 
 
 Oh ! what are thy musings at eve's soft close, 
 
 When the earth is hushed in this calm repose. 
 
184 Poems. 
 
 Thou hast wandered away from thy olden home, 
 To rove neath the blue sunny skies of Rome. 
 Do Italian gales fan thy gentle brow? 
 Dost thou stand on Neverda's proud heights now? 
 Dost thou muse on the banks of that lovely river, 
 So famed in Love's legends, the Guadalquivir ? 
 Oh ! bear not the winds some whisperings of me, 
 To tell thee, wild lover, I worship but thee? 
 
 Bend those dark eyes now o'er the G-recian plain, 
 
 Where Homer's proud heroes in fight were slain? 
 
 Or o'er Iris' ruined temple's site, 
 
 Where each fallen shaft gleams in mournful white, 
 
 Where the nymphs of beauty and satyrs bold 
 
 Held nightly their fabled court of old? 
 
 Ye wild roving winds that fan my brow. 
 
 Say, where is my proud lover wandering now? 
 
Poems. 185 
 
 When beautiful night, like a queen, sends down 
 The starry rays of her jeweled crown, 
 In the holy hush of that quiet hour. 
 Has Memory's spell upon him no power 
 To bring the past with its pleading eyes, 
 And image my face in the midnight skies? 
 Wakes not the past with its dreamings of me? 
 Or slumbers his heart, cold, careless, and free? 
 
 Tell me, white clouds, that are wandering through 
 
 Yon starry heaven of deepest blue, 
 
 Doth that proud head slumber beneath the main, 
 
 Or say, shall we meet on the earth again? 
 
 In silence and scorn ye are rolling on, 
 
 Ye have hidden the moon and her light is gone ! 
 
 Thus ye have answered — my hope is o'er, 
 
 And I must not dream of that bright one more. 
 
186 Poems. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 MERRY was May in tte meadows, 
 
 On the knolls in the shade of the beech, 
 By the shining and singing fountains. 
 
 In the breezes that blew from the peach, 
 And beautiful was the blossom, 
 
 All blooming beside on the lea — 
 The Queen of the May-day meadows, 
 
 And the heart that was true to me. 
 
Poems, 187 
 
 Long ago. Come now to the meadows, 
 
 From the worrying up and down. 
 From the pride, and the pomp, and the turmoil 
 
 Of the brazen and crazy town ; 
 Found are the breezes and the fountains, 
 
 And the cool beech-shade capped mound; 
 But the Queen of the May-day meadows, 
 
 My love, alas ! she is not found ! 
 
 How blessed were the ways of Nature, 
 
 How sweet were the glees of the birds, 
 As we romped in the morning pastures. 
 
 With a mutual kindness of words ; 
 In the clouds are the works of glory, 
 
 And the green gvass on the ground ; 
 But the meadows are as desolate as death, 
 
 And the Queen of them cannot be found. 
 
188 Poems 
 
 TO LIZZIE'S EYES. 
 
 Those dewy orbs of floating liglit, 
 So wildly, spiritually bright! 
 Ob, wbo can gaze upon them shining, 
 And turn again without repining, 
 Or wish that he might sink away 
 And mix with their etherial ray ! 
 
 Their waves on either shore lie there 
 
 Calm, clear and azure as the air, 
 
Poems. 189 
 
 But laughing in their silent cells, 
 
 With voices soft as coral shells ; 
 
 'T is musical, but sadly sweet, 
 
 Such as when winds and harp-strings meet. 
 
 Their lashes droop around their - ves, 
 As if to hide their melting waves ; 
 Still their light in beauty streaming, 
 Like the Day-god's arrow gleaming, 
 Are from beneath them stealing, 
 All their liquid joys revealing. 
 
 Methinks my soul becomes more bright 
 
 Beneath the luster of their light, 
 And I 'd my panting spirit lave 
 Beneath their liquid amber wave, 
 To rise again with purer soul 
 Than e'er was formed in mortal mold. 
 
190 Poems. 
 
 But, ah ! percliance tlie siren sings 
 From out their dreamy, hidden springs. 
 To lure my cheated soul away, 
 And make me all thy beauty's prey — 
 No more to break the mystic spell 
 That binds my heart, alas ! how well. 
 
 Still, shine out in golden splendor, 
 So bright, beautiful and tender/ 
 That all the stars shall weep again 
 In envy of thy beauty's train : 
 As when Diana's silvery light 
 "Was thrown across the palid Night. 
 
Poems, 191 
 
 ANNA MAKIA WELBY. 
 
 Lady, on whose brow of snow 
 
 Genius sits in Beauty's guise, 
 With thy curved lip's crimson glow, 
 
 And thy soul-lit sparkling eyesj 
 In thy praises, lady fair, 
 
 I would string my harp anew, 
 Though my lute and I despair 
 
 Justice to such theme to do. 
 
192 Poems.' 
 
 Queenly though thou art, and proud, 
 
 Gay and graceful though thy mein, 
 Seldom mid the world's gay crown 
 
 Is thy face of beauty seen — 
 Than with thoughtless ones to share, 
 
 In the pleasures that defile, 
 Rather some poor heart of care 
 
 Thou wouldst gladden with thy smile. 
 
 Fame would crown thee with her bays, 
 
 For thy wondrous song and sweet, 
 From thy quiet household ways 
 
 Could she woo thee to her feet; 
 But thou 'dst rather win the praise 
 
 Of the thoughtful and the pure, 
 Than the thousand fitful rays 
 
 That Fame's votarys allure. 
 
Poems. 193 
 
 Yet, oh, lady! is it well, 
 
 That the gift Grod gave to thee, 
 In thy bosom's inmost cell, 
 
 Silent and unused should be? 
 No; its dulcet tones and clear. 
 
 Let them sweep once more the plain ! 
 Many a heart will thrill to hear 
 
 Its sweet melody again. 
 
 IT 
 
194 Poems. 
 
 WIND O'EE aRAVES. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Like a child wailing for its mother, moans the wind over 
 and around those fair white sarcophagi, that seem the heart's 
 best affections carved by the hand of death into Niobes of 
 stone. 
 
 Long droops the shady willows. Surely the Ancient's 
 mythical dream of the hamadryads was not all ideality — 
 the simple creation of fancy ! Is not that mighty love, in- 
 stinct in a mother's heart, typefied in the eternal watchful- 
 ness of those guardians of the dead, that, through the rapid 
 changes of the seasons stand ever constant. 
 
 Over the hillocks of numberless ones, over marble shafts 
 that art has reared to record great deeds or excelling vir- 
 tues, alike regardless of the sleeper, through the long tan- 
 gled grass gently blows the wind, kissing those green mounds 
 
Poems. 195 
 
 whose marble entablature tells the gazer that beneath sleeps 
 one who felt the giant stirring of that mighty flame first 
 breathed into man in the Garden of Eden ; — or one per- 
 chance, who has felt the hot glow of patriotism; or per- 
 haps the bitterness in which Genius stamps her impress 
 upon her children ; or may be tells of one whose life, like 
 him of Lorrento, was one long dream of love. Yet what 
 matters it? This is the end of all, and he who stood on 
 Olivet's height to gaze on his serried legions, and on con- 
 tinents to mark what monarchs bowed to his iron sway, 
 slept not calmer in far Helena than he whose sole monu- 
 ment is yon green turf Alike must all bow to the fiat 
 issued in the council of the skies. 
 
 And as the wind comes laden with the roses breath and 
 the violet's sigh, as a dream of the dead-pictured dreams 
 of fancy, bright with gorgeous imagery dwelling in the heart 
 when lyre and lute were strung: so pass their lives away. 
 Truth, shining like Bethlehem's star with its rich promise 
 of a high honor — a place around the great white Throne. 
 Who can tell what she felt, how lived, how died. And yet 
 how mournful. Unconsciously the eyes fill with tears and 
 the heart saddens at the stern yet sweet lesson of the wind 
 over graves. Is not heard in the clear echo, "All is not 
 here " ? Still wails the winds. Turn then from this green 
 portal of a Future to the wild arena of human hearts. 
 
190 Poems. 
 
 Is there not dug deep Sin's strong hands, shrouded and 
 covered over by pale remorse, graves of ruined hopes, pala- 
 ces reared of high aspirations crumbled into dust, graves of 
 dead loves, or worse, love whose corpse scorn hath stolen, 
 leaving only gloom whose shades are haunted by the fiend 
 Memory. Mourn not, ye who can weep over the graves of 
 your lost loves. When there is no grave but in the heart, 
 there is a deeper gulf In whose heart is there not some 
 such grave? 
 
 Statesman proud, with your glance of falcon fire — you 
 on whose tongue nations hung breathless, holds not your 
 heart the grave of your early patriotism? Warmed not 
 your soul when the shining banner of your own aggran- 
 dizement hung before you? And ye men of toil, mourn 
 not your hearts over some cherished dream that cheered 
 your earlier trials? Flatterer at Fashion's shrine, whose 
 mind once soared at higher dreams of great attainments, 
 starts not your soul at the glare of what your boyhood 
 promised ? And woman, with your gentle eyes of love, in 
 your heart are many graves whose record are naught but 
 crosses. Abject as a Russian serf, is often your pure spirit 
 bowed to make the happiness of the one who, tyrant like, 
 inly scorns the endearing patience of your loving evenings. 
 
 Misty gleaming wrapt the throne like the Day-God, which 
 fades with its wealth of full summer-tide. Sunlight is fad- 
 
Poems. 197 
 
 ing, low falls away the wind, and the polar star, surround- 
 ing the eve's young brow, will gleam above earth's graves 
 until the storm has swept its farthest cycle-— until in the 
 sound-echoing the grave will tell what fiery hearts went 
 down into its chill depths. 
 
 Instinctively arises in the thinking mind that day when 
 thinking on death's sleepers, for human intellect ever grasps 
 at the knowledge of that which is hidden. Could the skep- 
 tic teach us to believe his sophistry, that here ends all things, 
 then would the mind, the intellect of man, turn inward with 
 all its intense energy, its subtle cunning, like those Hidalgos 
 who sought of America's impenetrable green shades for 
 means to prolong this life and multiply its enjoyments. 
 They had not turned so calmly away from the dead, to 
 leave them to the holy star-light and the Wind over Graven, 
 
198 Poems. 
 
 LIZZIE. 
 
 BY HER MOTHER, 
 
 The hopes of my youth are departed, 
 For sorrow hath made me its own ; 
 
 I 'm weary, and sick, and faint-hearted, 
 And pine in my anguish alone. 
 
 Think not that my days flow in gladness — 
 With a dear one the gladness hath died, 
 
 That once smiled away all the sadness 
 My bosom could know by her side. 
 
Poems. 1^ 
 
 My darling whose face was tlie brightest 
 Of all 'Death our roof- tree that played, 
 
 Whose footstep and laugh was the lightest-— 
 My heart in thy cold grave is laid. 
 
 But one thought still my sorrow doth lighten, 
 
 I know in the land of the blest 
 I '11 meet her to bless and to brighten — = 
 
 The child that my heart loved the best. 
 
 Yes, in heaven no more we '11 be parted, 
 Lizzie, darling, beloved of my soul ! 
 
 Not till then shall I grow lighter hearted, 
 Not till then shall my joys be made whole, 
 
200 Poems. 
 
 THE AFTER-THOUGHT. 
 
 * * * " Stm to the star 
 Of the beautiful three I kneel; 
 But I faint — I faint — too far I" 
 
 " Fold the old thought. 
 Fold it up forever; close up the book — 
 
 Into the bosom look, 
 1*01? all is misshapen that hitherto has been wrought." 
 
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