++# *.' ^"♦•i"»° ^ ^,*' ^. V APHEI LA; AJSTD OTHEB POEMS, MISS JULIA PLEASANTtf AJrfl) THOMAS BIBB BBADLSY* NEW YORK : CHARLES BCEIBNER, 1854. T- I love but thee, I love but thee. I love thee, and bright memories flash Across my heart, when thou art gone, As ocean's phosphor billows dash Beneath the midnight's sable zone. And yet I know such love is vain, A dream which soon will glimmer by, How can the lowly wavelet claim The starry splendor of the sky ? But as the sea's wild surges beat, Forever, round some proud palm-tree, My spirit murmurs round thy feet, I love but thee, I love but thee. I LOVE BUT THEE. 171 Thou wilt forget me, other eyes "Will win the worship of thy heart, And like a cloud of gorgeous dyes, Thy presence from my sky depart. And hope within my spirit sighs, As vision so divine, to lose, And like the withering dolphin dies Amid a thousand rainbow hues. And sad and low those echoes float Across my heart's deserted sea, As though a tear quenched every note — I love but thee, I love but thee. I'M LONELIEST IN A CEO WD. "When, mid the busy haunts of men The waves of life around me roll, Then memory links her darkest chain And sorrow broods upon my soul. When from the festive hall I hear The sounds of laughter gay and loud, Like funeral bells they strike mine ear — I'm loneliest in a crowd. 172 i'm loneliest in a crowd. 173 When with the young, the gay, the fair, I wander forth with hope to lose My youthful spirit's age of care And brighten up its faded hues, Then most amid their rainbow forms I feel my stricken spirit bowed And memory rouses sleeping storms — I'm loneliest in a crowd. Oh ! give to me the silent night Its starry musings lone and still The streamlet's soft sequestered flight The solemn moon communing hill. I cannot see a human face But round it winds the pale white shroud, And Death seems robed in forms of grace, I'm loneliest in a crowd. THE BEAUTIFUL. On my desolate track once the beautiful shone Like a star that had stolen from Heaven's bright zone But she melted in beauty and mystery away, Like a rainbow's frail pinion of sunlight and spray. I caught for a moment but one lightning glance Of her form as it wreathed through the festival dance, Like the waving of boughs stept the graceful and free, Like the bending of blossoms above the blue sea. (174) THE BEAUTIFUL. 175 There were hundreds around her, the young and the fair, But none with such singular brightness of hair, It twined and it floated in many a curl Like a chaplet of gold round a pillar of pearl. And none with such smiles of angelical grace That showering fell from her marvellous face, Like the long streaming plumes of a Paradise bird, Or the strings of a harp which the zephyrs have stirred. I sought her again, — but the faultless had fled Like a swan down the stream, like a star which hath sped, And I sought her no more, for I knew such a flower On the stem of a century would bloom but an hour. TO MY LYRE. Come, come, my lyre, come back to me, 'Tis long since I, thy strings have tried ; Though thou hast filled my heart with glee, When other friends have left my side. Though sad hath sometimes been thy lay, And woven of sorrow's sable thread, Thou never wert so false as they, "Whose fitful friendship swiftly fled. (176) TO MY LYRE. 177 Though others may have bidden me, To weep in silence and alone, I never poured my heart on thee, But that there came an answer tone. And thou bast never wooed that heart, To render up its richest gem, That thou might'st, like a chief, depart, And wear it in thy diadem. When wild misfortune's wintry wing Dispersed the summer's heartless throng, It only won from thy torn string, A sadder, though a deeper song. And thou hast never been unkind, Although it were a trifling art, To steal the few faint roses twined, Around a sad sepulchral heart. No, no, 'tis I who have been false, To bid thy tender murmurs die, Or faint in Memorv's funeral vaults, The half-formed echoes of a sigh. TO MY LYKE. 178 But I repent my cherished lyre, Thy silent chords once more I wreathe, Come sparkle with celestial fire, And one immortal measure breathe. The cold deriding world will deem Thy song a light unmeaning scroll, But ah ! 'twill give a deathless dream, Of rapture to my cheerless soul. Nor care I though thy murmurs wild, As fleeting and forgot may be, As May- wreaths which a simple child, Flings idly on the foaming sea. And when my fingers fail, in death, At last, to sweep thy quivering wire, I care not though thine every breath, Should on oblivious breast expire. So I but string, in yonder sky, A harp, whose soft melodious tone Shall never breathe an earthly sigh Around the great Eternal Throne. ZION. Lift, Zion, lift thy beauteous head, No more in dust and sorrow bow, Up through the aisles of mercy tread, And pay thy God thy promised vow. See o'er the hills thy Day Star rise, The heavy shades of night have fled, A rainbow spans the brightening skies — Lift, Zion, lift thy beauteous head. (179) 180 zion. No more, thou daughter of a King, Thou shalt in grief and mourning go, Put on thy festal robes, and sing Of triumph to thy vanquished foe. No more his foot shall trample thee, Nor thou in captive chains be led, For God, thy God hath made thee free, Lift, Zion, lift thy lovely head. No changeling child of earth art thou, Bride of our Sovereign's only Son ; Bright, pure and spotless is the brow, Which hath a heavenly Lover won. Then wreathe, with myrtles, thy gold hair, Hear, hear thy Lover's stately tread, His voice like music thrills the air, Lift, Zion, lift thy glorious head. LINES FOR THE LAYING OF THE CORNER STONE OF THE 1st PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH IN MEMPHIS. Let us lay our Corner Stone, Let us lay it broad and fair, With the organ's pealing tone, And the melody of prayer. On this fair and goodly plain, "Which the swarthy savage trod, We will rear a stately fane To the great and living God. 182 LINES. Let us lay its corner stone, And the people here shall throng, And his boundless bounty own, In a shout of sacred song. For He builded yonder dome, Where the stars of Freedom shine, And our mighty rivers roam . Through a land of milk and wine. Let us lay our Corner Stone ; Though the builders threw it by, It was quarried from a Throne, In the adamantine sky. And the fabric which shall spring On the surface of this rock, Shall not fear the lightning's wing, Nor the whirlwind's fearful shock. Let us lay our Corner Stones, While we bend in fervent prayer, In our spirit's mystic zones, Let us lay them broad and fair. LINES. 183 And these deathless souls of ours, Shall in future triumph rise, Like this temple's holy towers, Through the radiance of the skies. TO A BIED. Soar away, trembling bird, to thine own starry home, I would not imprison thee here, O-o dash with thy pinion the light fleecy foam, Which crests the deep blue atmosphere. Go, sing through the clear crystal arch of the sky, Thy music so varying and wild, And join with the seraphine chaunting on high, Hymns of praise to the great Undefiled. (184) TO A BIRD. 185 I would not that Earth should thy gay plumage stain Fly away like a carol of glee, For I have been bound by Calamity's chain, But thy wing, bonny bird, shall be free. Oh ! this world is a mixture of gladness and gloom, An altar of hearts at the best, "Where some must in flames like aroma consume, That incense may float round the rest. And the victor who tramps through the long stately street, In triumph and martial array, Regards not the flowers that fast round his feet, In odours, are dying away. But never, thou birdling, thy throat's silver song Shall gladden the heartless and vain, Whose bosoms, with thrillings of rapture could throng, To a breaking heart's musical strains. No, music should never be captive, but free As the spheres of the infinite sky, "Whose anthems float down to the blue bounding sea, Back billowing her joyous reply. 186 TO A BIRD. And the sheen of thy pinion is chainless to claim Its heritage starry and blue, To burst through the air, like a fetterless flame, Or wander dim forest aisles through. Then fly, like a prayer from the heart's secret core, Go, melt in yon white rolling cloud ; And I would that my spirit, as sinless, might soar, At last, to the throne of her God. PHILIPPI. Within the tent of Brutus strode The murdered Emperor's shade, Still crimson with the blood that flowed, When Brutus plunged his blade. But ah ! the look of love had fled Which wrapped that pallid brow, When pierced with anguish Caesar said, " Oh ! Brutus is it thou ?" The sad reproachful glance was gone, For vengeance filled his eye, And dread was that sepulchral tone — " We meet at Phillippi." (187) 188 PHILIPPI. The night-wind wailed, a lonely wail, The taper glimmered blue, And Fear, himself, looks not more pale, Than guilty Brutus grew. For Conscience put on armor there, And in the midnight hour, He who could face a million men, Confessed her sovereign power. " "What art thou demon — friend or foe ?" The spirit gave reply, " I am thine evil genius, know, " We meet at Phillippi." That voice had lost the tenderness, In other days, it bore For him, who loved nofrCsesar less, But Rome so much the more. It struck now, like a thunder clang, Upon his reeling brain, And three and twenty red mouths rang A fearful chorus strain. PHILIPPI- 189 And yet 'twas Caesar, he alone Could claim that bearing high, Though stern, and strange his farewell tone, "We meet at Philippi.'' Like some wild dream, the shadow fled, For morning flushed the sky, And as the living meet the dead, They met at Philippi. It was a challenge, bold and rare, To brave that bloody plain, For all were gallant Romans there, The slayer and the slain. And through their ranks that martial shade Seemed, like a god, to fly, And blunt each traitor's blood-stained blade Which flashed at Philippi. But most it seemed to hang, the while, Around the flag unfurled, Of him, who gave for Beauty's smile The empire of the world. Soft Antony in thy laurel crown It placed its brightest gem, And Csesar, for thy lordly frown 9* 190 PHILIPPI. It won, a diadem. But Cassius, thou lean conqueror when The Ides of March rolled by, Blood stained thy steel — 'twas Caesar's thine, 'Tis thine at Philippi. Oh ! Julius Caesar, mighty yet, Amid the ranks of war, Not in the capitol could set Thy glorious natal star. Still o'er the battle-field it streams, A terror to thy foes, As gorgeous in its setting beams, As when it first arose. For Brutus played the noblest part Beneath that red March sky, And on his sword, he pierced his heart, At fearful Philippi. A STARLIGHT CHATJN!T. Liquid opal showers glide Prom the dew's baptismal urn, Lambent flames of sacred fire On the night's blue altars burn. And the soul of music floats Down her arches dim and grey, From the gentle lutelike throats, Quivering on the myrtle spray. With those airy notes, let us, Through the mystic starlight stroll, I?or a dewy cloud of joy Breaks in brightness on my soul. (191) 192 A STAR-LIGHT CHAUNT. How the fairy minstrel flowers Bender through this leafy gloom, Low responses to the birds, In a chorus of perfume. From those ringing odour-bells Gush a thousand rosy dreams, And one valley in a bath Of pellucid beauty seems. It is not a night, when Thought Should, a restless maniac, rave Down that gloomy vale, which leads To the treasure loving grave. It is true, that we have wept, Who that dwells on earth has not ? But we will not think, to-night, On the sorrows of our lot. Let us wreathe, of planet rays, Festive garlands for our souls, Till the morn her glorious light On their shadowed beauty rolls. For my heart is, like a dove, Brooding on the dreaming earth, And it glides to Him, w T hose love Breathed its beauty into birth. A STAK-LIGHT CHATJNT. 193 Dost thou hear that tender flute, Thrilling silence on her throne ? Does not all our perished Youth Tremble on each semitone. Golden pinioned moments rich "With the freight of partial praise — Do they not sail back to thee, On the bosom of its lays ? All our childhood's summer nights, With the cherished and the lost, Ere they flamed into the skies, In one fearful holocaust ? But we must not weep to-night, Through the blue Cathedral dome, Not a sigh must, from one heart, Like an unblest spirit, roam. For this hoary priestal earth, And the choral stars above Shout, in antiphonic tones, Shout the tender theme of love. And concordant strains, as soft, From our spirits should exude, As the breathing breezes now Peopling purple solitude. 194 A STAR-LIGHT CHAUNT. So we will not weep to-night, "While this grand musician earth, Through the golden starlight peals Hymnic chaunts of sacred mirth. We will breathe of gladness too — Prom the temple of the heart, All its glorious forms do not, With the funeral trains, depart. Some remain ; and while we rear Silver shrines to God-like Truth, Memory's ivy crowns the gold Caryatidis of Youth. THE MAIDEN'S CHOICE. A maiden sat at eventide Beside a flowing stream — Majestic stream, with flowery banks, And waves of golden gleam : The maiden sure is in a dream, Her hazel eyes so pensive beam 1 (195) 196 THE MAIDEN'S CHOICE. So young, so fair, why sits she there "With melancholy mien ! So motionless, her shadow still Within the waves is seen : The dusky twilight soon will come — The maiden then should seek her home. The maiden dreameth on ; and sad The waves' low music swells Upon the ambient atmosphere With softest cadence dwells : Just sad enough the waves' refrain To link her thoughts' harmonious chain. The maiden dreameth on ; and lo ! Upon the river rides A boat of gorgeous golden prow — How noiselessly it glides ! See through the twilight's dark'ning fold, How gleams that burnished prow of gold ! Hark ! loud above the waves' refrain, In right commanding tone, Full tender, yet as proud as if THE MAIDEN'S CHOICE, 197 Demanding but its own, A lordly voice the maiden hears And these the words that reach her ears : — " Thou maiden fair of raven hair, Of melancholy mien ! Within my dreams thine eyes' soft beams Have long ago been seen : I vowed it then to leave my home, In quest of thee o'er earth to roam. " I've kept my vow, roamed o'er the land, And sailed upon the stream ; My cynosure the hazle-beam Years since I gazed on in a dream : Oh ! sail with me towards the sea, Where wealth and honor wait for thee. "Where proud baronial lands extend Beneath a peaceful sky, My palace rears its marble walls In grand serenity : Within the hall my slaves await Thee, maiden, thee to share my state. 198 the MAIDEN'S CHOICE. " Wilt come ? If thou wilt be my bride, Upon my turrets gray The earliest sun will shine and e'er The softest moonbeams lay : A word, a sign, will e'er command All that thy slightest wants demand." " It may not be," the maiden said ; " Sail on unto the main ! Not wealth, not power, I crave for dower, But heart for heart again, Float, golden boat unto the sea : And leave me portionless, but free !" The maiden dreameth on ; again Mute, motionless is she ; Again the waves' low music swells, And soothes her reverie : Upon her ear sweet accents fell — Her guardian angel murmured " Well !" The maiden dreameth on ; and lo Upon the river rides A boat, whose keel the waters kiss — THE MAIDEN'S CHOICE. 199 How gracefully it glides ! Although it boasts not prow of gold, Its course how stately doth it hold ! Hark ! chiming with the waves' refrain, A voice, as low and sweet As music's tone, steals gently on, For ear of maiden meet : Those wooing words of softest spell Her heart within will ever dwell. " Thou maiden fair of raven hair, Of melancholy mien ! Canst tell me why the des'late swan, On lake of siiv'ry sheen, Though limpid waters lave his breast, Will lowly droop his pensive crest ? " Thou maiden fair, of raven hair, Of melancholy mien ! Canst tell me why the dove doth mourn In mead of brightest green ? Why plaintive song, the woods among, The lonely bird doth e'er prolong ? 200 THE MAIDEN'S CHOICE. " List, maid ! the mystery I solve By art that love believes : The dove, upon the withered bough For absent loved one grieves. Apart they mourn in lonesome grove — Together live, together love. 'tThe swan upon the silver lake His wand'ring mate doth moan ; His shadow is no company — His shadow makes him lone. Shall I while gliding down this stream, Behold a single shadow gleam ? " See ! one by one bright stars appear T' attest my solemn vow : I swear alway to cherish pure The love I offer now : Oh ! sail with me towards the sea — A loving heart awaits but thee. " Our souls will yield us sigh for sigh, While sailing to the sea ! Our shadows floating on with us, THE MAIDEN S CHOICE. Shall keep fond compare : In storm or calm, our hope is love — Our trust is in our God above." 201 The boat glides down the stream of Life, Soft downward to the main ; The waves' low music swells aloud In tuneful -nuptial strain. Two souls there love, two shadows gleam : G-od guide the boat safe down the stream ! THE DEAD MINSTREL. Low lie the tresses of another Year, And minstrels strew with song his viewless bier — As through the mystic midnight's blue arcades, The music of his meteor-pinion fades. Earth, Air, the Sea, and heaven's starry shore Re-echo wails for him, who sings no more. 'Tis meet that song should mourn the year, alas ! Both like the shadow from the dial pass. One, swallowed in the glory of an age, But dimly lights the grey historic page — The cadence of the other's winding shell Is scarcely heard, 'mid Life's wild ocean swell. (202) THE DEAD MINSTREL. 203 Ah, often poison fills Fame's flattering breath, And poet laurels prove a cypress wreath, The Muse is but a syren maid, whose strain "Will bind her votary with a burning chain, Ah, then so rich in sorrow's tone, the lyre May well wail round a poet's funeral pyre. A fleeting poet ! one, who sprang from Time, And chanted various lays through every clime. The faded year ! ah ! in his glorious prime, The hall of crowded nations saw him rise, And crowned with early laurels, improvise. Sweet was the song of hope, his liquid tongue Poured in the glowing bosoms of the young ; Gay childhood, dancing through a world of flowers, To golden measures led the " smiling hours." The stripling, panting for Life's toilsome march, Viewed distant rainbows paint the future's arch. And haunted by its spell, the maiden fair Dreamed dreams as radiant as her own bright hair. Low bending o'er his page, the student heard The dulcet cadence of his prophet word, Saw Fame his triumph on her bulwarks stamp, And smiled, and trimmed again his " midnight lamp," 204 THE DEAD MINSTREL. The careless peasant, wending o'er the mead, With whistling rapture hailed Apollo's steed, The sceptred king from midnight's astral zone, Beheld new splendor blaze around his Throne. His cantos to the daring sailor bore Some bright-limned picture of the Arctic shore, While through the witching strains an accent came, Which charmed the statesman like the voice of Fame. Yet soon, ah ! soon, the halcyon music changed, As o'er his harp the lyrist's fingers ranged ; The harp, she swept, was strung with human hearts, Which mocked the magic of his minstrel arts. - Some proud heart breaking tears away a wire And jars with discord wild his ringing lyre ; The night-winds spring from many a lonely vale, And teach its shattered clouds a horrid tale. The soft sidereal eyes of Night suffuse, And bathe their silver with corroding dews ; While Ocean from her caves like thunder rolls With wails of wrecking barques and sinking souls. Ah, swiftly then the bard's young brow grew grave As o'er his lyre he bent its nerveless slave. Like some magician, crouched in wild surprise, Before the fiend his sorceries exorcise. THE DEAD MINSTREL. 205 For lo ! his voice, a strange ventriloquist, Now murmured song, and now harsh horrors hissed, As struck at once some mighty organ's keys Yield all their solemn grandeur to the breeze. Caught from his lyre, at once his Proteus tongue, With rival and coeval measures rung. Here swelled the Sabbath's morning's holy chime , Here clamored loud the crimson lip of crime. Then perished faint the pauper's parting sigh, And then the pean of purple wealth rolled by. Love, like a violet breathed away her life, Upon the raging roar of party strife, And sorrow's sigh and terror's dismal yell In madness smote the tuneful bridal bell. Now Mammon's guileful lay enchants the breeze, Which curls the wavelets of Australian seas, And now the farewell tones of Freedom came, Who fled the prestige of an Emperor's name. Now rose the crashing of a shivered spear, As Albion bent above a warrior's bier, 10 206 THE DEAD MINSTREL. And now pale nations fill the funeral train, "Which sweeps through fair Columbia's starry fane, For through the medley rolled, with ceaseless moan, The dark Destroyer's master monotone. No longer young, the flattering harpist wept, As o'er his soul the tempest music swept, Thought's restless thread a wrinkled fabric weaves O'er brows begirt by early laurel leaves His sweet voice jangled grew, and day by day, His hyacinthine hair waxed thin and grey ; His full orbed eyes, with sunsets, lost their fire, And palsy numbed the hands that held the lyre. A dying bard ! his farewell sigh fleets by, And thrids the whispering gallery of the sky; The trumpet tube of time receives the one, And blends it with the voice of ages gone, Until the dread archangel's stormy blast Shall bid their slumbering echoes wake at last, And leap, in thunder peals, from shore to shore, 41 Alas I Time was, but Time shall be no more." THE DEAD MINSTREL. 207 The perished poet ! his exulting strain Hath died upon the midnight's purple plain, And as the sleepless stars their vigils keep, The harp he swept, another's fingers sweep. Yet faithful chroniclers, their lamps, shall burn, In quenchless radiance, round his storied urn, And crowned with bay-leaves and a broken lyre, Where slumber all his race from sire to sire, His monumental shatt shall rise, sublime, And grace the grand Westminster dome of Time. POWEES' GEEEK SLAVE. What deathless triumph of immortal Thought, Hath the skilled sculptor's sentient chisel wrought, A woman sprung from stone, yet fair as she, "Whose lover braved the wild engulphing sea ; Or she, who fired the world with Beauty's spell, When Grecian flames arose, and Ilium fell* Thou radiant dream ! what though through Tempi's glade, At eve, thy breezy footstep never Btrayed, No* thy soft boW-like lip launched arrcrwy showers, (£08) powers' greek slave. 209 Of silver sounds, through Ida's leafy bowers— What though, from famed Cecropia's templed height, The blue engirdling sea, ne'er met thy sight : Nor sprang thy gaily gilt caique, to kiss The starry waves of sacred Salamis — Of Greek descent, all pure and lineal thou As though, with vermiel lip and silken brow, Thy birth had been where Ossa bowers in snow, Or where Arcadian measures sweetly flow. The calm composure" of sublime despair — The vanquished griefs thy tender features bear — The eye resolved though sad — the lip's proud curve "Which awes the ru#e insultor thou must serve, They all proclaim thy ancestry the free, Who perished victors at Thermopyla. Sweet captive, as the sculptor's classic brain Grew glowing with old Grecia's glory strain, Through mind's vast arcades, rushed a shadowy throng Of names, dear to Freedom, and to Song. And as the proud historic host swept past, Thy prestige role, the brightest and the last. 210 powers' greek slavk. Then watched the raptured carver, day by day, His dream through solid marble force its way ; Slow rose each soft proportion, true and just, The swelling limbs, the pure and faultless bust — The rounded throat — the proud symmetric head, Bowed like the rain-crushed lily on its bed. A being bursting from the stone to sight, Pair as the daughter of the sea-foam white, And chaste as she with breast of spotless snow, Pale Dian, huntress with the silver bow. A chain, alas ! thy model members bore, Pit type of " Greece, but living Greece no more." Yet does thy Paith's fair symbol speak how free, The spirit of the youthful devotee. And though amid the cold unfeeling mart, Still to thy locket, clings thy constant heart. Upon thy matchless lip is music mute, And toneless as upon an unstrung lute, Yet could thy voice well from its silent urn, "What precious truths, thy brutal lords might learn. Methinks 'twould chain the pinions of the breeze, "With soulful murmurs sad and stern as these. " Ye bind these fragile limbs with iron gyves The price of Mamote blood and Suliote lives, powers' greek slave. 211 But vainly do your Turkish fetters seek To quell the lofty spirit of a Greek. Ye cannot forge the chain, the scourge, the rod, For souls who bow alone to freedom's God. Degraded slaves ! ye sully manhood's name, For you my burning brow is flushed with shame — You who forget that Justice never sleeps That Pity o'er insulted virtue weeps. Aye tremble, on the future's cloudy verge, I see Boggaris stand— Mahomet's scourge. Like some war-eagle, with portentous swoop, I see him put to flight your bastard troop, And teach your base insensate souls to feel, What fearful terror guides avenging steel. " Your hills and vallies reek with Suliote blood, And mine can scarcely swell the princely flood, Yet 'tis not life, to live, a tyrant's slave, Nor death to rescue Virtue from her grave, 'Tis true, 'tis true, this frame may bring you gold, But love and virtue are not bought or sold. Love, love, a faded name ! the battle-field Cannot, to passion's sigh, its martyred hero yield ; 212 powers' greek slave. And listen, all who vainly hopes to buy, "Will learn how calmly Christian maidens die For 'twas the tutelage of my earliest breath To purchase fredom with the price of — death I LOVE THEE. I love thee, as we love the dead, Who never more may come, And smiles of fond affection shed Around our darkened home. "We clasp their memory to the heart- We wish they had not fled, Or pray that we, too, might depart, And slumber with the dead. 10* I 214 I LOVE THEE, I love thee, as I love to gaze, With strangely dreaming soul, Upon yon wizard light, that plays Around the Northern Pole. Out on the darkness, flames and fades That lightning wild and gay, And through my spirit's dim arcades, In vision floats away. I love thee, as I love the dream, Which comes at midnight's hour, And dazzles with a transient gleam, Of some unearthly flower. Some elfin flower of lunar birth, Which withers in its bloom, And only leaves the sorrowing oarth A waif of faint perfume. I love thee — but the night winds fly, On pinions wan and cold, And wail my soul's imperfect sigh Across the murky wold. I LOVE THEE. 215 The night-winds ! yea, the stars, likewise, Dance on their marble floor, And ring it round the startled skies — The dream, the dream is o'er. I love thee, but those echoes bound Along the chaos shore, The universe hath caught the sound — No more ! no more ! no more ! The universe ! and hark ! my soul Supplies her chorus tone, Like some dim gulph whose surges roll- Alone ! alone ! alone ! I love thee, but 'tis past ! 'tis past ! That vision so divine : 'Twas but a wreath of sunlight cast Upon the heaving brine. Or 'tw T as the lightning's lovely flash, Which gilds the sinking ship, A moment, ere the thunder crash Of ruin shakes the deep. 216 I LOVE THEE. I love thee, though 'tis now a rain Of jewels on the sea — The lost links of a broken chain, A perished tone of glee. Ah ! me, though scarce an infant's hands Were powerless as mine, I thought to strew the desert's sands With drops of ruby wine. I love thee, though thou'rt lost to me, I know not how nor why ; A bright barque vanished from the sea — A planet from the sky. A fleeting dream : a fading flower ; A Borealis fled : Ah ! me, 'twere sure a blessed power To slumber with the dead. I love thee, still it haunts my tongue, Though sad the accents fall, And like the snowy plumage swung Above a funeral pall. I LOVE THEE. 217 And yet there's not a stray star-beam, A flower — a breeze, a rill, But brings me back that deathless dream, I love, I love thee still. PONCE DE LEON'S DEEAM. BY T. BIBB BRADLEY. Inscribed to "W". Gilmore Simms, L. L. D. What emotions of joy pervaded the breast of Ponce de Leon, when first he beheld Florida, the land of sweet flow- ers and limpid streams ! Confident now of finding his long- sought Fountain of Youth, his joy knew no bounds. Often he wandered from his companions, and roaming alone in the blooming forest, gave himself up unrestrainedly to his de- lightful musings. — Wash. Irving- PAET I. "Within fair Florida's domain three hundred years ago, How solemn stood the lordly oaks, how hoar the misletoe, That clung and deftly nestled there, upon those monarch trees, (218) ponce de leon's dream. 219 As woman's constant love to man, defying storm and breeze. O'er valley, vale, and sombre mount, dispelling dismal shade, O'er river, rill, and sparkling fount, in every secret glade ; On drooping vine and cypress tall, on ash and aspen light, In loveliness the sun at eve cast golden beams and bright, A parting smile then threw o'er earth, his farewell glance then gave, And sweetly lingering gently sank within the waiting wave. Then rose with mild serener beam the golden-cinctured maid, A mellow light within her eye, in fairest garb arrayed. For briefest space alone she paused to view the fairy scene, Ere called her star-decked maiden train, right fitting tram for Queen ; In circles small then waved her hands, with golden bracelets bound, 220 POHCE DE LEON'S DREAM. And summoned all who owned her sway, her glittering throne around. Each handmaid saw the gorgeous gem from out the distant space, Each joyously obeyed the sign, and paused in proper place, Such happy smiles dame Nature cast upon her fav'rite land, E'er flowers bloomed and budded there by gentlest zephyrs fanned. Bright sank the sun, fair rose the moon, fair was the river's flow "Within fair Florida's domain three hundred years ago. Brave Ponce de Leon wand'ring there, by fond delu- sion driven, In quest of vernal Fount of Yonth, sure found alone in Heaven, At eve reclined in pensive mood, beneath a cypress tree, Forgetting toil and weary march in pleasent reverie. " Amid magnolia blossoms here sure fairies often creep, And agile elves and blithesome sprites fantastic revel 221 In summer midnight still and calm, sure gambol they in glee, Sure many a lithesome dance they have, in sportive frolic free ! Or weary with their lively play, their perfumed couches make Of bud, and leaf, and flow'ret soft, and elf like slumbers take." So mused the Spaniards passing there, from painful roaming free ; Well pleased, he deemed it fairest spot that on the earth might be. Each moment added increased joy ; and raptured at the scene, He called it habitation fit for elf and fairy Queen. Well skilled and apt De Leon was, well trained and ' quick his eye, To view such winning landscape o'er, new beauties to descry. On other lands had rested oft his raptured, lingering glance On fairest spot of Italy, on vine clad fields of France ; 222 Reclined on banks of Spain's fair streams, at sunset's quiet hour, He pensively had marked the waves, and felt their soothing power, As native cot to peasant boy, familiar to his sight Was each dark grove that saw the flow -of Guadal- quiver bright. A wanderer from his joyous youth, he well had learned to brave The direst perils landsmen fear, all dangers of the wave — Strong hope to cheer, brave soul to dare, and might within his arm, Not dangers met in any land, could give him hurt or harm. Each lonely isle in ocean's waste, from kindred islands bann'd, The mourning breezes sighing o'er, his waving hair had fann'd. Yet spot like this, so pure, so calm, had Leon never seen, Caressed by wind as soft with balm, his forehead ne'er had been. ponce de leon's dream. 223 Upon the vale, he gazed awhile, in velvet garb arrayed, A moment with the etraying brook his joyful vision strayed, Awhile he glanced with raptured look, at aspen glittVing bright, With quivering leaves on every bough each tremulous with light, A moment hearkened to the song of wanton mocking- bird, 'Mong whispering pines and vocal oaks in dulcet meas- ures heard, Then watched the small retreating lights by sparkling fire-flies given, Then counted fav'rite stars of his, as shone they in the heaven, By sight and song then soothed to sleep, soft drooping closed his eye, With gentle riv'lets foaming near, and love w T inds mourning by. Thus gently breathed De Leon worn, in calmest grate- ful sleep, With moon to guard his weary form and stars their watch to keep. 224 When sweetest dreams of purest bliss, in thronging troops and fast, Within the chamber of his mind in brigtest guises The captive chained in dungeon deep, and sighing for the air, Bereft of light and hopeful soul ne'er dreamed a dream so fair, As welcome sound of gliding boat, bestowing strength and life, To sinking sailor battling waves, nigh ceasing hopeless strife. As bright as seems in pilgrim's dreams, on grim Sahar- ra's sand, The well-remembered brooklet's flow within his native land, So stole upon the Spaniard's soul, as if by angels given, A vision blest of heavenly joy that quiet hour of even. Surpassing this in joyous bliss, ere vowed his marriage vow, Such hopeful dreams ne'er lover had as ^Ponce De Leon now. PAET II. Thky say that Ponce De Leon often told his companions of enchanting visions which visited his slumbers. He fre- quently asserted that a beautiful spirit-maid came to him in his sleep, and told him of a certain isle called Bimini, where he wonld find his Fountain of Youth. There the earth is always green, the flowers are ever blooming, the waters limpid and delicate ; not rushing in rude and turbid torrents but swelling up in crystal fountains and winding on in peaceful and silent streams. There no harsh and boisterous winds are permitted to ravage the beauty of the groves, there prevails no melancholy nor darksome weather, no drowning rain, nor pelting hail; a perpetual youth and joy reigns throughout all nature, and nothing decays or dies. Would God I were there ! — St. Basilius. Of heavenly mien beside him seemed, to fancy's misty sight, A woodland nymph of sweetest form enrobed in snowy white. Her trailing garments fell behind, reposed in graceful fold; And near with gentlest dalliance strayed the wooing night winds bold. (225) 226 ponce de leon's dream. In eye as deep as deepest spot in ocean's azure blue "Where sailing seaman pausing still his fathom line o'er- threw, A mild subduing mellow light in quiet splendor lay, As if her orbs from heaven had ta'en some purest holiest ray. Beflecting moonbeams' willing light a circling golden crown, Her forehead bright, of Parian white, with loving pres* sure bound ; And many a sparkling effort made enamoured glance to throw, At dewy lips with nectar fraught in rosy mouth below. Upon her swelling bosom strayed, dark-flowing curls nor few, Full o'er her face with loveliest grace a gentle shadow threw. A purer bloom on smile-lit cheek reposed in healthier hue, Upon beloved Dian's face, ne'er fond Latona knew, PONCE DE LEON S DREAM. 22? With martial leap from parent brain, young" Pallas bursting armed With queenlier form or finer grace, approving Jove ne'er charmed, As fair in mien ne'er Dido seemed, when bold Aeneas came, By single glance enkindling fast love's quickest, fiercest flame. As erst of old with fleetest haste from high Olympian heaven, To speeding wings by thoughts of love, a bolder im- pulse given, Sweet Venus fled, nor gazed behind each sulky glance to view, That haughty Juno's vengeful eye in ireful envy threw ; On, darting on with speediest sweep, as arrows cleave the air, O'er shoulders smooth as ivory far -waved her auburn hair : Nor ceased her eager course nor paused, till 'neath in green array Fair Ida's cherished bowers of love in sylvan beauty lay. 228 ponce r>E leon's dream. A moment brief then poised in space, sustained on out- spread wing, As calmest lull of Spring-winds soft, which bounteous showers bring, She glanced her eye o'er wood and grove, with eager wish to see Anchises dreaming dreams of her, beneath her myrtle tree. When viewing with far-reaching sight, in graceful out- lines traced Her slumbering lover's cherished form, with plumed helmet graced, In waving circles drooping down, her earthward course she tends, With balmiest sighs a fragrance soft to perfnmed breezes lends, With noiseless footfall she alights, her dreaming loved one by, And on him turns a glance that burns, with flame-enkin- dled eye. Thus fair, thus graceful seemed the Nymph to Leon's wildered sight, As if escaped from fairy land, in swift impetuous flight. And as she paused near Leon's form with rosy lips apart) ponce de leon's dream. 229 With tiny hands on trembling breast to still her trem'- lous heart, So gently pressed the velvet grass her little fairy feet, That grateful blades beneath unsoiied, bestowed their kisses sweet ; And eager moonbeams softly crept from ash and cy- press tree, And hastened on through orange bowers, such glorious sight to see. The woodland maid serenely gazed, and pitying glances threw From eyes like angels sooth may have, but mortals very few, Upon the war-worn warrior's form encased in coat of mail, That form that many a storm had braved, and many a winter's gale : That torn by many a battle long, by many a siege harassed, Tho' scathed ne'er bent, tho' scarred ne'er bowed, un- yielding to the last. Then still advanced with tread subdued and slowly leant her there, 11 230 PONCE DE LEON'S DREAM. Until the slumberer's breath disturbed her curls of floating hair. Upon his forehead, rough and high, her twining fingers placed, And touched with care the wrinkles there by direst hardships traced. Nor lingered long the maid to note how fleeting time's decay, Had solemnized his raven hair with sacred strands of grey, But utterance gave to dulcet words with full delicious tone, Prom lips as soft as Cashmere's rose, her rarest rose full blown. SONG OF THE SPIRIT MAIDEN. De Leon, De Leon, why sleepest thou now, With tokens of sorrow traced over thy brow ? Is care thy sad portion by night and by day, And will not soft slumber sooth sorrow away ? PONCE DE LEON'S DBEAM. 231 Oh ! swiftly I've speeded from Dream-land this night Ne'er pausing a moment, on ever in flight, I've journeyed o'er mountains and swam o'er the sea, Awake thee, awake thee, I've tidings for thee ! In Bimini island green-crested and fair, Where cypress and palm trees e'er blossoming are, Where Zephyrs enamoured the sweet flowers woo, The solace of sorrow lies waiting for you. On many bright lands thy bold footsteps have been, Fit homes for the weary thy vision hath seen, Gem island by fond waves of ocean caressed, Where tempest-tossed seamen from danger might rest. For storm-nurtured petrel, though wanderer he, Ne'er journeyed more fathoms alone o'er the sea, Than thou with brave Colon, the mariner's kins'. Whose requiem ever the billows shall sing. Yet island so cheery, so lovely to view Ne'er welcome hath offered to Colon or you, As Bimini island where alway the surf, * With gentleBt obeisance approaches the turf. 232 ponce de leon's dream. The rarest of flowers so plenteous there grow, That withered leaves falling, when spicy winds blow, In circles borne upwards, float cloud-like for miles, 'Till odorous ocean receives them with, smiles. There myrtle, magnolia, and cypress combine, To give to the island a beauty divine ; And birds of fair plumage in trills ever sweet, Pond praises of Bimini softly repeat. Gay ever with blossoms, caressed by the breeze, In sunshine all glittering bloom alway the trees. By tempest uninjured, full branches they bear, Nor leaf-stopping autumn, nor winter they fear. There leapeth in beauty, and sparkleth in glee, Thy fountain of youth overflowing and free, As mirror of silver, bright burnished it seems, Forever emitting its clear limpid streams. At roseate matin fast hastens the sun, To cast his first beamings this fountain upon, And Luna above it oft pauses in flight, To see her form mirrored in waters so bright 233 A velvety margin the blue waters have, Where roses and lilies, sweet suppliants, crave Permission to droop them, and gently bestow Their lingering kiss on the surface below. De Leon, De Leon, if more thou wouldst know, Awake thee from slumber and with me come go, Ere star-light hath faded, ere moon-beams may pale, O'er mountains and forest, o'er valley and vale, Where wooed by the ocean, by Zephyrs caressed, In vernal bloom budding, in happiness blest, E'er sparkling in verdure, 'neath balmiest skies, Queen-bride of old Neptune, sweet Bimini lies. PAET III. The waters of Helicon and Parnassus have no sanative power, nor other stream gliding on our earth. But hard by the eternal throne of God, our ever-blessed Maker, the true Fountain of Life gushes up, and thereof the Angels and Arch-angels forever do drink. Vicesimus Knox. With cadence soft and musical the maiden ceased her song, But 'mid the forests still and calm, its echo floated long, Now ling'ring 'mid the cypress boughs, now whispering with the pine, ponce de leon's dream. 235 Then fleeting, fleeing, flowing on in fitful measures fine, 'Till mingled with the rippling noise loud murmuring brooklets gave, In stronger tones of dulcet sound it found its fitting grave. Ah ! see the slumberer moving now, the sleepers pulses thrill, And inspirations fast and deep his heaving bosom fill ! A smile his forehead dallies o'er, as in his happiest mood, And furrowed cheeks are all suffused with warm Cas- tilian blood ; With eager impulse open now his sleep refusing eyes, And straight before he gazeth long with look of mute surprise. As feels the sinking mariner, when swiftly floating by, Huge, broken spars elude his grasp and leave him there to die, A prisoner lone in dreary cell with iron fetters bound, Whose list'ning ears hear Chanticleer, with shrillest matin sound, 236 Announce to him Aurora fair, slow ushering in the day, That ere its close will view his form a lump of lifeless clay ; As feels the mother when she knows that stern unpity- ing death, Upon her child, her only child, hath breathed with noisome breath, "Upon those eyes once sparkling bright, his icy seals hath placed, And on that snow-white purest brow his mournful token traced, So felt De Leon, conscious then that visions fond and vain, Had sported with his hoping soul, and left him sad again. Alas ! alas ! that waking sight such bliss could e'er de- stroy, The maiden sped, to dreamland fled, and with her bore his joy, His holiest joy without alloy on winged pinions bore, And left him weeping, wailing there in agony full sore ! Protracted sighs that well bespeak the anguish of his soul, PONCE DE LEON'S DKEAM. 237 From out his sorrow-laden breast in slow succession roll; From eyes that oftener far were wont in generous pride to gleam, Large trickling tear-drops down his cheek in rapid tor- rents stream. Ah ! Ponce De Leon, well for thee, broad-breasted man of oak, No human eye beholds thee wail for this thy saddest stroke ! Thy lordly pride could never brook to yield to melting mood, If witnessing thy helpless grief a comrade near thee stood. For ne'er has foeman seen thee shrink, nor mortal seen thee quail In strife, or siege, in woe or war, in tempest or in gale. Yet weep, De Leon, freely weep, alone and desolate, Let every willing tear drop sad pursue its trickling mate ! 11* 238 ponce de leon's dream. There's little fear of prying gaze, thy sole companions are The solemn forest-trees around, that in thy sorrow share. Beside thee wave the willows lone all sadly to and fro, As if lamenting buried dead the cheerful earth below; About thee grieving night-winds sing their slow and se- rious lays, Above in sparkling sympathy sad stars pour down their rays. Then weep, deluded Leon, weep the hope that cheered thy heart, That far hath led thee o'er the sea and bade thee early part From kindred race and native land, sweet joys of love forego Thy pining, yearning, longing soul may never, never know. Amid the rnauy gifts to man for mortal uses meet, Abundant found in every land is water ever sweet, The tired latorer owns it sweet with irksome toiling spent, And sated piince when gen'rous wines afford no nutri- ment. ponce de leon's dream. 239 Dh ! fair to view this liquid pure where'er it hath its birth, In crystal goblet flowing free or bounding o'er the earth ! In glitt'ring rain drops falling fast, transparent globes that form, In passing showers of early spring or in the winter's storm ! In sparkling tear by purest joy from eye of maiden led. In pitying streams from angel's eyes for human woes e'er shed Or in the morning's trem'lous dew soft quiv'ring in the light, Which God the Giver ever spreads to cheer our mor tal sight ! Upon our bounteous mother-earth what copious waters glide ! Capacious seas upon whose breast large navies safely ride ! Majestic rivers rolling on with right baronial mien, And fairy lakes reflecting each fair Luna's roseate sheen 1 240 ponce de leon's dream. How many a fountain gushes up with murmur and with song, And many a brook soft warbling makes as journeys it along ; And silvery streams, or large or small, their fertile windings take 'Mid pleasant fields of waving grain, their burning thirst to slake. Y"et ah ! vain dreamer, none of these, tho' pure th& wa- ters be, May give to man perpetual youth, from danger set him free ! Not limpid draughts from clearest streams in fairest lands that leap, Not famed Bandusia's joyous fount where guard sweet Naiads keep, Such precious priceless boon may yield, to mortals e'er denied : Our native earth for all her sons hath resting-place sup- plied. Or tiver silver cord be loosed, or broken golden bowl, From crumbling tenement of clay departs the immortal soul. PONCE DE LEON'S DREAM. 241 Then search, oh ! mortal, not on earth such vernal fount to find, But upward look with eye of faith and calm and trust- ing mind Encompassing Jerusalem, blest city of our God, A city girt with sapphire walls by angel footsteps trod, Where toil, nor woe, nor death is known, nor darkness there, nor night, Celestial waters ever flow, and gleam in golden light. One draught from that divinest source, a single drop if given, "Will yield thee never-ending youth, and life fore'er in heaven. When this thy soul hath tasted once, thy voice will ever sing Amid the sons of God on high, u ITosanah To Our King:' TWO SCENES. THE MORN. Aurora, by the am'rous morning chased Rides blushing in her chariot purple-wheeled. Tall budding trees in bright reflection dyed O'er all their clust'ring boughs grow red. The lake, Ear gleaming in the forest's deep recess, Beholds the scene and all her waters sing, Beautiful, how beautiful I Lo ! where To greet the morn their proud heads lilies bow, And all its silver limbs the aspen waves, Two beings walk most lovely in their youth. 244 TWO SCENES. She fair as Eve, when with long tresses loosed And lambent eyes and most delicious form, To Adam's gaze she seemed an angel sped To lure him up to Heaven. He like the morn That ardent sues Aurora o'er the hills, And wins her in the vale. Most lovely pair ! Their humid eyes as language speak warm vows, While o'er their cheeks the softest blushes steal, Then flit like rosiest dreams. How sweet to them The Earth with all her varied beauty smiles ! How kind the winds to kiss their radiant brows And breathe of Youth and Love ! How blue that sky That arches forth its benediction there ! The waves how glad that speeding to the shore Desirous foam to greet the youthful pair ! How deep the toiies that from their Soul-harps roll ! How thrill their forms quivering with utter bliss ! Oh ! they are happy now, these loving ones. THE MOONLESS NIGHT. The dim stars give no light, and Dian dies. The wailing winds sing peans, and wan clouds With tattered shrouds roam trembling in the vault Like lost souls Hades bound. The stately trees Stand motionless all sullen in their gloom. Forth from the forest aisles roll deeper tones, That mingling with the lake's low music iloat Till all her darkened waves in unison Flow mournfully, how mournfully ! Lo ! where Its growth the aspen shrinks, where lilies droop To lay white crowns in sorrow on the turf, One being walks most wretched in his woe. The crispate leaves that strew his midnight path Like dead hopes rustle 'neath his lonely tread. His brow bears tokens of those restless griefs Which writhe like serpents in man's biain, and bite. Deep set beneath a fore-head pale his eyes Flow laden with the anguish of a life. His cheeks sink hueless, save twin hectic spots That tell a fever fires a feeble frame. 246 TWO SCENES. The Earth — how seems she now? All black and blind As Destiny herself! How drear that sky. Now curving out dark malediction there ! How sad the waves that shiv'ring shun the shore ! How sound the tones that now his soul's harp thrill ? How shakes his frame quivering with utter woe ! Oh ! he is lonely now, this weary one. MY BROTHER. Eum Amavi, Sed Mortuus Est.' My Brother, ere spring with its roses had perished, When leaves of the forest were gayest in bloom, We bore thee, the dear one, the ardently cherished, To sleep where thy kindred lie low in the tomb. Now summer's bright banners are tattered and torn, And leaves of the autumn lie scattered and sere, And clouds o'er the mountain go grieving forlorn As the heart of the mourner who weeps for thee here. 248 MY BROTHER. Yet rest thee, my Brother, the years that are fleeting Can chill not with sorrow thy fond bosom now ; The storms that around me so wildly are beating Can pour not their terrors upon thy young brow. That brow of it beauty, its radiance divine I would not that ills of this world should beguile ; And the eyes that so often looked love into mine Should look into angels' forever and smile. "Why call thee to plains where the flowers all languish, Where shadows appall the poor pilgrims who stray, Where music is stifled in low wails of anguish, When darkness fears never the dawn of a day ? No, longer, thou loved one, away from this scene, In climes bright with sunshine unfold thy pure wing, By streams that are golden, o'er fields that are green, Where soft fountains murmur, and glad angels sing. THE THEEE PILGRIMS. A barque bounded forth, when the sunlight of morning Eeposed like a mantle on soft summer seas ; Her light fairy prow seemed the blue billows scorning, Her white shining sail seemed deriding the breeze. Three lovely young pilgrims were manning that vessel, They came from the shades of a far mountain dell, Nor knew they the tradewinds and tempests that wrestle And rock-reefs that lurk where the sea billows swe 12 252 THE THREE PILGRIMS. They sought far across the blue desert of waters, The shore of an Araby blessed and bright, Where Flora would grant them her beautiful daughters, And Love's music-bird sing a song of delight. Ah ! one of their number seemed careless in duty — 'Twas Joy, gaily glancing among the bright spars ; And her brow had the stamp of that singular beauty, Of such as are summoned in youth to the stars. But Hope's golden tresses were steadfastly streaming In planet-like glory, above the gilt helm ; While Youth at her side stood unconsciously dreaming, And watching the waves curling back from the stern. For a brighter blue sky o'er a barque never bendedj A softer blue ocean a barque never bore, And spirit-like zephyrs from heaven descended And tenderly wafted her far from the shore. And gaily the mariners sang as they glided — Their ship it Was stout and their flag it was free ; Their keel, like a keen silver arrow divided The heart of the broad and the beautiful sea. THE THREE PILGRIMS. 253 'Tis true it was stout, but alas ! 'twas a stranger To seas where the coral reef parted the wave ; And it heedlessly rushed in the bosom of danger, Where none hovered near for to pity or save. And it sank in the prime of a golden-hued morning 'Mid billows as soft as an infant's repose ; The bell-fashioned sky ringing never a warning, To tell that the waters would over it close. Straight down to the sea-monarch's chrystalline chamber It silently sped, like the beam of a star. Where sea-nymphs encrusted its cordage with amber, And girdled with flowers each delicate spar. And the pilgrims — oh ! when the cold deluge rushed darkling The sheen of that forehead, so strangely divine ; Joy died on the waters, died flashing and sparkling, Like libated foam from a beaker of wine. 254 THE THREE PILGRIMS. And Youth slowly sank with a sorrowful murmur, That gifted the wind with the voice of despair — With her features upturned to the blue sky of summer, That arched with a smile o'er the wretchedness there. But Hope faltered not, for with dauntless devotion She snatched her pale friend from a watery grave, And fearlessly breasting the perilous ocean, Her long sunny hair streamed above the blue wave. Long, long on the waters, unfriended she drifted, Till planting her foot, it rung firmly and free On the strand of an Island that silently lifted Her desolate rocks from the depths of the sea. But her helpless companion had faded and fainted ; The color had fled from his hyacinth curls, And the blue lines of suffering had mournfully painted The mouth that once sparkled with roses and pearls. She clasped his cold temples, she sang of "to-morrow," She tore ner pale lips with her kisses apart, Till a faint wintry smile, like an angel in sorrow, Came tremblingly forth from his broken young heart. THE THREE PILGRIMS. 255 And she warbled all day, for she thought that his anguish Would hush, like the surf, that stood still on the shore ; But the faithful young pilgrim seemed only to languish, And sigh for the Joy that returned nevermore. Though she sang like a syren, she could not empower His barque to ascend from the sea-caves below ; And at last fragile Youth passed away, like a flower, Begirt by a dream of incurable woe. And then — not till then, did her brave spirit falter, And fear chill the lonely survivor in truth : As she knelt, like a priest at a dismantled altar, And kissed the shut eyes of the beautiful youth. Yet her voice rose again, and rose faultless and deathless Above the hoarse note of the sea-raven's cry, Till e'en the wild ocean grew solemn and breathless, And stars glided earthward to murmur reply. 256 THE THREE PILGRIMS. Yes, her strain was so loud and divine, that a million Of silver-mailed stars rushed athwart the night- glooms, And they brought a white angel down there to pavilion Her bright golden head with his pale sweeping plumes. And a soft rolling sigh of ineffable sweetness Was all that was heard at the close of her lay ; For that angel's pale plume mocked a meteor's in fleetness, And fled with the last of the Pilgrims away. TO ONE BEAUTIFUL. 'Tis midnight now, sweet girl, and thy blue orbs In placid slumber closed, embower their rays, And o'er thy pillow floats thy soft brown hair. Fair sleeper, rest thee in thy innocence Unharmed, unawed by visions boding ill. Yet little need that I should pray for thee, For do not angels poise above thy couch And smile upon thy loveliness. Dream on, Till wanton morn roams ruddy on the hills, And pours red glory on the dewy vales, Then wake thee to enchant the sunny day. (257) 258 TO ONE BEAUTIFUL. Meantime, while dumb in sleep the oblivious world Prates not of misery, while noiselessly The waning hours flit by, I sit and count Thy beauties o'er. Thy snowy brow I see With native grace enthroned, and moistened lips That rob young flowers of all their precious food, And cheeks carnation-hued, and eyes that beam To tenderness subdued, and that white neck Than cygnets fairer on the gleaming lake. The idle ones that circle round thy throne, And pay poor compliments in pleasure's halls, These reck not of thy beauty. In my dreams As bright as angels by their golden streams, Than white-armed houris lovely in their baths, I picture thee. And in the sun-lit hours The orbs that lure away my cares are thine, The lips that murmur loving words are thine, And that young form all robed in white, Celestial walking in my path, is thine. And can'st thou censure me that in the night I hold commune with thee. Thro' all the day I keep me from thy happy bower, nor come To woo for rosy smiles. "When in the vault TO ONE BEAUTIFUL. 259 The languid moon, that loves the earth so well, Floats pensively, I cannot bid my heart Cease throbbing wild for thee. The midnight air Breathes redolent of thee, and stars that shine Thro' my lone casement dearly speak of thee. 'Tis all I ask thus in my solitude, To dream I see thy blue eyes bend on me, Oh[! tenderly, how tenderly ! to list The silver sounds that ripple from thy lips, To hear the tripping music of thy step O'er flowers gaily gliding, and to twine Soft curls that cluster on a brow divine. Thou wouldst not rob the pilgrim of his staff, Nor from the sinking sailor wrench the spar That lifts him o'er the waves. Thou could'st not grasp The thirsting traveler's cup, and on the sand Pour blessed water drops that yield him life. Thy long-lashed eyes will shed no feebler light, Nor from thy cheek its peachy smoothness fade, Nor smiles less frequent gild thy glowing lips, That sorrowful I love thee so. The morn Will greet thee buoyant as a soaring lark, 12* 260 TO ONE BEAUTIFUL. The softest joys have homes in thy pure breast, And all the day thy ringing voice will chime In lowest laughter. Onward thou wilt move An augel in thy loveliness, nor know How one lone heart its midnight worshipjpays. Then let me dream of thee, and dreaming live. A TAY. I knew thee but a single day, 'Twas one, that svnftly sped away, With blue and golden skies. How gaily wound its lovely march Athwart the distant pine and larch — 'Twas faultless as the rainbow arch, That leads to Paradise. (261) 262 A DAY. The zephyrs carrolled on the hills, The waters warbled in the rills. The birds upon the tree : The flowers chaunted in perfume, The forest waved its bonniest plume, And sunbeams chased away the gloom That long had^shadowed me. For I was sorrowing in my bower — A pale and rudely broken flower, That sheds its morning tears. I sorrowed like a crownless queen, My blessings all had fled the scene, And friends were not, what friends had been In brighter, happier years. When soft, and kind a gentle tone Came, floating through that bower lone, And charmed my soul along, It thrilled my very being's core, I do not think I knew before How musical a name I bore, It sounded like a song. A DAY. 263 Ah ! me, when friends have from us turned, And all its treasures have been spurned, The heart is quickly won. That soft tone, calmed my spirit's wave, And shadows fled the blue concave, "When lifting up, thine eyelid gave The day another sun. It seemed to me, the bright hours rolled, In chariots down a path of gold, And scattered fairy flowers. A glory hung around tho sky, A brilliant rainbow fluttered nigh, And sportive clouds up piled on high, Their alabaster towers. But ah ! it fled — that lovely day, Like some sweet minstrel's melting lay, That perishes in rhyme. It fleeted oft" beyond recall, Amid a glorious twilight fall, And left its equal not in all The Kalendar of time. THE PROPHECY. Once a Prophetess bade me to bide for a time, Till alover should woo in the language of rhyme ; In that musical idiom that springs from the heart, Like its delicate pulses untutored by art. And I heard a sweet measure one beautiful day, When the clouds were like roses that blossom in May ; So divine and so faultless that melody rolled, That it circled my being with bracelets of gold. (264) THE PBOPHECY. 265 Though my spirit was sad, when it glided to me, There was hope in my heart, and my heart it was free ; And my soul was unfearing, and sunward and true, As she cleft her lone way up the welkin of blue. Though it sometimes had trailed through the bowers of Love, It had burst from its bondage and glided above, For a shackle of silk was not destined to gird The broad swooping wing of a proud eagle bird. I had dashed through the clouds with mine eye on the sun Till the goal of his gorgeous meridian was won ; When I flamed through the zenith, and laughed in my scorn, At the gloom of the night, and the mist of the morn. On my sun streaming plume, from the place of my birth, Like a wild comet star I had girdled the earth — Through the blue upper air, where the winds are asleep, Far above the old song of the tremulous deep- 266 THE PROPHECY. When I suddenly paused in my cloud-spurning flight, By an Island that shone through a shower of light ; In the midst of the sea, it rose dazzling and fair, And the shell of a minstrel was vibrating there. I could not tell half the sweet madrigals breathed, For a deeper toned instrument never was wreathed But one was the strain that a bright child of song, Should to none, but a ruler of music belong. And it vibrated there, till a delicate chain Grew entwined with the plume of my pinion again, But the chain was of gold, and had many a gem, Like the beauties, that beam in a bard's diadem. So I mingled my harp with the measures I heard, Till the zephyr grew vocal and gay as a bird, And the ocean, like me, wore the manacles fair, That dropped down from that shell when it fettered the THE PROPHECY. 267 And I still linger there, in a tuneiflowing trance, Where the winds weave a song, and the waves weave a dance, For the minstrel, who sings on that Isle in the sea, Is the one, that the Prophetess promised to me. A SONG. There are many around thee, the young and the fair, "Who are leading the revel along ; And their ringlets may vie with thine own sunny hair, And their lips rival thine in the song. But there's never a one with that angel-like grace In each lineament's marvellous turn — With the spirit, that shines through thy beautiful face, Like a lamp through a delicate urn. (268) A SONG. 269 There are many who brighten the banquet to-night, As the wave of the crimson wine flows, "With a forehead that beams like a crescent of light, And a cheek like the bloom of the rose ; But they have not that peace, like a soft brooding dove, "Which is sheltering thine innocent youth, Nor a brow, which hath brought from its birthplace above Such a heavenly halo of truth. No, they have not an eye, beaming under its shield, Like that magical cavern of old, "Which to only one fortunate comer revealed All its treasure of jewels and gold. For there ne'er was a spirit sent down from on high Half as bright or as stainless as thine, And the Persian's proud idol, though framed in the sky Cannot boast a more beautiful shrine. THIS "WOELD. What is there now in all this world, That ministers delight ? For every joy, I ever knew, Has vanished from my sight. My early hopes, like drops of dew, Have fleeted from the earth ; And every golden star is gone, That hung around my birth. (270) THIS WORLD. 271 Of all the gifts the fairies gave, There now remains but one ; It is the gift of shedding tears, When all the rest have flown. 'Tis true I still retain a lyre, Whose numbers wildly roll, * But ah ! the radiance of its fire Leaves darkness in my soul. And she who gave it, scarcely gave A treasure to my heart, 'Tis twined with cypress and with rue— My spirit's counterpart. I do remember, when a child, Though sorrowless and gay, That then a dim prophetic fear Upon my spirit lay. It was, that I should live to see The wreck of every love ; And flourish, like the Upas tree, To desolate the grove. 272 THIS WOKLD. And 'tis fulfilled — the last deep love Is from my bosom hurled, And there is not a joy for me In all this wide, wide world. } i ' ■ i m : ** y \ -MR.- jr\ l wm: Deacidified i 111 Thomson Park Drive -V ' #\ r *+ •? ^t^-/ v^ f V V^V ^