fr^:- 
 
Flower Myths 
 
 AND 
 
 ©tlxjer g^jenxB. 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM EDWAKD YASSER. 
 
 LOUISVILLE, KY. 
 
 PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR BY JOHN P. MORTON AND COMPANY. 
 
 1884 
 
o 
 
 ^1 
 
 Copyrighted, 1884, 
 
 =. ®"® 
 
 BY William Edward Vasser 
 
 ^ 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 MY DEAD PEIEND, 
 
 ^attn?0 ^ettagti ^0lili0, 
 
 I INSCRIBE THIS LITTLE VOLUME— THIS "POOR FLOWEK OF POESY. 
 
 FOR SINCE IT PLEASED A VANISHED EYE, 
 I GO TO PLANT IT ON HIS TOMB ; 
 THAT IF IT CAN, IT THERE MAY BLOOM, 
 
 OR DYING, THERE AT LEAST MAY DIE." 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Flower Myths, 
 
 Other Poems, 
 
 The Lion, Democracy, . . . . 
 
 O'Donnell, ...... 
 
 Comparisons, . . . ... 
 
 To Adelaide, 
 
 A Fallen Idol, 
 
 Serenade, . ..... 
 
 At My Brother's Grave in Winter, 
 
 The Jacqueminot Kose, .... 
 
 Ben, . . 
 
 Ballads, . . . . . . 
 
 The Poet's Honeymoon — October, 
 
 To an Absent Lady, .... 
 
 To Adelaide, ...... 
 
 Alabama Bereft, ..... 
 
 Lines Written on the Fly-leaf of Tennyson's 
 Drama, Queen Mary, 
 
 The Poet's Fame, . 
 
 Dante at Ravenna, 
 
 Come, Sing Me a Song, 
 
 The Use of the Useless, 
 
 Forebodings, . 
 
 The Ancient Stile, 
 
 Modesty, 
 
 The Flowers, 
 
 (Edipi, . 
 
 7 
 
 31-90 
 
 . 33 
 
 34 
 . 37 
 
 39 
 . 41 
 
 42 
 
 . 44 
 
 ' 50 
 
 . 52 
 
 54 
 , 55 
 
 57 
 58-59 
 
 61 
 
 64 
 65 
 
 . 67 
 70 
 
 , 73 
 76 
 79 
 82 
 84 
 86 
 
FLOWER MYTHS. 
 
 I. 
 
 A country house embowered in stately trees, 
 
 With grassy lawn and flower embellished walks ; 
 
 A rippling brook meandering through the grounds, 
 
 By rustic bridges spanned, and dashing o'er 
 
 Artistic piles of moss-incrusted rocks, 
 
 In picturesque cascades, whose cooling spray 
 
 Keeps fresh the lacy ferns through summer's heat : — 
 
 Imagine these, and you will have the scene 
 
 Of this, the masque, or sport, or what you will, 
 
 That makes the subject of our narrative. 
 
 The dramatis personce are but few. 
 
 Embracing but one little family — 
 
 A widowed mother and four noble sons 
 
 And daughters twain, exquisite blossoms both. 
 
 Their father, years ago, had bravely drawn 
 
 His sword and marched forth at his country's call ; 
 
 And while the laurels, well deserved for deeds 
 
 Of valor, clustered thick about his brows, 
 
 (7) 
 
g FLOWER MYTHS. 
 
 He fell ill battle, and with dying breath 
 
 A message sent unto his loving wife, 
 
 A wish that she would not her days devote 
 
 To bootless sorrow, mourning o'er his fate. 
 
 Nor, clad in somber weeds, forever wear 
 
 A woeful aspect ; but, resigned to fate. 
 
 Learn to subdue her grief, if that might be. 
 
 And feel or feign a cheerfulness, that she 
 
 Might make their children happy for his sake. 
 
 This admonition well had she observed. 
 
 All arts she used to hide the pangs of grief 
 
 That rent her heart, as tigers, in their lair, 
 
 Rend and devour their prey. She gave her sons 
 
 Encouragement and help daily to store 
 
 Their minds with knowledge; taught them to perform 
 
 With willing hearts their labors; drew them on 
 
 To noble aims, and strove to shape their lives 
 
 In lofty molds. She oft to them would say, 
 
 '' The Surreys, Sidneys, Crichtons are not gone 
 
 From out the earth. Though tourneys pass away. 
 
 And courtly /e^es no longer rule the hour, 
 
 'T was not the glamour of the lists and courts 
 
 That made the peerless knight, but 't was the man ; 
 
 And manhood still as perfect may be made ; 
 
 And breasts as true as ever camis wore 
 
FLOWER MYTHS. 
 
 May be concealed in homely, modern clothes, 
 
 And deeds as tender, brave, and knightly, now 
 
 May be performed, as ever graced the reign 
 
 Of spotless Arthur, or of Charlemagne/^ 
 
 Her daughters too, by nature well endowed. 
 
 Were trained in every fascinating grace 
 
 And indistinguishable art that makes 
 
 The charm of woman ; taught to rule themselves 
 
 Firmly, and each unworthy passion tame, 
 
 And only freedom give to sucli desires. 
 
 Feelings, emotions, as may best become 
 
 The gentler sex. She taught them charity ; 
 
 Not only that which gives but that which loves ; 
 
 And all polite attainments that refine 
 
 And elevate and polish they possessed. 
 
 But not alone was self-improvement made 
 
 The children's aim, for they were also taught 
 
 The duty due to others, and with that 
 
 To keep, when fortune frowns, as when she smiles, 
 
 A cheerful mind. 'T was not enough, she said, 
 
 The stars should rise, but they should also shine 
 
 To beautify the night. No flower performs 
 
 Its functions fully by its growth alone, 
 
 But it must show bright colors and exhale 
 
 Its pleasing scents to add to earth's delight. 
 
10 FLOWER MYTHS. 
 
 Thus ceaselessly did this sagacious dame, 
 
 This loving mother, strive by every wile, 
 
 By every innocent art to woman known. 
 
 To lure her children on those pleasant paths 
 
 That lead to virtue, wisdom, happiness ; 
 
 And, both to entertain and to instruct. 
 
 She taught them plays and sports and merry masques. 
 
 And so it chanced that, on a summer day— 
 
 A lazy, drowsy day in summer, when 
 
 The agile squirrels ceased to clamber up 
 
 And down the trees, but hid them in the leaves. 
 
 And birds that sang so cheerily at dawn 
 
 Flew silently from shady bough to bough. 
 
 And all the family had gathered there 
 
 Upon the porch, where hung Madeira vines 
 
 Whose creamy, plume-like blossoms, lightly stirred 
 
 By gentle zephyrs, shed a rich perfume — 
 
 The mother's eyes overlooked the varied flowers 
 
 That filled the plots and fringed the gravel walks. 
 
 And these suggested to her mind a thought 
 
 She thus expressed : " To-morrow let us lunch 
 
 Beside the brook, beneath the Giant Beech ; 
 
 And let us each impersonate some flower. 
 
 And tell in rhyme its origin, as learned 
 
 From history, tale, or famed Ovidian song. 
 
FLOWER MYTHS. H 
 
 What say you, children ? '^ With one voice they all 
 Declared the fancy excellent, and set 
 Their wits to wondering which of all the tales 
 Of human creatures turned to flowers they liked 
 The best; and soon each one had made a choice. 
 The eldest, Albert, chose the Hyacinth. 
 Matilda, just arrived at womanhood, 
 Preferred the Rose^ because she loved it most. 
 And knew of it a quaint and charming tale. 
 The handsome Laurence, shapely, graceful, tall, 
 With Grecian face, and snowy skin, and eyes 
 Of darkest brown, and hair of kindred hue. 
 Would be Narcissus, famed for vanity; 
 But Arthur said that he would also be 
 Narcissus, though another sort of youth, 
 And quite a contrast to the self-loved boy. 
 Elizabeth, or Elsie, as they called 
 The youngest girl — a bright, vivacious maid — 
 Chose the gay Sunflower, much affected now 
 By fashion's throng, of whom but few can guess 
 Why Esthetes make it their especial flower. 
 And little Walter, only twelve years old, 
 Youngest and best-beloved, quick, witty, gay, 
 Who, like a sunbeam, shone where'er he went. 
 And danced like Pau-Puk-Keewis every where, 
 
12 FLOWER MYTHS. 
 
 Declared he knew no musty classic lore, 
 But said he 'd make a story for himself 
 About the ^' Johnny- Jump- Zips ^' — so he called 
 The motley Pansies, droll as harlequins. 
 '^And what will mother be?^' asked one and all, 
 She faintly smiled, while in her breast a pain 
 Was gnawing, like the fox the Spartan hid, 
 And said that she would be the Laurel, first 
 Of all the flowers, and suiting best her age 
 Because of all the dignity it hath. 
 And so that drowsy day at once was filled 
 With sprightly talk and preparations brisk. 
 And charming labors, done with hearts as light 
 As those of harvesters who think upon 
 The feast and frolic of the Harvest-Home. 
 
 II. 
 
 Had Watteau's eyes beheld that rural scene 
 Of gayety — that bright, fantastic group. 
 Attired as flowers, there gathered by the brook, 
 Beneath the beech tree's verdant canopy, 
 Around a rustic board, with tempting meats 
 And fruits and cakes and ices well supplied. 
 It might have shone on fadeless canvas now. 
 
FLOWER MYTHS. 13 
 
 And had Boccaccio heard the stories told 
 
 Of how they chanced to come into the world, 
 
 They might have been to far posterity 
 
 Sent down, preserved by his enchanted pen. 
 
 No art of mine can paint, in words, the scene : 
 
 Enough for me, in verse, to reproduce 
 
 The story, song and jest that sparkled there. ..." 
 
 The feast removed, the table decked with flowers. 
 And fragrant wines in moderation quaffed, 
 First, Albert, clad in Grecian garb, with wreath 
 Of artificial hyacinths bedecked, 
 (Their season long ere this had passed away). 
 And garlands hanging from his shoulders broad, 
 Stood forth, with iron quoits in hand, and told 
 In modern rhyme this ancient Grecian myth : 
 
 The youth Hyacinthus, beloved by Apollo, 
 
 The quoits with that deity threw ; 
 Apollo, with vigor surpassing a mortal's, 
 His discus discharged, and it flew 
 
 High into the clouds, where it blended 
 With them for awhile, then descended. 
 
 The beautiful stripling, the quoit to recover, 
 
 To where it was falling then flew ; 
 But, rebounding with force, in the forehead it struck him, 
 
 And the too daring mortal it slew; 
 
14 FLOWER MYTHS. 
 
 And soon to the earth he was sinking, 
 His life-blood the thirsty sod drinking. 
 
 Apollo, transported with grief, would have made him 
 
 At once an Immortal above, 
 Had not the decrees of Olympus forbidden ; 
 And so, to betoken his love, 
 
 He made of the blood of the fated 
 
 This flower with its purple blooms freighted. 
 
 In letters invisible now to us mortals, 
 He wrote -on each petal "Alas! " 
 
 " Alas ! " for such beauty so destined to wither. 
 And out of existence to pass ; 
 
 " Alas ! " for the youth he would cherish, 
 Yet doomed so untimely to perish. 
 
 "When yearly fair Spring, whose light, snowy prastexta 
 
 "With hyacinth's purple is bound, 
 Is passing away, and the Sun-god of Summer 
 Pours down his fierce rays on the ground, 
 Killing all the fair flowers that are growing, 
 Its sense then this fable is showing. 
 
 ^^ Ah, ha ! And so there is a meaning in it/^ 
 The mother said ; ^' The ancients often taught 
 Philosophy in fables such as this. 
 Matilda, you shall next be heard. How came 
 The roses in the world? Were they not made 
 In Nature^s morning, by divine command ?^^ 
 Matilda, decked and blushing like a rose, 
 
FLOWER MYTHS. I5 
 
 From where she sat upon a rustic bench 
 Began to speak, low-voiced, with modest mein : 
 
 ** How came the roses in the world ? 
 What caused them first to blow ? 
 Were they not born in Nature's morn 
 When flowers were made to grow ? " 
 
 Tradition tells another tale : 
 
 In Bethlehem afar, 
 In that blest land o'er which did stand 
 
 The Magi's guiding star, 
 
 A maiden was accused of crime. 
 
 Though guiltless she of blame, 
 And hers the doom, in youthful bloom, 
 
 To die the death of shame, 
 
 They bound her to the dreadful stake 
 
 And heaped the fagots high, 
 And lit the pile, with curses vile, 
 
 And mocking sign and cry. 
 
 The maiden spoke no word to them, 
 
 Nor strove to break the cord ; 
 With lifted eyes and touching cries 
 
 She called upon the Lord : 
 
 ** O thou who hearest every prayer; 
 On whom my hope is stayed ; 
 To thee I bow, — have mercy now 
 Upon a helpless maid ! 
 
16 FLOWER MYTHS. 
 
 *' Oh, to these men a token give, 
 A token and a sigii 
 That I have not, as thou dost wot, 
 Offended law of thine ! " 
 
 The prayer was heard, the fire was quenched, 
 
 And of each smoking brand 
 A branch was made, with flowers arrayed, 
 
 Unknown in any land. 
 
 The brands that had not taken fire 
 
 Were filled with roses white. 
 And those that caught were richly fraught 
 
 With roses ruby bright. 
 
 Aye, some did blush with crimson flush 
 
 For innocence reviled; 
 And some did blow, as white as snow. 
 
 For virtue undefiled ! 
 
 "Where read you that, Matilda?^' Albert asked. 
 
 And, smoothing down her leaves, the " Rose'' replied 
 
 '^ In Mandeville, the pioneer of prose 
 
 In England ; whose rough strokes prepared the Avay 
 
 For smoother pens; who, frontier-tradesman-like. 
 
 Imported there a strangely- varied stock 
 
 Of facts and fancy — superstitious tales 
 
 And truthful observations from abroad. 
 
 But where 's Narcissus ? Let us hear from him.'' 
 That handsome youth, becomingly attired, 
 
FLOWER MYTHS. 17 
 
 With ambling gait betook him to the brook [limbs 
 That flowed hard by, and stretched his well-turned 
 Upon the grass, and, leaning o 'er the stream, 
 Surveyed his features in its limpid tide, 
 Then, lifting up his head, declaimed these lines : 
 
 Narcissus, the handsomest stripling in Greece, 
 Impervious appeared to the arrows of love ; 
 Though thickly they flew, all unscathed did he move, 
 
 No amorous emotions disturbing his peace. 
 
 Sweet Echo pursued him through thicket and grove, 
 Eepeating his name in the tenderest tone, 
 But, scorning her pleading, he left her alone, 
 
 To die in the forest, distracted with love. 
 
 To punish so heartless and ruthless a one, 
 
 Stern Nemesis ordered, when next he should see 
 Himself, of himself he enamored should be, 
 
 And die of his passion, as Echo had done. 
 
 So it happened one day, that, all hot from the chase, 
 He came to a fountain and knelt by its brink, 
 And, bending him over its waters to drink, 
 
 He saw there reflected his beautiful face. 
 
 His eyes were like stars, so the poets aver; 
 
 As bright as the sun did his countenance glow ; 
 
 His cheeks were the blending of roses with snow; 
 His locks such as Bacchus' anointed with myrrh. 
 
18 FLOWER MYTHS. 
 
 Enamored straightway, he was filled with unrest ; 
 He courted his image, he called to it oft, 
 And begged it, with utterance tender and soft. 
 
 To leave the cold fountain and dwell in his breast. 
 
 He smiled in its eyes, and its lips smiled again ; 
 Allured by delusions enchanting as this 
 He fondly endeavored the image to kiss, 
 
 But, touching the water, it vanished amain. 
 
 There long did he tarry, and often he sighed. 
 Till, wasted and weary, at length he forsook 
 The fair, cruel nymph that would stay in the brook. 
 
 And, stretching himself by its margin, he died. 
 
 From their home in the fountain the Naiads then came 
 • And bore him away to their grottoes below ; 
 
 But there, on the spot where he perished, did grow 
 The saffron-hued flower that is called by his name. 
 
 " The more familiar legend that, ^t is true," 
 Said Arthur; " but I Ve read a prettier one, 
 A purer one, more delicate; to which 
 Your coarser narrative compareth like 
 Some lurid bonfire blazing in the night 
 To that fair star which, trembling in the east. 
 Rosily glimmers in the dawning's flush. 
 But hear my version first and then decide/' 
 And stepping lightly to the water\s side. 
 Where grew a tuft of late Narcissus plants. 
 
FLOWER MYTHS. 19 
 
 He sat beside them, toying with their blooms, 
 And told his story, speaking as to them : 
 
 Why bend above the water's brim ? 
 
 Why gaze intently in the stream ? 
 To mark the silver graylings swim, 
 
 Or note the giddy ripples gleam ? 
 Ah no ; you gaze perforce to see 
 
 Eetiected there your blooms of gold 
 Obeying that divine decree 
 
 Made by the pitying gods of old, 
 
 Narcissus roamed the G-recian fields, 
 
 His loved twin sister by his side ; 
 They plucked each flower the meadow yields, 
 
 Pair as themselves, and dewy-eyed. 
 One scarce might tell the twain apart, 
 
 So like they were in form and face ; 
 Attired alike, alike in heart, 
 
 They rode together to the chase. 
 
 But now, alas ! the maid is dead, 
 
 And broken-hearted is the lad ; 
 The grasses grow above her head. 
 
 And he must evermore be sad : 
 No more the hunt engages him ; 
 
 The /e?!es and games he now evades; 
 He shuns the winecup's glowing brim, 
 
 Nor dances with the laughing maids. 
 
 Hark ! Echo calls : The hills in sport 
 
 Alone make answer to her call ; 
 In vain her tones his favor court, 
 
 Unheeded on his ear they fall ; 
 
20 FLOWER MYTHS. 
 
 The Naiad now, for her delight, 
 
 Must seek a lover otherwhere, 
 He cares not if her breast be white, 
 
 Nor dallies with her glossy hair. 
 
 He nurses by the water side 
 
 A brother's love and deep despair, 
 And bends above the glassy tide 
 
 To catch the image mirrored there; 
 (So like the object of his love !) 
 
 Until he pined away and died 
 He came each day to bend above 
 
 That lovely picture in the tide. 
 
 Their love and sympathy to show, 
 
 The gods devised a graceful plan. 
 And caused beside the stream to grow 
 
 A flower which seemed itself to scan : 
 And thus the pale Narcissi tell 
 
 The tender thought, the passing grace 
 Of one who loved a sister well 
 
 And in his image sought her face. 
 
 A controversy then among them rose 
 Concerning which account deserved the pahii. 
 The ladies all, and little Walter, thought 
 The latter version prettier by far ; 
 But Albert joined with Laurence and declared 
 It followed not the vein of classic myths. 
 The argument had likely waxed too warm, 
 Had not the mother with her usual tact 
 
FLOWER MYTHS. 21 
 
 Invoked the cloture power, and called upon 
 
 " The mad Clytie ^' to render lier account. 
 
 Elizabeth, so dark of hair and eyes, 
 
 Was gayly dressed in petticoat of brown, 
 
 With yellow overskirt, in petals cut, 
 
 And bodice brown, with collar sunflower-like, 
 
 While on her head, above her tresses bright, 
 
 A hat sat slanting to the setting sun. 
 
 Of sunflower shape, in brown and golden stufl". 
 
 She held in hand an imitation lyre ; 
 
 And Laurence deftly on his soft guitar 
 
 Struck up the chords her fingers seemed to wake, 
 
 While she, aifecting much abandon, sang 
 
 To an old tune this ditty brief and wild : 
 
 How fair and grand the god Apollo ! 
 
 How sweet the music of his lyre ! 
 The nymph Clytie his steps might follow 
 
 From morn to night and never tire. 
 
 The nymph Clytie his steps did follow — 
 
 Where'er they led she wildly went ; 
 She madly loved the great Apollo, 
 
 To follow him she was content. 
 
 In vain the maids, protesting mildly, 
 
 Bade her forsake the path he trod ; 
 She listened not, nor stayed, for wildly 
 
 She did adore the beauteous god. 
 
22 FLO WEE MYTHS. 
 
 Though he, such lowly homage spurning, 
 To notice her would never deign. 
 
 Yet back she never thought of turning, 
 Nor cared for weariness nor pain. 
 
 But it was hard his course to follow, 
 
 He was so swift of step, you see; 
 So, mad with love of great Apollo, 
 
 At length she died — the poor Clytie ! 
 
 He made her then, the good Apollo, 
 A sunflower, that, with lifted eyes 
 
 And turning head, she still might follow 
 His glorious journey through the skies. 
 
 " And so, because Apollo was the god 
 Of Art, and of the Muses president, 
 The Esthetes wear the sunflower as a badge 
 Appropriate to Art's ardent followers ; 
 And mad as Clytie some of them appear !'' 
 The mother said ; then Master Walter bade 
 Proceed to tell the story he had made. 
 That cunning lad, in comic masquerade, 
 A grotesque likeness to a pansy bore : 
 His slender form, in closely fitting suit 
 Of green, appeared much like a flower-stalk ; 
 And on his head he wore a hood or cap 
 With flaps like pansy petals standing up 
 In front; above, one made of purple stuff 
 
FLOWER MYTHS. 23 
 
 Beside another colored palest blue; 
 On either side the head were other flaps 
 Protruding; and, beneath his dimpled chin, 
 The points to which his yellow collar came 
 Made other petals ; in this frame was set 
 His face, Avhich wore the look of blank surprise 
 That pansies have. With many gestures droll 
 And comic antics he declaimed his rhyme : 
 
 At the court of a king 
 
 'T was the commonest thing 
 
 A motley fool to see ; 
 And he quizzed every one 
 (For the king loved his fun) 
 
 Except his Majestie. 
 
 And there always was seen 
 In a palace, I ween, 
 
 A great magician too ; 
 And he never did aught 
 But the things he thought 
 
 The king would-have him do. 
 
 And I never yet heard 
 Of a king so absurd 
 
 As not to have a girl ; 
 For it sorely would fret 
 Him an ally to get 
 
 "Without that "priceless pearl." 
 
24 FLOWER MYTHS. 
 
 So it chanced on a time 
 That a king in his prime 
 
 Possessed these treasures three, 
 Viz., a jester, named John, 
 A magician, Luzon, 
 
 And a daughter fair to see. 
 
 And this king he had planned 
 With his daughter's fair hand 
 
 An ally strong to huy ; 
 For he dreaded a war 
 Which he fancied he saw 
 
 Within the future nigh. 
 
 To a neighboring king 
 
 He had mentioned the thing 
 
 With all desired success, 
 But he did n't then know 
 Of a queer thing or so 
 
 Which none, indeed, could guess. 
 
 It was nothing but this : 
 The precocious young miss, 
 
 A passion strange possessed. 
 She had fallen in love. 
 By the powers above ! 
 
 With the jester, and not in jest. 
 
 And the jester returned 
 The passion tliat burned 
 
 Within her bosom fair ; 
 And they managed to meet 
 In a hidden retreat 
 
 To do their courting there. 
 
FLOWER MYTHS. 25 
 
 The magician one day """ 
 
 Heard the princess say 
 
 "John, hide among the grass 
 To the right of the fir ; 
 And you must n't dare stir, 
 
 Though steps should near you pass. 
 
 " There I '11 come while they sup. 
 Saying ' Johnny, jump up,' 
 
 By which you '11 know 't is me." 
 The magician then flew 
 To the king, who he knew 
 
 In dudgeon high would be, 
 
 "When the king was apprised. 
 The magician advised 
 
 They should an example make 
 Of the jester so bold, 
 And a plan did unfold 
 
 To make all jesters quake. 
 
 When the king had agreed. 
 They did quickly proceed, 
 
 And severely the princess chid ; 
 Then the court all stole out 
 In a circle about 
 
 The spot where Jack was hid. 
 
 Then Luzon in his robes, 
 With his magical globes. 
 
 And some concoction black 
 In a glittering cup. 
 Saying, "Johnny, jump up," 
 
 Approached the crouching Jack. 
 
 3 
 
26 FLOWER MYTHS. 
 
 At the sound of the words, 
 Like a covey of birds, 
 
 Uprose the motley wight ; 
 Then the king shook his fist. 
 And the courtiers all hissed 
 
 And mocked his wretched plight. 
 
 Crying, '* Johnny, jump up ! 
 For his Highness doth sup !" 
 
 And then they jeered and laughed. 
 And the dreadful Luzon 
 Straight emptied upon 
 
 His head the magic draught, 
 
 And he dwindled away 
 To the size of a fay 
 
 And changed into a flower. 
 Agape, and with eyes 
 Enlarged by surprise, 
 
 Appearing to this hour ; 
 
 And his asses' ears blue* 
 Into petals then grew 
 
 That framed his face within ; 
 And his collar of buff 
 Made him petals enough 
 
 To hang beneath his chin. 
 
 And wherever he grew 
 All the jesters well knew 
 
 'T was not the safest thing 
 So absurd e'er to prove 
 As to venture to love 
 
 The daughter of a king ! 
 
 ■■•■ The caps of court jesters of old were adorned with asses' ears. 
 
)J 
 
 FLOWER MYTHS. 27 
 
 Much merriment did Master Walt, provoke, 
 
 And diverse comments on his rhyme were made. 
 
 Some thought it libel on the pansies, thus 
 
 To give them such an origin absurd; 
 
 And some declared they did n't look at all 
 
 Grotesque to them, the ladies waxing wroth. 
 
 One quoted Poe, who calls them ^^ Puritan;'*^ 
 
 Another, Shakespeare's often quoted line, [said 
 
 " There 's pansies^that 's for thoughts ;" and so they 
 
 Their very name was from the French for '' thought. 
 
 But Walter bravely battled for his own 
 
 Conception of the pansy's origin 
 
 With many a witty argument, and vowed 
 
 The tale was quite as true as all the rest. 
 
 At last, all, wearying of the hopeless task 
 
 Of winning over that perverse young mind. 
 
 Desired to hear the mother tell in verse 
 
 The Laurel's origin. She was attired 
 
 In glossy satin gown of darkest green. 
 
 With laurel leaves becomingly adorned ; 
 
 A laurel wreath encircling her fair brow. 
 
 In faltering voice she sang the laurel's praise, 
 
 And told its tale in alternating strains : 
 
28 FLOWER MYTHS. 
 
 The Laurel tree, the Laurel tree ! 
 
 It lifts its boughs in majesty. 
 
 Oh how the bosom proudly heaves 
 
 Of him who wears its glossy leaves ! 
 
 Of all the earthly trees that grow 
 
 No other one is worshiped so. 
 Apollo was wounded, ah yes, to his sorrow, 
 
 By Cwpid, designing his power so to prove, 
 Who chose for the purpose a gold-headed arrow 
 
 Which, piercing the bosom, transports it with love. 
 
 Before the laurel tree was made, 
 The Grecian boy who best displayed 
 His swiftness, strength, or gift of speech, 
 Was proud to wear the crown of beech ; 
 But when the laurel sprang to life 
 Its leaves alone inspired the strife. . 
 
 Fair Daphne forthwith was beloved by Apollo ; 
 But Cupid, in mischief, an arrow of lead 
 
 Let fly at her bosom; from which it did follow 
 That, hating her lover, before him she fled. 
 
 The warrior draws his shining blade 
 And braves the deadly cannonade, 
 And providly treads the bloody field, 
 Eesolved to die, but never yield, 
 Nor place his weapon in its sheath 
 Until he wins the laurel wreath. 
 
 The swiftly pursuing Apollo alarmed her ; 
 But, hearing and heeding her desperate ])rayer. 
 
 The gods to a Laurel that insta?it transform,ed her^ 
 Her body to wood and to foliage her hair. 
 
FLOWER MYTHS. 29 
 
 The bard, the rosy draught of health, 
 
 The joys and luxuries of wealth, 
 
 Resigns without a moan or sigh, 
 
 Content obscure to live and die, 
 
 If Fame upon his coflBn weaves 
 
 Her fadeless wreath of laurel leaves. 
 Apollo, the Laurel in rapture embracing 
 
 i^A wreath of its leaves ever after he wore), 
 Decreed that, the brows of the worthiest gracing, 
 An emblem of fame it should be evermore. 
 
 How swift the hours roll by when nimble wits 
 
 Tug at their wheels^ and oil them with the flow 
 
 Of sparkling fancies and enchanting tales ! 
 
 These rhymes and songs and pleasing fantasies, 
 
 And much beside that I have left untold, 
 
 So charmed that merry company that, ere 
 
 They thought the afternoon half passed away, 
 
 'T was time for all to hie them to the house. 
 
 For now the evening clouds were streaked with red ; 
 
 And, shooting forth his most resplendent rays. 
 
 The glorious sun rode down the western sky, 
 
 A warrior, slow retiring from the field 
 
 His arms have Avon, all stained with crimson gore. 
 
 While round him flash a thousand golden spears ! 
 
OTHER POEMS. 
 
OTHER POEMS. 
 
 THE LION, DEMOCRACY. 
 
 The myrmidons of ruthless tyranny 
 
 Who seek this lordly lion's limbs to bmd, 
 The slaves of gold who wish him well confined 
 
 That they may work their will at liberty, 
 
 Should dread his wrath, and shun him fearfully ; 
 But they whose bosoms never have designed 
 To do him wrong will ever find him kind 
 As Una's tawny friend ; though, verily. 
 
 When rash and ravenous enemies have planned 
 His capture, while asleep he seemed to be, 
 
 Palm-j?haded and by Freedom's breezes fanned. 
 His teeth have gleamed, and lightnings lit his eye. 
 
 And, tempest-mouthed, with roars he shook the land. 
 As up he leaped — the fierce Democracy ! 
 
 (33) 
 
34 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 O^DO^'^NELL. 
 
 The red hand of murder I take not in mine, 
 
 And treacherous plotting, I never can praise it ; 
 But truth I will honor where'er it may shine, 
 
 And courage delights me, whoever displays it! 
 As black as a demon's unfrequented haunt 
 
 That breast which beholds, without pity or sighing, 
 A hero whose land is oppressed and in want, 
 
 For love of his people and liberty, dying. 
 
 The nations of Europe rejoice in their strength, 
 
 And nothing they reck if the weaker ones perish; 
 To spread their dominion they pause at no length, 
 
 And little of justice or mercy they cherish. 
 Poor Turkey to Russia must truckle and bow ; 
 
 The hist'ry of Poland 's the saddest e'er written ; 
 And Ireland's emerald bosom is now 
 
 All torn by the lashes of merciless Britain. 
 
 Ah, Erin! thy country was fertile of old — 
 But none of its harvests are given the toiler; 
 
 The yield that is gathered in bread or in gold 
 But battens and strengthens thy despotic spoiler. 
 
O'DONNELL. 35 
 
 Like storm-driven birds, from the land of their birth 
 Thy children are borne by oppression and danger, 
 
 Their genius, their valor, their wit and their worth 
 To lay at the feet of a foe or a stranger. 
 
 But sad as the wreck of a people may be, 
 
 Downtrod in the march of another to glory. 
 Far sadder and bitterer still 't is to see 
 
 The neck of one man 'neath a nation's foot, gory. 
 A court is a temple, an aegis, the law, 
 
 But not for an Irishman tegis or temple. 
 If England should choose, in her tyrannous war. 
 
 On justice and statutes to ruthlessly trample. 
 
 O'Donnell, the martyr, his sentence received, [him. 
 
 And bore him in death as tho' nothing had pained 
 For the arms of invisible angels that grieved, [him. 
 
 And the love of his people upbore and sustained 
 But England shall learn that the death of a man 
 
 Illegally taken, in fear or vainglory, 
 But sets on her scepter a curse and a ban. 
 
 And blots with a murder this page of her story ! 
 
 She boasts that the sun never sets on her lands — 
 Its circling can bring to her empire no morrow ; 
 
36 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 But reeking with innocent blood are her hands, 
 And tears wash her feet with an ocean of sorrow. 
 
 Her kingdom must crumble to ashes some day, 
 Her realm be divided, her scepter be broken. 
 
 For vengeance is God's, and He '11 surely repay — 
 The wicked must perish, for so He hath spoken. 
 
COMPARFSONS. 37 
 
 COMPARISONS. 
 
 Is it best to be one of a garden of flowers 
 
 That blossom in freedom from cover and wall, 
 
 Where butterflies flit in the sunniest hours 
 
 And lightly pay court to the charms of them all, 
 
 Or best to be only a separate flower 
 
 That gladdens a house where it blossoms alone, 
 Yet blossoms not only in sunniest hour, 
 
 But cheers and is cherished when summer has flown? 
 
 Is it best to be one of a concert of songs 
 Whose varying melodies ravish the ear. 
 
 And puzzle the listeners who gather in throngs 
 To tell which is sweetest of all that they hear. 
 
 Or best to be only a separate song 
 
 Whose resonant harmonies lighten and swell 
 
 The heart of a toiler and render him strong 
 To shoulder his burden and carry it well? 
 
 Is it best to be one of a bevy of maids, 
 
 Light-hearted and joyous in youth's sunny days, 
 
38 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Admired ere the bloom of their loveliness fades 
 By gallants who court them with meaningless praise, 
 
 Or best to be only a dutiful wife, 
 
 With cares which the bosoms of wives ever hold, 
 But loving and loved through the years of her life 
 
 With love that is boundless and never grows cold ? 
 
TO ADELAIDE. 39 
 
 TO ADELAIDE, 
 
 WITH FLOWERS, ON HER RETURN AFTER A SUMMER'S ABSENCE. 
 
 Adelaide, I have culled for your pleasure these flowers, 
 Whose beauty has lingered through all the dull hours 
 Of all the long summer, to keep in my mind 
 Your flower-like beauty and graces refined 
 As subtlest aroma of jasmine or rose, 
 Or whatever blossom ^s the sweetest that blows. 
 As lovely reminders of loveliness lost 
 They stood in my garden, like sentries on post. 
 Through all your long absence, and whispered, in 
 So soft and so tender that I, and the birds [words 
 That nestled among them, alone could make out 
 Their meaning, and all they were talking about. 
 As, weeping at morning, they grieved for a face 
 No more to be seen in its usual place. 
 And, drooping at evening, they sadly would say 
 " The Queen of all blossoms continues away ! '^ 
 Geraniums, as bright as the blush on your cheek 
 When vainly I struggle your praises to speak ; 
 The bells of the fuchsia that gracefully nod. 
 Elastic and light as your step on the sod ; 
 
40 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 And roses — some white as your brow (brighter far 
 Than the brow of an Houri illumed with its star), 
 And some of them red as the hue of your lips, 
 That are red as the juice of the grape as it drips 
 From presses in Provence; all these, yea, and more. 
 Have wept and have drooped, and have mourned o'er 
 
 and o'er 
 Your absence to me, when I sought them to trace 
 A sign of thy spirit, a hint of thy face 
 In petal and tendril of blossom and vine, 
 Whose beauties suggested the charms that are thine. 
 And now, in reward for this service well done, 
 I lovingly, tenderly, gather each one. 
 And send them to bloom in your presence divine — 
 To bourgeon and blow in a sweeter sunshine 
 Than any that ever has gladdened our town 
 Since their sun and mine on my garden went down. 
 
A FALLEN IDOL. 41 
 
 A FALLEN IDOL. 
 
 High-niched within the temple of my heart 
 
 An idol stood, all faultless in my sight: 
 The rosy tint it wore in lovers warm light, 
 
 Its pose, finesse de grain, and every part 
 Proportioned fitly by the sculptor^s art, 
 
 Combined, it seemed, as seen from its great height, 
 To make a form divine ; and day and night 
 
 My soul to it did adoration pay; 
 Till lo ! in time, it fell upon the ground. 
 
 And right before my feet it broken lay. 
 When, scanning it amazedly, I found 
 
 ^T was but a coarse and faulty piece of clay ! 
 My partial sight alone had made it seem 
 
 A work full meet to fill a master's dream. 
 
42 OTHER POEMS, 
 
 SERENADE. 
 
 The musk-rose, love, is sweetest now, 
 
 The evening star hath risen ; 
 The closing flower a tardy bee 
 
 Hath caught and shut in prison. 
 And now the moon, on silvery shoon, 
 
 Ascends the slopes of blue, 
 And sheds her light, dear maid, this night 
 
 To brighten paths for you ! 
 
 Oh, love, there 's music on the breeze ! — 
 
 To soothe his mate to slumber 
 The feathered minstrel fills her bower 
 
 With many a tuneful nupaber ! 
 And hark, afar, a soft guitar 
 
 And voices sweet and clear ! 
 Your breast, I know, will softer grow 
 
 When strains like these you hear ! 
 
 Oh, come, fair girl, and walk with me 
 These paths like silver glowing. 
 
 And fill with music's honied draught 
 Thy soul to overflowing ; 
 
SERENADE. 43 
 
 And lend thine ear again to hear 
 
 The tale I would repeat, 
 Of how my soul were freed from dole 
 
 If thou wert mine, oh sweet ! v 
 
44 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 AT MY BROTHER^S GRAVE IN WINTER. 
 
 The air is chill ; the frost's white hand 
 Has silvered o'er each prostrate blade. 
 
 Of russet grass; the cedars stand 
 In dark habiliments arrayed, 
 
 Like stricken mourners, round the bed 
 
 Where lies in everlasting sleep my unforgotten dead. 
 
 The maple lifbs its branches bare 
 
 Against the chilly, winter sky; 
 And snow-birds perch upon them there, 
 
 Too cheerless or too cold to fly ; 
 And, near a clump of blackened briars, 
 A rabbit seeketh stealthily the food that it desires. 
 
 I like the stillness of the time; 
 
 I like the frosty air that stings 
 My tingling cheeks; for well the prime 
 
 Of winter and the blight it brings 
 Accord with, this unceasing pain 
 That, worse than winter, chills my heart and dully 
 throbbing brain. 
 
AT MY BROTHERS GRAVE IN WINTER. 45 
 
 When leaves were on that maple tree, 
 
 And mocking-birds, through summer days, 
 
 In strains of varied minstrelsy, 
 
 Poured out their tuneful roundelays. 
 
 And grasses flourished, thick and green, 
 
 And flowers of all enchanting hues on every hand 
 were seen, 
 
 'T was then his life, whose hand had clasped 
 
 My own so oft, was snatched away. 
 Before my startled lips had gasped 
 '^Brother, farewell ! '^ or I could pray 
 Forgiveness from that tender heart 
 Which I, in boyish petulance, had often made to 
 smart. 
 
 Oh, how I hated then the blush 
 
 Of roses gladdening other eyes, 
 And all the splendors of the flush 
 
 That lit the summer sunset skies. 
 Because his beauty-loving mind. 
 Enveloped in eternal night, to all their glow was 
 blind. 
 
 And how I hated every song. 
 
 When birds, from out their joyous throats. 
 
46 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 In fitful strains, now soft, now strong, 
 
 Poured forth around their varied notes, 
 Because his music- k)ving ear 
 
 Was deaf to all their melody, nor any strain could 
 hear. 
 
 But in this season, meet for grief. 
 
 Of desolation and decay, 
 My troubled spirit seeks relief. 
 And sadly to myself I say, 
 " ^T is well that he is lying low. 
 
 Where he can neither feel its breath, nor hear the 
 tempest blow.^ 
 
 )) 
 
 But surely I his traits forget ; 
 
 Such words are, like my sorrow, vain ; 
 His spirit hardships did not fret ; 
 
 He took but little heed of pain ; 
 For he adorned our manly race. 
 Who hold it brave to scorn distress — to shrink 
 from it, disgrace. 
 
 'T was / who feared the wintry storm ; 
 'Twas I who sighed for orange trees 
 And tropic arbors, where, in warm 
 And spicy airs, I might at ease 
 
AT Mr BROTHERS GRAVE IN WINTER. 47 
 
 Recline on beds of lilies white 
 
 And conjure up poetic dreams — a pampered sybarite. 
 
 But he rejoiced in hardy sports, 
 
 The fiery steed, the wildest game, 
 The mimic fight in fields and forts, 
 
 That filled the village with his fame ; 
 And he revered, as priests their creeds. 
 Our soldier-brothers' memories — the blazon of their 
 deeds. 
 
 And I remember perfectly. 
 
 When we were both cadets at school, 
 
 How drear the barracks seemed to me. 
 How harsh I thought the martial rule ; 
 
 While he enjoyed the soldier life, 
 
 And ever smiled exultantly to hear the drum and 
 fife; 
 
 And when the wintry night winds roared 
 
 He often walked my post for me ; — 
 When up the steps, with clanking sword. 
 
 The sergeant came, and hurriedly 
 Pronounced my name, he caught the word, 
 And quickly rose to take my place, ere I the sum- 
 mons heard. 
 
48 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 How vain, how vain ! to seek relief 
 
 Of any season's bloom or blight 
 For aching hearts and poignant grief 
 
 That neither change for gloom or light, 
 Nor lull for summer's balmy breeze, 
 Nor deaden for the frigid blasts that sway the 
 naked trees ! 
 
 I know, when yonder maple glows 
 
 In gaudy suit of crimson flowers. 
 And, shaken by each breeze that blows. 
 
 Upon his grave its petals showers. 
 When every tuft of withered grass 
 Erects again its tender blades to muffle steps 
 that pass, 
 
 And when the flowers he loved the best 
 Shall deck again his resting place. 
 
 And birds, returned from southern nest, 
 Shall miss from earth his kindly face. 
 
 And, lighting by this grave of his. 
 
 For all the love he bore them, sing their sweetest 
 threnodies; 
 
 I know my heart will still it sighs 
 
 (Vain hope !) to hear his silvery voice, 
 
AT Mr BROTHER'S GRAVE IN WINTER. 49 
 
 To see again his soft brown eyes, 
 
 And feel I never can rejoice, 
 
 As once I could at any thing 
 Unless some power his vanished form again to life 
 could bring ! 
 
 5 
 
50 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 THE JACQUEMINOT ROSE. 
 
 Full many a bloom our rosary contains, 
 
 And varied colors do its blossoms show ; 
 But all are pale and dull and quite eclipsed 
 Beside the full and flaming Jacqueminot. 
 As country lassie unto courtly dame, 
 As friendship's ray to passion's fervid flame, 
 So other blossoms show 
 Beside this rose's glow. 
 
 A ruby bright of wondrous hue and size 
 
 It looks, when o'er it golden sunshine streams ; 
 The tinted Tea or pale Lemarque beside 
 
 As pallid pearl or changing opal seems ; 
 Above their blooms it hangs upon its stem, 
 Each petal glowing like a brilliant gem, 
 Like ruby necklace pressed 
 Upon a snowy breast. 
 
 The butterflies about the Jacqueminot 
 In rainbow circles flit or poise or light ; 
 
 Though other flowers as sweet of scent may be 
 No other one can boast a hue so bright. 
 
THE JACqUEMINOT ROSE. 51 
 
 And only by a lustrous, dazzling sheen 
 Are color-loving insects drawn, I ween ; 
 
 The flower of all most bright 
 
 Doth give them most delight. 
 
 The Jacqueminot is like my Queen of Hearts, 
 My crowned Queen of many loving breasts; 
 So bright she seems, so fair her queenly face, 
 
 My charmed spirit in her presence rests. 
 As moths desire the brightest star by night, 
 And butterflies by day the flower most bright, 
 So does my soul desire 
 My Queen, whom all admire. 
 
52 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BEN. 
 
 A tender heart, a kindly hand, 
 A gentle, unassuming air. 
 Are more desired, I think, and rare 
 
 Than brilliant parts and fortunes grand. 
 
 At least I know there is not found 
 Among the gifted sons of men 
 Who triumph with the sword and pen. 
 
 And with the laurel leaves are crowned, 
 
 The strong, mesmeric tie that binds 
 My soul to one who may not claim 
 The prestige due to place and fame 
 
 And mastery of giant minds. 
 
 The spell he Aveaves about our hearts 
 Alone is found, and has its birth 
 In admiration of his worth 
 
 And in the faith that worth imparts. 
 
 His will subdues me, and I move 
 Obedient to his kind command; 
 
BEN. 53 
 
 And when I err, his steady hand 
 Restores me to the wonted groove. 
 
 When gay companions bid me go 
 
 Where Pleasure waits the Hours to crown 
 With garlands bright, and reason drown 
 
 In wit and wine and music\s flow, 
 
 His voice restrains me, and in haste 
 He brings a cup of purer joys 
 Whose draught delights but never cloys, 
 
 And leaves behind no bitter taste. 
 
 No ghost of care that haunts the mind. 
 
 No lure of dark temptation born. 
 
 But he can laugh its spell to scorn 
 And whistle it adown the wind. 
 
 Though fade it must, and wilted fall, 
 
 I place this garland on his brow ; 
 
 And, musing on his nature, vow 
 That fame is naught, that worth is all ; 
 
 And say, though flattery's lips should form 
 For me her most seductive phrase. 
 It still shall be my highest praise 
 
 That I have won his friendship warm. 
 
54 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BALLADS. 
 
 The miner digs the hidden gold 
 
 From out the earth with pick and spade, 
 And when ^t is shaped in proper mold, 
 
 With proper stamp upon it laid, 
 
 What once was hidden now is made 
 
 The useful currency of trade. 
 
 The lapidary bathes a stone, 
 
 And cuts it smooth and sets it fair 
 
 To deck some queen upon her throne, 
 Or sparkle in some beauty^s hair, 
 And all the world that sees it there 
 Is dazzled by its luster rare. 
 
 And so the ballads turn the gold 
 
 Of old Romance to currency. 
 And set the gems of history old 
 
 Where all their beauty can descry ; 
 
 And every where, like coins, they fly. 
 
 And charm, like jewels, every eye. 
 
THE POET'S HONEYMOON. 55 
 
 THE POET'S HONEYMOON. 
 
 OCTOBEK. 
 
 '^ I know what your poem will be/' she said, 
 
 And laughed in his face as she reached her arms 
 Up over his shoulders, and joined her palms, 
 
 And plaited her fingers behind his head. 
 ^^ 'T will be about roses all faded and fallen, 
 
 'T will be about grasses all yellow and dead, 
 'T will be about heather in clusters of purple, 
 
 'T will be about leaves that are golden and red. 
 
 Say, truthfully, won't it ? Just answer me now !" 
 And merrily twinkled her mischievous eyes, 
 
 While warm was the touch of her lips on his brow. 
 
 "A wonderful prophetess you, no doubt," 
 
 He answered her, laughing. " But you '11 agree 
 A poem without them, this month, would be 
 
 Like Hamlet with Hamlet himself left out. 
 Whoever would herald October's returning. 
 
 Her livery must wear and her colors hang out ; 
 
 Tho' threadbare the trappings and ancient the colors, 
 
 'T is cruel the wearer and bearer to flout. 
 
 Now is n't it truly ? Just answer me this," 
 
56 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 He asked her, with passionate, loving embrace, 
 And sealed her red lips for a time with a kiss. 
 
 "Ah, well ! but you ^11 sigh for the summer past, 
 For butterflies gaudy and songs of birds, 
 And mention in sorrowful, tender words 
 
 The blossom that lingers alone, the last ; 
 And plaintively murmur in pitiful verses 
 
 About the approach of the merciless blast. 
 
 The snows and the blight and the wild desolation 
 
 That come with the winter that 's coming so fast. 
 
 Say, honestly, won't you? Now tell me the truth," 
 She asked him, and pouted, as though she believed 
 
 That poets were gloomy repiners, forsooth ! 
 
 " No, never — I swear it V^ he then replied. 
 
 "Repine I will never, nor care a fig 
 
 For vanishing blossom and leafless twig. 
 As long as my darling is at my side. 
 
 The winter may bluster — I dread not his fury, 
 While, blest with affection, with you I abide. 
 
 In summer or winter an Eden I find it — 
 An Eden where you like a seraph preside.'^ 
 No poem was written — he lingered all day 
 
 To feast on her charms, and the poem forgot — 
 And many a poem 's forgotten that way. 
 
TO AN A BSE NT LADY. 57 
 
 TO AN ABSENT LADY. 
 
 The stars of night are bright, I own, 
 
 But I care not if they go, 
 For at morn I see the eastern sky 
 
 With roseate light aglow. 
 
 The summer flowers are fair indeed, 
 All white and pink and blue ; 
 
 But autumn^s leaves are brighter still 
 With gold and crimson hue. 
 
 The birds of spring that blithely sing 
 Make beautiful notes, I know, 
 
 But there^s a grander melody 
 When winter's trumpets blow. 
 
 O star that gave my only light ! 
 
 blossom that cheered my path ! 
 O bird that sang in a sweeter tone 
 
 Than other music hath ! 
 
 For me a dark and dreary void 
 
 Is left, now thou art gone; 
 Of all earth's bright and lovely things 
 
 1 sigh for thee alone. 
 
58 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 TO ADELAIDE, 
 
 WITH A NOSEGAY OP VIOLETS. 
 
 Of all the flowers that bloomed ere while 
 
 But one is lingering yet ; 
 It is my favorite of them all, 
 
 The dainty violet. 
 
 I love it for its timid look, 
 
 And for its azure hue ; 
 It minds me of your modest air 
 
 And of your eyes of blue. 
 
 It brings to mind your gentle self, 
 
 So delicate and pure, 
 With head bowed down so gracefully — 
 
 The violet demure. 
 
TO ADELAIDE. 59 
 
 TO ADELAIDE, 
 
 ON BEING REPROACHED BY HER FOR NOT SAYING MY PRAYERS. 
 
 "... JTyrnph, in thy orisons 
 Be all my sins remembered." 
 
 The mildest of zephyrs that wake in the spring, 
 The softest of down on the cygnet's white wing, 
 The sweetest of odors the summer distills, 
 The purest of waters from crystalline rills, — 
 Whatever is chosen on earth or in air 
 Is reckoned too base for a symbol of prayer. 
 
 A something so gentle that, wafted on high, 
 'T would match with the infinite peace of the sky ; 
 A something so free from all blemish and stain 
 That Eden to welcome its presence were fain ; 
 A something so sweet and immaculate, where 
 Shall we find, for a type and a symbol of prayer ? 
 
 Then how shall a bosom that 's hardened by wrong. 
 That 's governed by passions ignoble and strong, 
 That 's blackened by sin and embittered by strife 
 And stained with the dust of the battle of life, 
 
60 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Oh, how shall a bosom like mine ever dare 
 To offer to Heaven its impious prayer ! 
 
 Do zephyrs awake in the land of the snow? 
 
 Shall holy desires in my cold bosom glow? 
 
 Do odors of roses in deserts abound ? 
 
 Shall sanctified thoughts in my bosom be fouml ? 
 
 Oh, how shall a heart that^s of piety bare 
 
 Be filled with the voice or the spirit of prayer ! 
 
 But thine is a conscience as clear as the day ; 
 
 Thy yearnings are mild as the zephyrs of May; 
 
 Thy thoughts are as sweet as the breath of the flowers, 
 
 That cluster in Eden^s bright, amaranth bowers ; 
 
 Thy spirit 's as pure as thy visage is fair, 
 
 And Heaven would smile as it answered thy prayer. 
 
 Oh, nymph ! in thy orisons think of my name, 
 And pray that it never be sullied with shame ! 
 That, knightly in honor, and saintly in trust. 
 It shine like a buckler untarnished with rust ! 
 Unworthy I am thy devotions to share. 
 But, prithee, remember my name in thy prayer ! 
 
ALABAMA BEREFT. Ql 
 
 ALABAMA BEEEFT. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF SENATOR GEORGE S. HOUSTON. 
 
 Well may^st thou weep, Cornelia of the South ! 
 
 For thou, indeed, hast lost a jewel son. 
 The Roman Gracchi were not so beloved, 
 
 Nor with more worthy deeds their honors won. 
 Thy stalwart son deserves a Roman^s fame. 
 
 For Cato was not more supremely just, 
 Augustus was not wiser in the state, 
 
 Nor Brutus truer to the people's trust. 
 
 The suave address, the smooth and oily tongue. 
 
 His manly nature aye disdained to own ; 
 His manner was as open as the day, 
 
 And bold sincerity rang in his tone ; 
 He never sought by crafty wiles to be 
 
 The cynosure of admiration's gaze, 
 But with calm mein and blameless life he wore 
 
 The people's gift — the crown of civic bays. 
 
 Well may his days seem all too few to thee — 
 And yet he gave to time a perfect fame ; 
 
62 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 For, though death wrote therms to his deeds 
 While yet he strove to build a greater name, 
 
 Still, in the compass of his years, he had 
 
 Achieved for thee, his loved and cherished State, 
 
 A full redemption ; and from all thy woes 
 A happy issue and a glorious fate. 
 
 All praise, all honor, to thy noble son! 
 
 Wiio was the staff on which you sorely leant 
 When debt oppressed, and ^n«ath an alien yoke 
 
 Thy queenly head in bondage vile was bent. 
 He was thy guide, and at his magic touch 
 
 Thy debt was lifted and thyfoes dispersed; 
 At his behest the clouds went rolling back 
 
 And Freedom's sunshine on thy pathway burst ! 
 
 Let others boast the softer arts to show; 
 
 Let other gems the brighter polish claim; 
 But he was peerless for intrinsic worth, 
 
 And his career was purest from all blame. 
 His only aim was still the people's good ; 
 
 He labored ever with a tireless arm 
 To save the fruits of industry and toil 
 
 And shield the citizen from every harm. 
 
ALABAMA BEREFT. 63 
 
 Enduring honor to thy noble son ! 
 
 Let memory keep his deeds from growing dim ! 
 Let history shrine his virtues in her page ! 
 
 Let all thy younger statesmen copy him ! 
 Thou shalt not bear a greater one than he ; 
 
 His massive mind and his herculean will 
 Shall stand as prodigies amid the years, 
 
 And to thy latest day be honored still. 
 
64 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN ON A FLY-LEAF OF TENNY- 
 SON'S DRAMA, QUEEN MARY. 
 
 O Tennyson ! thy genius hitherto 
 
 Hath seemed to burn with luster nebulous ; 
 
 But noWj raethinks, it hath burst forth to shine 
 
 With full orbed splendor, and an astral light. 
 
 In fancy oft I Ve seen your mystic muse 
 
 Shrouded in mists that rise in silvery clouds, 
 
 With eyes upturned in sweet and blissful thoughts, 
 
 Like one of RaphaePs angels, rapt and pure ! 
 
 But as the shadows of senescent night 
 
 Fall back before the morning's opal glow. 
 
 Or as the morn, veiling her roseate breast, 
 
 Flieth abashed before the face of day, 
 
 So shall those adumbrations of thy verse 
 
 Which thy fine fancy had so fairly wrought 
 
 (And yet so faintly that we scarcely knew 
 
 If it were more from weakness or design), 
 
 Pale into naught — eclipsed by the excess 
 
 Of splendor in this greater work of thine. 
 
 Thy drama stands, like a Corinthian shaft, 
 
 Strong and compact, yet polished and ornate, 
 
 Combining all most admirably well ; 
 
 And thou hast wreathed it with thy fancy flowers 
 
 As chastely bright as Eden's asphodel. 
 
THE POETS FAME. 65 
 
 THE POET^S FAME. 
 
 '' I Avill sing no more to the heedless world/^ 
 
 The fanieless poet said, 
 And into the waves his harp he hurled; 
 
 And he clasped his hands 
 
 By the white sea sands, 
 And he bowed his weary head. 
 
 He had touched all chords, he tried all strains, 
 
 To wake the voice of praise; 
 And now in despair his soul complains 
 
 That he has no art 
 
 To enchant the heart, 
 And for him there grow no bays. 
 
 But lo ! there comes to his side a maid, 
 
 (The poet^s love is she), 
 And upon his brow her hand is laid, 
 
 And her soft eyes glow, 
 
 As in accents low 
 She murmurs, '^ Sing to me.'^ 
 
 Then the bard uprose with a burning brain 
 And a flushed and shining face, 
 6 
 
QQ OTHER POEMS. 
 
 And he caught his harp from the ebbing main, 
 
 And he sang a song 
 
 Of his passion strong, 
 With a rich and golden grace. 
 
 He had ceased to dream of the laurel bough ; 
 
 Of her alone he thought; 
 And a sacred light suffused his brow 
 
 While he sang of love, 
 
 As though from above 
 He an angePs voice had caught. 
 
 And his sweet love song thro' the wide earth spread 
 
 Till all men knew it well ; 
 And it lived in their hearts when the bard was dead, 
 
 For, where'er they strove 
 
 To interpret love, 
 There its magic numbers fell. 
 
 O poet ! sing to the human heart, 
 
 Nor seek to win a name. 
 'T is the crowning grace of the singer's art. 
 
 That the closer he rests 
 
 To human breasts, 
 The grander is his fame. 
 
DANTE AT RA VENN A. 67 
 
 DANTE AT RAVENNA. 
 
 Look, where he comes ! the black-browed Florentine ! 
 
 His step is slow — his eyes are on the ground, 
 But piercing through to regions subterrene ! 
 
 Just then he saw (that moment when he frowned) 
 Francesca and her lover, ruthless whirled 
 By sulphurous cyclones through the under world. 
 
 His path pursuing with a measured stride, 
 Anon his lips, curled with a bitter sneer. 
 
 The torments of some helpless Guelph deride, 
 For shrieks and groans are music to his ear : 
 
 And he delights to have each hated foe 
 
 Writhe in extremes of heat and cold below. 
 
 Poor exiled Dante ! Oh, if hope^s decay 
 
 And luckless love and banishment from friends 
 
 Can e'er excuse the passions^ lawless sway, 
 Such dire mischance extenuation lends 
 
 To thy embittered speech and cynic sneer, 
 
 Which prince and prelate contemplate with fear. 
 
 But see his upward glance ! — just where a beam 
 Of sunshine through an open archway falls 
 
68 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Upon his path ! A thousand splendors gleam 
 
 In his deep eyes, as though they were the halls 
 Where light and love and joy were wont to sport, 
 And rose-crowned ecstasy held endless court ! 
 
 Those eyes a supernatural vision own, 
 And to their gaze is peopled all the sky; 
 
 Heroes and saints upon the breeze are blown : 
 And they behold, up in the zenith high. 
 
 His Beatrice o^er the throng preside, — 
 
 His early love, his spirit's only bride. 
 
 Oh, wondrous mixture of the stern and mild ! 
 
 Most fervid nature that the world e'er saw ! 
 Oppression fills him with resentment wild ! 
 
 His love is constant as the reign of law : 
 And his bold fancy paints in vivid hues 
 The forms he loves to honor or abuse. 
 
 One day in Florence, many years ago, 
 When he, a gay and brave Italian youth, 
 
 A guest was at a banquet of Folco, 
 
 A maid he met, whose beauty was, in truth, 
 
 Surpassing — then were kindled in his breast 
 
 Fires that will burn forever without rest. 
 
DANTE AT RA VENNA. 69 
 
 Long since the maiden passed to realms above, 
 And soon he took a thrifty dame to wife ; 
 
 But only Folco^s daughter could he love, 
 And she is still the guardian of his life : 
 
 His heart for her as ceaselessly will yearn 
 
 As doth the needle to the north-star turn. 
 
 And next to her he loves his mother land ; 
 
 He longs for peace among the jarring states ; 
 And his true heart with joy Avould burst to stand 
 
 Once more within his native city^s gates. 
 But he is doomed to dwell in darkness here, 
 With naught but his great dreams his life to cheer. 
 
 Soon will he join his idol in the sky, 
 
 Where he will find a sweet, abiding home ; 
 
 And his shall be a fame that can not die, 
 
 Though he be not Avith laurels crowned at Borne. 
 
 And thou Baveiina, boast this four-fold trust — 
 
 His cares, his dreams, his labors, and his dust ! 
 
70 , OTHER POEMS 
 
 "COME, SING ME A SONG/'^ 
 
 TO LUCIUS. 
 
 Come, sing me a song ere thy going, 
 
 My Lucius, with eloquent eyes ! 
 Come, sing to a heart overflowing 
 
 With tenderness born of the skies. 
 The moonlight, descending so softly 
 
 And bathing the world in its glow. 
 Of peace from above is a token 
 
 To my weary spirit below. 
 
 My Lucius, thou light-hearted stripling! 
 
 I see thou art eager to go 
 Where the laughter of maidens is rippling 
 
 And the gay dancers flit to and fro. 
 But surely thou ^It linger a moment 
 
 And sing me the song I love best ; 
 ^Twill blend with the charm of the moonlight, 
 
 And lift every cloud from my breast. 
 
 '•'■Those who do not remember the popular song entitled "How the 
 Gates Came Ajar," will not understand these verses; but the author 
 chooses to publish them for personal reasons. 
 
''COME, SING ME A SONGJ' 71 
 
 Yes, sing of the bright, shining city, 
 
 And '' the little, white angel, May," 
 Whose soul was possessed of such pity 
 
 For some coarser creature of clay, 
 That with the old warden she pleaded 
 
 Who guards that great doorway afar 
 (With hope that her loved one might enter) 
 
 To leave the bright portal ajar. 
 
 My Lucius, 't is strange that a creature 
 
 So hardened and sinful as I 
 Should love, like a saint or a preacher. 
 
 To hear of that house in the sky; 
 But the spell of your music subdues me 
 
 To moods that are pure as the snow. 
 And your sweet, tender melodies move me 
 
 Till the soft tears, in spite of me, flow. 
 
 At times, as I travel this dreary 
 
 And wearisome journey of life. 
 Of its infinite pain I am weary, 
 
 And I long for an end to its strife : 
 But then when you come with your music 
 
 And roll the dark shadows away 
 I fancy those heavenly portals 
 
 May open for me at some day. 
 
72 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 But Lucius, my boy, I detain you ; 
 
 Go, dance with the fair ones who wait, 
 And say to them, should they constrain you 
 
 To tell them what made you so late, 
 That you paused, like an angel of mercy. 
 
 As you flew to their circle of light. 
 To give a sweet moment of pleasure 
 
 To one who stood out in the night. 
 
THE USE OF THE USELESS. 73 
 
 THE USE OF THE USELESS. 
 
 Nay, poet, shrink not so abashed 
 
 Before the ruder workman's scorn; 
 The higher use, the greater good, 
 
 Is of thy listless dreaming born. 
 The plow, the loom, the workman's shop, 
 
 Are well, for man is half of earth ; 
 But music, song, the finer arts, 
 
 Have yet a more exalted worth. 
 
 A poet roamed the clover fields. 
 
 Where brawny workmen tossed the hay 
 And sang their mellow mowing-songs. 
 
 From early dawn till evening gray ; 
 And, as he idly passed along. 
 
 The harvesters began to shout 
 And taunt the dreamy looker-on. 
 
 For he was deemed a worthless lout. 
 
 But ah ! the poet gathered more 
 
 Of good to mortals than they knew, 
 
 From scented fields and sunny slopes 
 And over- reaching skies of blue; 
 
 7 
 
74 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The song he wrought that summer day 
 Was so replete with highest thought 
 
 That none might read its glowing lines 
 Unaided by the strength they brought. 
 
 'T were libel on the human race 
 
 To say it needed nothing more 
 Than what might minister to sense — 
 
 The food it ate, the clothes it wore. 
 Whoe'er refines the human hearty 
 
 Whoe'er expands the human mind, 
 Must needs be reckoned by the wise 
 
 A benefactor to his kind. 
 
 Had Terence always been a slave 
 
 He might have reached a riper age, 
 But Rome had never felt his power 
 
 To lash her vices through the stage. 
 Was he more useful when he ran 
 
 In haste to bring Lucanus wine, 
 Than when he taught the Latin race 
 
 To make existence more divine? 
 
 No doubt the men of Sirmio thought 
 Catullus worthless to his race, 
 
THE USE OF THE USELESS. 75 
 
 With only skill to frame an ode 
 
 In praise of Lesbians form and face. 
 
 But when the French sacked Italy, 
 
 Then learned they to respect his name — 
 
 Their homes were spared, their lives were saved, 
 By reason of their poet's fame. 
 
 Then, poet, when the grosser world 
 
 Derides thy soft and subtle art. 
 Be not ashamed, but feel that thou 
 
 To human progress giv'st thy part. 
 If on Aonia's flowery steeps 
 
 Thy reverent feet have softly trod, 
 Returning, they have brought to man 
 
 The brightest benisons of God. 
 
76 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 FOREBODINGS. 
 
 I could not see a lovely flower 
 
 Expand its blossoms to the air^ 
 And know that some ungenial blast 
 
 Would blight its blooms and leave it bare, 
 And never feel a pang of pain 
 For loveliness so brief and vain ; 
 
 I could not see a shining star 
 Go dancing on its path at night, 
 
 And know that, like the Pleiad lost, 
 
 ^T would fall and vanish from our sight. 
 
 And never feel a keen regret 
 
 For brightness doomed so soon to set. 
 
 O flower of youthful tenderness ! 
 
 O beaming star of boyish trust ! 
 Supremely beautiful art thou, 
 
 But well I know thou too art dust : 
 And deeply in my heart I rue 
 The wreck the years will make of you. 
 
 The hand that gives so gladly now, 
 
 The tongue whose words are pure and high, 
 
FOREBODINGS. 77 
 
 And oh ! the kind and gentle glance 
 
 That trembles from your tender eye. — 
 'T were richly worth a mine of gold 
 If they could last till you were old ! 
 
 But you will learn to grasp and hoard ; 
 
 The world will teach your tongue to lie ; 
 Ag\di cold and hard will be the look 
 
 That age will fasten in your eye : 
 No blighted flower or fallen star 
 Could leave its first estate so far. 
 
 Such tears as old Urania wept 
 
 For bright Hyperion's darkened fate, 
 
 Such tears as Dante shed to see 
 
 Francesca's changed and sad estate, 
 
 Such bitter and regretful tears 
 
 I weep, when looking down the years. 
 
 For then that beauty will be marred 
 
 Which in your youth so brightly shone ; 
 
 Your love of truth and right be lost, 
 And all your winning graces flown ; 
 
 In manhood's prime you may not claim 
 
 A maiden conscience, void of shame. 
 
78 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The faded flower, the fallen star, 
 
 The broken branch, the withered leaf,- 
 
 Whatever bright and lovely was, 
 But has decayed — is food for grief; 
 
 But sadder blight may yet be thine 
 
 When virtue fades at youth's decline. 
 
THE ANCIENT STILE. 79 
 
 THE ANCIENT STILE, 
 
 REMOVED FROM THE VILLAGE GRAVEYARD, IN DECAY, AND A 
 GATE PUT IN ITS PLACE. 
 
 The hearths aifections often twine 
 
 About the least of earthly things, 
 And o^er an uncouth object love 
 
 A thousand fancied graces flings ; 
 And thus it was that I had grown 
 
 To deem the old, decaying stile 
 A thing as grateful to the sight 
 
 As though ^t were some palatial pile. 
 
 In infancy my shoeless feet 
 
 Had pressed around it in my play, 
 For all the world seemed brighter there. 
 
 And there I loved the most to stay ; 
 And in and out among the tombs 
 
 I ran and romped till out of breath ; 
 For I knew naught of sacrilege, 
 
 And I was ignorant of death. 
 
 And when the days of boyhood came. 
 And boyish ties and dreams arose, 
 
80 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 I often sat with some dear friend 
 Upon those steps at evening's close, 
 
 And while the summer sunset spread 
 Its flaming banners in the west, 
 
 With hopes as bright my spirit glowed, 
 And lofty longings filled my breast. 
 
 And in the graver, later years^ 
 
 When hope had given place to care, 
 And all the good that was to be 
 
 Had vanished for the ills that were, 
 I still delighted most to seek 
 
 That quiet spot for sober thought, — 
 For all the peace the tombs could give. 
 
 For all the lessons that they taught. 
 
 O tombs ! a potent charm is yours 
 To calm the troubled breast of man, 
 
 You awe the bold and check the rash 
 As neither priest nor censor can ; 
 
 No mortal mind on evil bent 
 
 Durst venture in your threatening shade, 
 
 But you afford a sure retreat 
 ^From all the errors sin has made.* 
 
 * This stanza was probably suggested by the sentiments in " The Invo- 
 cation " to Volney's Ruins, which the author read some years ago. 
 
THE ANCIENT STILE. 31 
 
 Ah, yes ! about that ancient stile 
 
 A host of varied memories clung 
 Of boyish loves and boyish faiths, — 
 
 The bright delusions of the young ; 
 And memories of still deeper dye, — 
 
 Remembered hours of pain and gloom, 
 Of questions weighed and faults deplored 
 
 In the dread presence of the tomb ! 
 
 Improvement is the aim of man ; 
 
 The old must vanish for the new; 
 And what is fresh and strange to us 
 
 A younger race wdth love will view : 
 But on my mind this truth has dawned, 
 
 And changes sad have stamped it in. 
 The New can never be to us 
 
 As precious as the Old has been. 
 
82 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 MODESTY. 
 
 How hard the lot of woman is 
 
 When she to lovers assault is prey, 
 And s^es the idol of her dreams 
 
 Unheeding pass her day by day ! 
 And feels that, if a sigh or word 
 To tell her love, by him were heard, 
 Responsive passion might be stirred. 
 
 How hard, when yet her maiden mind, 
 
 As chaste as snowy lily leaves, 
 Disdains to spin the cunning web 
 
 Which love about its captive weaves. 
 And she apart in modest wise 
 Elects to stand, with dreamy eyes 
 In whose soft depths such sadness lies. 
 
 'T is sad that such should be her fate ; 
 
 And yet, for all love's wild delight, 
 Its warm caress, its close embrace. 
 
 Its sated sense of touch and sight, 
 I would not give that modest thought — 
 
MODESTY. 83 
 
 That scorn of hearts by intrigue caught — 
 That woman^s longing to be sought. 
 
 Oft have I seen neglected nuaids, 
 
 Pale in the shadow of their grief, 
 Like some blanched vine that yearns to feel 
 
 The sun's hot kisses on its leaf, 
 And I have loved their modest mien, 
 And I have marked them, all unseen, 
 With pride and admiration keen. 
 
 Of womanhood this is the charm 
 
 That makes her more than earthly sweet; 
 
 For this some great Olympian god 
 Might bow to earth, and kiss her feet ; 
 
 For she is more than human then ; 
 
 Divinity surrounds her when 
 
 She so exceeds the strength of men. 
 
84 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 THE FLOWERS. 
 
 O beautiful roses, so queenly and fragrant ! 
 
 sweet little violets, purple and shy ! 
 
 O wild trailing creepers, abandoned and vagrant ! 
 
 1 love every blossom beneath the blue sky ! 
 
 When ardently suing for earth's brightest treasure, 
 Sweet, friendly assistants I found them to be ; 
 
 Each petal that danced at the gay Zephyr\s pleasure 
 A tongue was to utter love's pleading for me. 
 
 The angel Sandalphon the Talmud discloses. 
 
 Transforming the prayers which the devotees moan 
 
 Into beautiful garlands and bright colored posies 
 To bear in this guise to the foot of the Throne. 
 
 Not so in my courtship. There love changed the flowers 
 To seraphs, and sent them (an eloquent band) 
 
 To plead with the might of their angelic powers 
 For favor to me from the Queen of the Land. 
 
 Yes, lilies and roses depicted love's phases. 
 
 And blushing carnations discoursed of its pains ; 
 
THE FLOWERS. 85 
 
 I sent from the woodlands the blue-bells and daisies, 
 And murmured of love with the grass of the plains. 
 
 Oh, then as I plucked them, bright hope whispered 
 
 plainly, 
 "Some day you shall cull them to offer your bride ; '^ 
 But pleadings were futile, and hope whispered vainly, 
 Her lover I was, and am nothing beside. 
 
 And now as I wander, unloved and rejected, 
 I gaze on the flowers with a tender regard ; 
 
 They brighten a spirit forlorn and dejected. 
 
 And soften a path which the fates have made hard, 
 
86 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 GEDIPI. 
 
 Thou grand magician of the Grecian stage, 
 
 Thou who possessed the master's lofty art 
 To paint the passions on the glowing page 
 
 And stir the deep emotions of the heart/ 
 To thy impassioned (Edipus we owe 
 The darkest picture of a mortals woe. 
 A man overwhelmed by dark, resistless fate, 
 Foredoomed the foulest deeds to perpetrate. 
 Albeit his heart was innocent of guile 
 And loved the good and hated all the vile. 
 A curse the Sybils uttered at his birth 
 Foretold that his career upon the earth 
 Should be to walk, as in distempered sleep, 
 Through lowering glooms and dire abysms deep. 
 Treading such depths of sorrow, shame and woe 
 As Hades hath not for the shades below ! 
 And so it was. Engaged in manly strife. 
 Unconsciously he took his father's life ; 
 He saved his country from disaster dread. 
 And, for reward, did his own mother wed. 
 Beguiled to such dark acts by cruel fate. 
 The knowledge of them made him desolate ; 
 O'erwhelmed, appalled, distracted with his grief. 
 Death only gave his troubled breast relief. 
 
CEDIPI. 87 
 
 O Sphinx, revisit now the Phiceon hill ! 
 
 We mortals have a riddle to propound, 
 And if the Muses teach thee mysteries still, 
 
 Mayhap to it an answer thou hast found : 
 How may the being without power of sight 
 Be conscious how to guide his steps aright? 
 And how the creature of enfeebled arm 
 Have strength to shield his puny frame from harm? 
 We see, in all the ages of the world, 
 Men tost by fate, like dead leaves, lightly whirled 
 By eddying winds. Without an evil thought. 
 False steps they take, and are to ruin brought; 
 Or, seeing all the dangers hovering round, 
 They have not strength to reach the safer ground. 
 Hereditary passions sway the soul. 
 And o'er their victims heavy shadows roll; 
 And ties of kinship and of friendship throng 
 Life's path with woes wrought by another's wrong; 
 And beauty, grace and virtue are the mark 
 For envy's sting and hatred's intrigues dark. 
 Not theirs the fault, but theirs the bitter pain. 
 For on their brows Fate writes the curse of Cain — 
 Despised, abhorred, in abject misery 
 They dwell apart — earth's fated CEdipi ! 
 
 Of one Ave read, in rank and beauty great, 
 
 A child of golden hopes, whose dreams were all 
 
88 OTHER POEMS, 
 
 Delusions painted by deceitful fate, 
 
 Alluring lier to most disastrous fall! 
 Of queenly presence, and a face divine, 
 A fancy brilliant as Golconda^s mine, 
 Unconscious sorcery of voice and air. 
 Entrapping hearts as with a Circe's snare ; 
 A nature happy as a rippling rill, 
 With French caprices, but an English will ; 
 A heart whose fervid currents learned to flow 
 Where strong emotions in warm bosoms glow; 
 And that imperial boon, a double crown : 
 These fatal gifts hurled Marie Stuart down ! 
 Ambitious courtiers, England's envious queen. 
 Her own rash favors, Darnley's jealous spleen, 
 And hateful calumny's envenomed tongue, 
 Around her path such dire misfortunes flung 
 That she, ^^ the soft Medusa," at whose cry 
 A thousand swords once from their sheaths would fly. 
 And whose sweet nature was as Dian's pure. 
 Must insult, wrong and bondage all endure; 
 Dethroned, defamed — at last Fate kindly gave 
 A boon — if 't was a boon — an alien grave ! 
 
 And he who towered his fellow men above, 
 
 Burdened with gifts whose very splendor killed 
 
 Those cherished flowers, contentment, faith, and love. 
 Wherewith the humbler mortal's path is filled ; 
 
(EDIPL 89 
 
 By fate impelled, he, Phoenix-like, did start 
 
 The very fires which were to sear his heart ! 
 
 He, like a base conscript iconoclast 
 
 In fate's employ, did his own fortunes blast ! 
 
 His pride, his lust, his scorn of man and Heaven, 
 
 Were by transmission from his fathers given ; 
 
 And that these poisonous seeds might thrive apace, 
 
 And bear rich fruit of sorrow and disgrace, 
 
 Fate fostered them with a malicious care. 
 
 Unhappy Byron ! lord of earth and air, 
 
 Whose genius stooped to kiss the lowliest flowers, 
 
 Or soared aloft to bask in splendid showers 
 
 Of Eden's sunlight ! Oh, had fate been kind. 
 
 And to thy brilliant faculties of mind 
 
 Had added pure and steady moral powers, 
 
 Thy life had been one chain of golden hours ! 
 
 But thou wast doomed, who gave to England fame 
 
 And gave thy life in freedom's sacred name, 
 
 A mental Ajax in a moral night. 
 
 With inward faults and outward foes to fight. 
 
 But why should I attempt to single out 
 
 The famed whose fate has been the most unkind ? 
 
 'T is not the great alone ; the obscure lout 
 Must also tread life's devious journey blind. 
 
 How many souls have struggled to subdue 
 
 Some evil appetite, that ever drew 
 
90 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Them deeper down to infamy and shame ! 
 
 How many breasts, all innocent of blame, 
 
 Have burst with grief for wicked actions done 
 
 By those whose fortunes and their own were one! 
 
 O Life ! O Fate ! I contemplate with pain 
 
 The flowers that languish for the summer rain ; 
 
 The poor caged birds, that are too sad to sing, 
 
 Denied the power to soar upon the wing ; 
 
 And the green trees, so grand, erect, and tall, 
 
 Which in the fury of the tempest fall — 
 
 But, saddest of all thoughts ! that man should be 
 
 The toy, the puppet of fatality ! 
 
 His mind, his strength, his joys, his golden dreams, 
 
 Like bubbles broken upon ruffled streams ! 
 
 His hope expanding, like a lovely flower. 
 
 Only to fade in an unhappy hour ! 
 
 His aims perverted and his labors marred 
 
 By the misfortunes of the evil-starred ! 
 

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