NRLF 
 
 IP 
 
FOREST FLOWERS, 
 
ANNA S. RICKEY, 
 
 Daughter of the late RANDALL H. RICKEY, was born in Phila 
 delphia, December 23d, 1827, Married, in Cincinnati, 
 to SOLOMON W. ROBERTS, Civil Engineer, January 16th, 
 1851 and Died in Philadelphia, August 10th, 1858, in 
 the 31st year of her age; and was buried at Woodlands 
 Cemetery, on the evening of the 12th of August. 
 
 She left an infant son, born two days before her death, 
 which died soon after, at the age of five weeks. Three of 
 her children, one son and two daughters, are still living. 
 
 The loss of an infant daughter, "ELIZABETH WHITE 
 ROBERTS," which died in 1855, made a deep and perma 
 nent impression upon her mind ; and she soon after became 
 a communicant of the Protestant Episcopal Church. 
 
 After her death, the following Poem, believed to be her 
 last, was found in her memorandum book, addressed to the 
 daguerreotype of her deceased daughter. 
 
 THE LITTLE SHADOW. 
 
 BY ANNA R. ROBERTS. 
 
 Oh ! little shadow of the face 
 
 That I shall never see again ; 
 Oh! fair round arms, whose soft embrace 
 
 My neck yearns for in vain. 
 Oh 1 deep black eyes, whose wells of light, 
 
 Death s icy hand on earth has sealed; 
 Oh! budding mouth, whose music might 
 
 Not be to us revealed. 
 
 Oh! lovely babe, thou hadst from birth, 
 
 A dower of beauty and of love ; 
 Thou filled st thy mission here on earth, 
 
 And drew our hearts above. 
 And when thy semblance beams on me, 
 
 At morn, or noon, or thoughtful even, 
 My soul goes up to seek for thee. 
 
 My angel child in Heaven. 
 
 1858. 
 
//. , 
 
 
 i K E Y. 
 
 
 ] LA f) E IPH I A 
 
 r, UXBiAT AMB 
 
FOREST FLOWERS 
 
 THE WEST. 
 
 BY 
 
 ANNA S. RICKEY. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 LINDSAY AND BLAKISTON. 
 1851. 
 
fcfc 
 
 K" 
 " 
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, 
 
 BY LINDSAY & BLAKISTON, 
 
 In the Clerk s Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of 
 Pennsylvania. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 C. SHERMAN, PRINTER. 
 
Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE OLD MANSION, - - - - 13 
 
 HAWTHORN COTTAGE, - -20 
 
 GERALDINE, - - -27 
 
 FOUND TOO LATE, - 29 
 
 THE HAUNTED CHAMBER, - 32 
 
 LA BELLE RIVIERE, - 34 
 
 I THINK OP THEE, - 37 
 
 THE LONE GRAVE, - 39 
 
 STANZAS, - 42 
 
 PARTED SUMMER, - 44 
 
 THE RUIN, - - - 46 
 
 THE FALLEN, - 48 
 
 TIME S CHANGES, - 50 
 
 WILT THOU THINK OF ME, - 52 
 
 THE WATCHER, - - 54 
 
 THE OCEAN DEAD, - - - - - 56 
 
 M1890I8 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE POET S DREAM, 
 THE DYING MISSIONARY, 
 
 TO , - - 63 
 
 I PRAY WE MAY NOT MEET AGAIN, 
 
 MY FOREST HOME, 
 
 HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN, 
 
 THE INDIAN S LAMENT, - - 71 
 
 TO A FRIEND AT PARTING, 
 
 THE HEAVENLY VISITANT, ~ ^6 
 
 7Q 
 THE "WATER-LILY, 
 
 o-i 
 
 THE DEAD RIVAL, - 
 
 DO 
 
 THOU WILT REMEMBER ME, 
 
 A THOUGHT, **7 
 
 THE OLD ELM, 
 
 qq 
 THE DOMINIE, 
 
 THE NIGHT-BLOOMING CEREUS, 
 
 OQ 
 TWO PORTRAITS, - 
 
 STANZAS, 102 
 
 THE DREAMER, 
 
 THE UNSEALED FOUNTAIN, 
 
 DREAMS OF THE PAST, 
 
 1 1 Q 
 
 A SIMILE, 
 
 I -1 K 
 
 THE FALL OF THE OAK, 
 
 118 
 
 THE AWAKENED HEART, 
 
CONTENTS. xi 
 
 PAGE 
 
 TEARS, - - 120 
 
 LORELY, - _ 123 
 
 A VISION, - . 125 
 
 OLDEN HAUNTS, - 131 
 
 THE TRULY DEAD, - - - - - 134 
 
 THE POST-MAN, - - - . _ 135 
 
FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 Oblft Mansion. 
 
 Tis an old mansion, time-worn, quaint, and gray, 
 
 Half hidden by the tall, luxuriant trees, 
 Spreading a leafy veil o er its decay, 
 Assisted by the clinging vines, that sway 
 
 With their bright blossoms in the gentle breeze, 
 With a soft, murmuring sound, a plaintive wail, 
 For the bright form whose brow grew cold and pale, 
 When those aged trees were young, and that old 
 mansion gay. 
 
 And music once resounded through the hall, 
 And woman s voice rose sweetly on the air, 
 2 
 
14 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 In the clear tones of a light heart ; grief s thrall 
 Had never bound her, nor its shadowy pall 
 
 Darkened her young brow, innocent and fair ; 
 But, like a budding flower, that to the light 
 Opens its young leaves, beautiful and bright, 
 She grew to womanhood, the loveliest blossom there. 
 
 A wild flower hidden in her bright retreat, 
 
 With a warm, buoyant heart and sunny brow, 
 There was joy even in her dancing feet, 
 That bounded o er the dewy lawn to meet 
 
 Aught that she loved ; but still and silent now 
 Is all around ; the strain so sweetly ringing 
 Through the old woods, mocking the wild birds 
 
 singing, 
 Echoes no more that voice was hushed long years 
 
 For sorrow s blight came there ; the serpent s trace 
 
 Swept o er the bloom of that fair Eden ; never 
 May we avert the doom of our fallen race, 
 Nor hope for perfect happiness, nor place 
 
THE OLD MANSION. 15 
 
 A chain to bind joy to the heart for ever: 
 Grief shades the sunny smile and dims the eye, 
 As tempest clouds sweep o er the summer sky, 
 One stroke, alas ! the links of that frail chain can 
 sever. 
 
 Arid Ellen loved ah ! in that little word 
 
 How much of joy and sorrow can be ours ! 
 Upon its shrine how many a heart has poured 
 Its lavish tenderness, and the rich hoard 
 
 Of the soul s aspirations, hopes and powers, 
 That withered on the altar with the heart 
 That offered them, leaving the rankling dart 
 Of blighted love and hope to poison life s long 
 hours. 
 
 And Ellen loved, and life to her was dear, 
 
 And earth seemed an Elysium ; love became 
 A part of her existence ; no dark fear 
 Mingled with her bright dreams; no doubt came 
 near 
 
16 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 Her guiltless heart to sully its pure flame. 
 Oh, had that heart in its full bliss grown chill, 
 Nor wakened to a sense of wrong and ill, 
 That bitter grief that makes earth s pilgrimage so 
 drear ! 
 
 Summer had come with all its wealth of flowers, 
 
 And the old woods were vocal with the song 
 Of many a wild-bird ; in their leafy bowers 
 She dreamed away the long, bright summer hours, 
 And the soft, perfumed breeze that swept along 
 Through the scarce stirring branches, seemed to be 
 Whispering his name in its faint minstrelsy, 
 And bright hopes filled her heart that trembled 
 with their throng. 
 
 But time sped on, and autumn s chilly breath 
 Scattered the forest leaves ; the early frost 
 
 Made the frail flowers droop ; the verdant heath 
 
 Put on a robe of russet ; the bright wreath 
 Fell from the brow of summer ; the woods lost 
 
 The insect s hum, the wild-bird s tuneful art ; 
 
THE OLD MANSION. 17 
 
 But sadder far, the young and gentle heart 
 That would have grieved for all that autumn 
 blighted most. 
 
 It brought a tale of faithlessness that crushed 
 
 Her gentle, trusting heart beneath its power ; 
 And though her grief within her heart was 
 
 hushed, 
 The rose of health no more her soft cheek flushed, 
 
 She slowly withered like a stricken flower, 
 The smile that lit her lovely face soon fled, 
 And slow and heavy grew her lightsome tread, 
 And never more her song was heard in hall or 
 bower. 
 
 Spring came again, but brought no joy to her ; 
 
 Its life and beauty seemed a mockery 
 Of her deep grief. Like a strange wanderer, 
 She roamed through many a well-known spot : the 
 
 stir 
 
 And gaiety of life fell mournfully 
 Upon her heart : she faded day by day ; 
 2* 
 
18 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 Her soul was passing fast from earth away, 
 And ere the summer came, she slumbered peace 
 fully. 
 
 Within a shady glen, remote and wild, 
 
 Her shadowy fingers clasped as if in prayer, 
 They found her sleeping like a weary child : 
 Her life closed gently, for her pale lips smiled 
 
 Death could not rudely smite a form so fair ! 
 She was the light of the old hall, the pride 
 Of her aged father s heart, and when she died 
 A change came o er the place it missed her gentle 
 care. 
 
 No fairy hand now trained the clambering vine, 
 
 Or gathered up the roses that would bend 
 Their branches o er the path ; the sweet woodbine 
 Drooped, and around the casement ceased to twine : 
 There was no hand its flowery wreaths to tend ; 
 The jessamine trailed its fragrant boughs among 
 The grass that grew luxuriant and long, 
 And flowers with weeds began for empire to contend. 
 
THE OLD MANSION. 19 
 
 Ah ! never from that gray old mansion will 
 
 Her voice float upward on the summer air ! 
 There is a gentle sadness that would fill 
 The heart in gazing on it, lone and still : 
 
 No bounding footstep wakes an echo there ; 
 And Time has left of her one only trace, 
 The half-worn marble o er her resting-place, 
 And that faint record soon his hand will cease to 
 spare. 
 
20 
 
 lorattjorn Cnttoge. 
 
 TwAS a lovely Sabbath morning, 
 
 In the pleasant month of May, 
 And brightest things of earth and sky, 
 
 Looked brighter for the day ; 
 Each zephyr-shaken flower 
 
 Flung its incense on the air, 
 And the rustling of the young leaves 
 
 Seemed a softly murmured prayer. 
 
 The sunlight shed its genial smile, 
 On vale, and hill, and glen, 
 
 And like a gladdened heart, the earth 
 Gave back the smile again : 
 
HAWTHORN COTTAGE. 21 
 
 A group of snowy clouds 
 
 Their rose-tipped pinions slowly spread, 
 And gently o er the azure sky, 
 
 Like angel hosts they sped. 
 
 From the little village spire, 
 
 Eang the holy Sabbath bell, 
 And the clear air trembled with delight, 
 
 As it bore its cheerful swell : 
 Half hidden by its leafy screen, 
 
 Arose the house of prayer, 
 A peaceful haven for the soul 
 
 Storm-tossed by sin and care. 
 
 Upon the lawn before the door, 
 
 Stood a rosy little crowd, 
 With their voices hushed to whispers, 
 
 While their dimples laughed aloud ; 
 For the bell within the spire, 
 
 Rang a joyous peal again, 
 And pressing down the dewy grass, 
 
 Came a little bridal train. 
 
22 FOKEST FLO WE US. 
 
 They stood before the altar, 
 
 And the bridegroom clasped with pride 
 The hand of that fair, blushing girl, 
 
 Who trembled by his side ; 
 And vows were faintly spoken 
 
 From lips scarce seen to part, 
 But their echo dwelt for ever, 
 
 In each fond, trusting heart. 
 
 Then, with a proud and happy smile, 
 
 The husband of an hour, 
 Led to her sweet though humble home, 
 
 His lovely village flower. 
 Twas a pleasant little cottage, 
 
 Peeping from amid the leaves, 
 With the swallows twittering merrily, 
 
 As they built beneath the eaves. 
 
 A hawthorn grew beside the door, 
 With its wealth of snowy bloom 
 
 Mingling its sweet and gentle breath 
 With the woodbine s rich perfume, 
 
HAWTHORN COTTAGE. 23 
 
 Stretching its arms above the roof, 
 
 Rose a giant sycamore, 
 And the vine s luxuriant branches 
 
 The casement wandered o er. 
 
 Spring s blossoms, summer s gorgeous flowers, 
 
 And autumn s withered leaves, 
 All passed away ; the swallows 
 
 Left their nests beneath the eaves ; 
 But the dwellers in the lowly cot, 
 
 Had gathered in the May, 
 And their hearts were full of sunshine, 
 
 And blossoms strewed their way. 
 
 Again the hawthorn s snowy blooms 
 
 With perfume filled the air, 
 And a human bud within the cot, 
 
 Had bloomed as pure and fair, 
 And when upon the Sabbath 
 
 Rang the little village bell, 
 Sparkling upon its stainless brow 
 
 Baptismal waters fell. 
 
24 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 And the pale but happy mother, 
 
 In silent rapture prest, 
 Tho her full heart thrilled with many a prayer, 
 
 Her infant to her breast ; 
 And tho her cheek had lost its bloom, 
 
 And her lip its richest red, 
 Maternity s soft halo 
 
 Its radiance round her shed. 
 
 Years passed and childish voices 
 
 Filled their cottage home with glee, 
 And the mother at her daily toil, 
 
 Sang sweetly, cheerfully ; 
 And the traveller, hot and dusty, 
 
 To the rustic gate would come, 
 And gaze upon their simple joys, 
 
 And dream sweet dreams of home. 
 
 But the mother s step grew feeble, 
 
 Her cheek grew thin and white, 
 And her eyes exchanged their mild, soft beam, 
 
 For a bright unearthly light ; 
 
HAWTHORN COTTAGE. 25 
 
 And ere the leaves had fallen 
 
 From the aged sycamore, 
 A bark had crossed life s troubled wave. 
 
 Toward the eternal shore. 
 
 And one by one, the children passed 
 
 From under the roof-tree ; 
 Some sought the western forests, 
 
 And some went o er the sea ; 
 And one they called the rose-bud, 
 
 The fairest and the best, 
 Shared with her gentle mother 
 
 The churchyard s peaceful rest. 
 
 You can see no children playing 
 
 Around the cottage door, 
 And you hear no sweet voice singing 
 
 The pleasant songs of yore ; 
 But an old man leans upon the gate, 
 
 His thin locks necked with gray, 
 That gleams like threads of silver, 
 
 In the cheerful light of May. 
 
26 
 
 As I gaze upon thy semblance, 
 With thy dark eyes meeting mine, 
 
 I forget the grave hath claimed thee, 
 Noble-hearted Geraldine. 
 
 There thou standest in thy beauty, 
 With thy ringlets all afloat, 
 
 Sweeping from thy snowy temples, 
 Rippling round thy graceful throat. 
 
 Genius sits enthroned, how proudly ! 
 
 On that regal brow of thine ; 
 But it was a fatal dower, 
 
 With thy warm heart, Geraldine. 
 
GEKALDINE. 27 
 
 In those dark eyes beaming on me, 
 I have seen the hot tears spring, 
 
 When thy brain was wrought to madness, 
 And thy heart was withering. 
 
 There arose a fearful warfare 
 
 In that truthful breast of thine, 
 And thou diedst amid the struggle, 
 
 Well thou couldst, poor Geraldine ! 
 
 I have seen that soft cheek mantle 
 
 With the bright rose of decay ; 
 Seen those lustrous eyes grow brighter, 
 
 Ere their glory passed away. 
 
 When thy marble form was shrouded, 
 And that mournful task was mine, 
 
 Down upon the coffin smiling, 
 Looked the pictured Geraldine. 
 
 And its wild and glowing beauty 
 Seemed to mock the face below, 
 
28 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 With the eyelids closed so meekly, 
 And the brow and cheek of snow. 
 
 There s a tablet of pale marble 
 Lying on thy throbless heart ; 
 
 But I stand here fondly dreaming 
 What thou wert, not what thou art. 
 
 And I gaze upon thy semblance, 
 Like a pilgrim at a shrine ; 
 
 For I loved thee, oh, how dearly ! 
 Gentle-hearted Geraldine. 
 
29 
 
 tan late. 
 
 ACROSS the desert s glittering plain 
 
 An Arab urged his noble steed, 
 Wild fever burned in every vein, 
 
 And forced him to impetuous speed ; 
 Upon the thick and stifling air, 
 
 A cry from out his parched lips burst, 
 " One draught" the burden of his prayer 
 
 " One draught to slake this fearful thirst." 
 
 When on him rose the morning sun, 
 The desert fountain near him seemed, 
 
 And now the day was nearly done, 
 Yet still the faithless mirage gleamed, 
 3* 
 
30 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 Still lured him on with straining eyes, 
 And fainting breath, and failing hand, 
 
 Till, as the stars began to rise, 
 
 His brow by a soft breeze was fanned, 
 
 And like a sheet of molten glass, 
 
 He saw the little streamlet lie ; 
 He saw the long and dewy grass, 
 
 The graceful palm-tree waving high ; 
 And gazing like one who is freed 
 
 From some bewildering, painful dream, 
 And feeble as a withered weed, 
 
 He cast himself beside the stream. 
 
 The precious boon, so long denied 
 
 To cheer his heart and soothe his brain, 
 Now poisoned all life s purple tide, 
 
 And chilled the current in each vein : 
 No draught of healing now it gave 
 
 He felt the sands of life abate : 
 His last breath curled the tiny wave 
 
 As his lips faltered "Found too late !" 
 
FOUND TOO LATE. 31 
 
 Thus, mid life s glare and mockery, 
 
 The arid sands of care and pain, 
 Too late, too late thou comest to me, 
 
 Thou bright ideal of my brain ; 
 And wakened from rny wildering dream, 
 
 I dare not curse the aggressor, Fate, 
 But drooping at Love s sparkling stream, 
 
 My crushed heart murmurs, " Found too late !" 
 
32 
 
 <Che Haunts Chamlm. 
 
 O 
 
 THERE is a haunted chamber, 
 
 In a mansion fair and bright, 
 From whose small, half-shrouded casement, 
 
 Streams a pale, sepulchral light. 
 
 All about the goodly mansion, 
 
 Wild birds warble, flowers spring ; 
 
 But across that darkened threshold 
 Passes no fair living thing. 
 
 In the chamber, one pale watcher 
 
 Sits amid the dust of years, 
 Striving to restore its splendour 
 
 With her thickly falling tears. 
 
THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 33 
 
 And her wan and shadowy finger 
 
 Beckons phantoms to the hall, 
 Till they throng the gloomy chamber, 
 
 Till they crowd the dusky wall. 
 
 Then she wanders chanting fragments 
 Of old songs, that erst had rang 
 
 Through its broad and vaulted arches, 
 When fair Hope, the siren, sang. 
 
 And she searches mid the embers, 
 On the hearthstone cold and dark, 
 
 But from out the whitened ashes 
 
 Gleams no faint and lingering spark. 
 
 Watcher, give thy haunt to silence, 
 Close the casement, shun the gloom ; 
 
 All within is desolation, 
 
 All without is life and bloom. 
 
 Leave it to the dust and darkness 
 
 That is gathering over all ; 
 Seek some fairer, brighter dwelling, 
 
 Where such shadows never fall. 
 
In 3MU JUttim. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL river ! on thy placid stream 
 
 The Indian s light canoe is seen no more, 
 Gliding as swiftly as a winged dream, 
 
 Parting thy waters with his flashing oar : 
 The hills slow rising from each wood-fringed shore, 
 
 Are mirrored in thy calm, pellucid wave, 
 Whose rippling pours a requiem as it rolls, 
 
 In softened murmurs, by the humble grave 
 Of that brave, hardy band who sleep unknown, 
 Their resting-place unmarked by monumental stone. 
 
 And they, the rangers of the broad domain, 
 Lords of the forest, hold no longer sway ; 
 
LA BELLE RIVIERE. 35 
 
 Thy native children come not back again, 
 All, all have vanished, like the dew, away ; 
 
 Or, like the summer leaves that I have tost 
 Upon thy sunlit wave, a moment seen 
 
 Whirling along the current, and then lost, 
 
 Leaving no lingering trace of what hath been, 
 
 No mark to tell, upon life s ceaseless river, 
 
 That they have passed from its dark tide for ever. 
 
 Within thy noble forest now is heard 
 
 The sound of ringing axe: the silence ne er 
 Was broken, save by the sweet wild bird, 
 
 Or gentle footfall of the timid deer, 
 Before the bold, undaunted pioneer 
 
 Had sought the land of promise, the Far West, 
 And made thy lonely shore his dwelling-place, 
 
 And reared a home within its fertile breast, 
 And filled it with the sounds of busy life, 
 With all its cares, its pleasures, and its strife. 
 
 Thy hills re-echo to the cheerful sound 
 
 Of pealing church-bells, and the merry hum 
 
36 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 Of busy hands and voices ; and around 
 
 Thy shores are gathered many who have come 
 
 As wanderers seeking for a place of rest, 
 A peaceful home upon the fertile soil, 
 
 Where labour is with plenty ever blessed, 
 
 Where wealth awaits the hardy hands that toil, 
 
 And Freedom s sun with soul-inspiring beam, 
 
 Gilds the fair bosom of thy noble stream. 
 
Cjtink nf 
 
 I THINK of thee when the bright stars are keeping 
 Their vigils through the silent evening hour ; 
 
 When the sweet summer breeze is gently sweeping 
 Its wealth of perfume from each closing flower, 
 
 I think of thee. 
 
 I think of thee when rosy morn is flinging 
 
 Her beaming smile o er forest, grove, and lawn ; 
 
 When from its grassy couch the lark is springing, 
 With melody to greet the coming dawn, 
 
 I think of thee. 
 
 I think of thee when hallowed memories stealing 
 Up from their hidden cell with magic power, 
 4 
 
38 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 Each dearly loved and treasured form revealing, 
 Recalling many a bright and happy hour, 
 
 I think of thee. 
 
 I think of thee when gentle thoughts are gushing 
 Within my heart, where Peace, with dovelike 
 
 wing, 
 
 Is brooding o er my spirit, gently hushing 
 Each wayward thought and wild imagining. 
 
 I think of thee. 
 
39 
 
 (Smut. 
 
 WHERE flowers luxuriant and wild 
 
 Look in the blue and sunny wave, 
 No costly marble o er it piled, 
 
 There is a solitary grave. 
 Above the dwelling of the dead, 
 
 Far from the busy hum of crowds, 
 The forest-monarch rears his head, 
 
 As if to woo the snowy clouds, 
 While at his feet the rolling surge 
 Pours forth a sweet and mournful dirge. 
 
 And well it may, for neath the sod, 
 A fair and gentle being lies 
 
40 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 The spirit has returned to God, 
 
 A lovely dweller of the skies, 
 But there her mouldering ashes rest ; 
 
 And Time s rude hand will soon efface 
 The grassy mound above her breast. 
 
 That marks her lonely resting-place, 
 And none will weep that one so fair, 
 So loved, so mourned, is sleeping there. 
 
 She hath a fitter, lovelier tomb, 
 
 Where Spring s sweet flowers bloom and die 
 Above her head, than in the gloom 
 
 Of marble pageantry to lie ; 
 Deep in the solitary glen, 
 
 With none to list its mournful note, 
 The wild bird pours his requiem 
 
 Upon the gentle breeze to float, 
 Till every echoing hill and vale 
 Is vocal with his sorrowing tale. 
 
 The gentle dews of heaven will shed 
 Refreshing tears upon her grave, 
 
THE LONE GRAVE. 41 
 
 To bid each wild flower raise its head 
 And o er her humble couch to wave. 
 
 And never will her peaceful breast 
 Feel aught again of sorrow s throes ; 
 
 Serene and tranquil is her rest, 
 
 In dreamless sleep and sweet repose ; 
 
 This tear-stained world of pain and care 
 
 Was not a home for one so fair. 
 
 4* 
 
Itntnnjj. 
 
 As a dream of the night, 
 
 As a flower of the morning, 
 As a dew-gem whose light 
 
 Is exhaled in the dawning, 
 As a star whose soft beam shuns the glare of the 
 
 day, 
 So brief was our friendship, so lovely its stay. 
 
 As a wind-harp when swept 
 
 By invisible fingers, 
 Whose sad music slept, 
 
 So thy memory lingers, 
 Till some fond recollection, some softly breathed 
 
 word, 
 Wakes the melody sweet oi each slumbering chord. 
 
STANZAS. 43 
 
 And though friendship s bright chains 
 
 Are in ruins around me, 
 Still the fragrance remains 
 
 Of the flowers that bound me, 
 And memory s incense will hallow them yet, 
 Till the star of existence for ever has set. 
 
 Though thy heart may ne er swell 
 
 With one pang of regret, 
 And thou breathest farewell 
 
 But to part and forget ; 
 Though the dream of the past, Time may never 
 
 restore, 
 
 Yet the heart thou hast wakened will slumber no 
 more. 
 
i-2 
 
 I tii nuts. 
 
 As a dream of the night, 
 
 As a flower of the morning, 
 As a dew-gem whose light 
 
 Is exhaled in the dawning, 
 As a star whose soft beam shuns the glare of the 
 
 day, 
 So brief was our friendship, so lovely its stay. 
 
 As a wind-harp when swept 
 
 By invisible fingers, 
 Whose sad music slept, 
 
 So thy memory lingers, 
 Till some fond recollection, some softly breathed 
 
 word, 
 Wakes the melody sweet oi each slumbering chord. 
 
43 
 
 And though friendship s bright chains 
 
 Arc in ruins around me, 
 Still the fragrance remains 
 
 Of the flowers that bound me, 
 And memory s incense will hallow them yet, 
 Till the star of existence for ever has set. 
 
 Though thy heart may ne er swell 
 
 With one pang of regret, 
 And thou breathest farewell 
 
 But to part and forget ; 
 Though the dream of the past, Time may never 
 
 restore, 
 
 Yet the heart thou hast wakened will slumber no 
 more. 
 
46 
 
 t luin. 
 
 ABOUND an old tower, deep-marked with decay, 
 The wall-flower and ivy were twining, 
 
 And above the lone ruin, so time-worn and gray, 
 The moon in her beauty was shining. 
 
 So sweetly she smiled from her home far and bright, 
 On the verdure-wreathed stones softly beaming, 
 
 That each tiny flower gleamed like a star in the light 
 That over its pale leaves was streaming. 
 
 She had looked on that lonely and desolate hall 
 In the pride of its youth and its glory, 
 
 Yet gazed she as fondly upon the old wall, 
 Now lonely, forsaken, and hoary. 
 
THE RUIN. 47 
 
 Still unchanged fell her silvery light on each stone, 
 Now marked by Time s pitiless fingers ; 
 
 And thus when youth s freshness and beauty have 
 
 gone, 
 The light of affection still lingers. 
 
 In my bosom was hushed all its tremulous fears, 
 For I felt, as I gazed on its shining, 
 
 That the love that illumines our youth s happy 
 
 years, 
 Will beam on when our youth is declining. 
 
/alien. 
 
 THOU wert once beloved, and brightest 
 Mid the fireside s happy throng ; 
 
 Then thy footstep was the lightest, 
 And the merriest thy song. 
 
 Lustrous was thine eye, unshaded 
 
 By a trace of grief or care, 
 And thy cheek, now wan and faded, 
 
 Then was ever bright and fair. 
 
 Happy friends, the loved and cherished, 
 Gazed with pride upon thy brow ; 
 
 Those endearing ties have perished, 
 Ye are more than strangers now. 
 
THE FALLEN. 
 
 And when memory brings around thee 
 
 Every dear familiar scene, 
 It recalls them but to wound thee 
 
 With the dreams of what hath been. 
 
 With no friend to soothe or love thee, 
 None to calm thy aching breast, 
 
 When the grave shall close above thee, 
 Thou wilt find thy only rest. 
 
 Alas, that from the peaceful bower 
 Of thy childhood thou didst stray ! 
 
 Fallen star and blighted flower, 
 Heaven light thy darkened way ! 
 
 49 
 
50 
 
 A FEW short years have vanished since we parted 
 
 With childhood s thoughtless innocence and glee, 
 But those few years have made thee colder hearted, 
 
 Have won from thee thy sweet sincerity. 
 Thy chilly smile I turn me from its greeting, 
 
 Its lambent light can warm my heart no more, 
 As hollow as the moonbeam and as fleeting, 
 
 Not like the dear familiar look of yore. 
 
 The cheering sun shines after April showers, 
 Day bids the gloomy shades of night depart, 
 
 Spring gives to earth again her robe of flowers, 
 Does Time add shadows only to the heart ? 
 
TIME S CHANGES. 51 
 
 Must the kind words we have so often spoken 
 Be but an echo from the bright days past? 
 
 For in thy measured accents not a token 
 Reminds me of the hours that flew so fast. 
 
 My childish years have passed, and as I enter 
 
 Upon youth s threshold, wilt thou too deceive ? 
 Shall I not have one heart in which to centre 
 
 My hopes and fears, one breast that will not 
 
 grieve 
 My clinging spirit ? Must I feel too surely 
 
 Thou art the world s cold-hearted devotee ? 
 Must the bright lamp be quenched that beamed so 
 purely ? 
 
 Oh, give me back the trust I had in thee ! 
 
52 
 
 tffcon tfrink nf 
 
 WHEN distant shores shall greet thine eyes, 
 
 Ah ! wilt thou think of me ? 
 And when the soft, unclouded skies 
 
 Are bending over thee 
 In glowing beauty, wilt thou cast 
 A single thought to all the past, 
 
 And let remembrance be 
 To thee a talismanic power 
 To give thee back each vanished hour ? 
 
 When o er the softly swelling sea 
 
 The gentle breezes sweep, 
 And wake the waves that tremblingly 
 
 Have hushed themselves to sleep, 
 
WILT THOU THINK OF ME? 53 
 
 Let the roused ocean be to thee 
 A spell to waken memory, 
 
 Unchanging, strong and deep, 
 As the dark waters that below 
 The foamy waves, in silence flow. 
 
 I would not have thy heart forget 
 
 Those hours for ever past, 
 Nor that a shadow of regret 
 
 Thy brow should overcast ; 
 But think thy love a pleasant dream, 
 That like the moonlight s silvery gleam, 
 
 "Was never made to last ; 
 As something vague and shadowy, 
 But lovely still. Remember me ! 
 
54 
 
 Tis eve how heavily the hours roll by ! 
 
 My weary spirit chides their tardy flight 
 The stars gleam faintly in the quiet sky 
 
 The shadowy twilight deepens into night. 
 
 When rosy morn smiled on the opening flowers 
 Her joyous welcome, kissing from each breast 
 
 The pearly tears left by eve s silent showers, 
 Ere they had closed their drooping leaves to rest, 
 
 I watched for thee ; and when the waning day 
 Lit with its parting beams the glowing west, 
 
 I sadly gazed upon each fading ray, 
 
 And gentle hope half withered in my breast. 
 
THE WATCHEK. 55 
 
 And I have held my breath to catch the sound 
 Of aught that seemed a footstep ; and my heart 
 
 Sprang lightly with a wild and joyous bound, 
 Then sank to hear the last faint step depart. 
 
 My hair is damp with the soft dews of eve, 
 That mingle with mine own their gentle tears ; 
 
 Even the low moaning night-breeze seems to 
 
 grieve 
 With me, so sad its dirge-like wail appears. 
 
 I have leaned so long and wearily 
 
 Upon the casement stone, my eyes are wet 
 
 And dim with the sad watch I ve kept for thee ; 
 Though light and hope have fled, I linger yet. 
 
 Night closes round me with her dusky brow, 
 Enwreathed with pearly stars ; but their soft 
 light 
 
 Falls not upon my heart ; a shadow now 
 Is resting on it, darker than the night. 
 
56 
 
 Deai). 
 
 THINE is no fair and verdant grave, 
 Old Ocean has thee in his keeping ; 
 
 Beneath the clear and placid wave, 
 Mid groves of coral thou art sleeping. 
 
 The sea-weed s clustering leaves entwine 
 Among thy locks all darkly flowing, 
 
 And snowy shells profusely shine 
 
 Around a brow that mocks their glowing. 
 
 The sea-bird screams thy funeral dirge, 
 Responsive to the foaming billow ; 
 
 And, save the sad and moaning surge, 
 No sigh is wafted o er thy pillow. 
 
THE OCEAN DEAD. 57 
 
 There is no gentle eye to weep 
 
 Above the spot where thou art sleeping, 
 
 But o er the blue and heaving deep, 
 
 The stars their silent watch are keeping. 
 
 They ll guard thy calm, undreaming rest, 
 "Whose icy chain shall ne er be riven, 
 
 Till Ocean from his heaving breast, 
 Resigns thee to thy native heaven. 
 
58 
 
 Inam. 
 
 DREAM on, for glorious visions gather o er thee, 
 Dazzling thee with the light of fame ; 
 
 Unveiled the brilliant future comes before thee, 
 Wreathing fresh laurels round thy name. 
 
 Dreamer, thou rt happy now ; a bright smile lingers 
 Upon thy brow too soon it will depart 
 
 A smile impressed by fond Hope s rosy fingers, 
 And all that waking thou wouldst be thou art. 
 
 There are soft eyes that to thine own are bending 
 Their soul-lit glances, full of purest light ; 
 
 They are thy mind s creation, and ascending, 
 Hover around thee, beings wildly bright. 
 
THE POET S DKEAM. 59 
 
 Thou hast a fair and limitless dominion, 
 Fancy has given her mystic realm to thee, 
 
 When thy freed spirit spreads its wandering pinion, 
 Joying in its untrammeled liberty. 
 
 Oh ! tis a glorious world in thy bright vision, 
 Making thy heart for a brief moment glad ; 
 
 But when recalled from those bright dreams Ely- 
 
 sian, 
 Poet ! ah, thy awaking will be sad ! 
 
 As the caged eagle dreams he soars unfearing, 
 Toward the blue heaven with tireless wing again, 
 
 So thou wilt wake to find that thou art wearing 
 Wearily life s cold and heavy chain. 
 
60 
 
 Dtjitig Sfitiitotifcrij. 
 
 No mother lingers near, 
 Nor sister to uphold thy dying head ; 
 
 Severed from all on earth we hold most dear, 
 Strangers alone are gathered round thy bed ; 
 And yet those dusky forms above thee bending, 
 With tearful eyes their gentle aid are lending. 
 
 Soon will thy heaving breast 
 Cease its wild throbbing, and each pulse be stayed, 
 
 And thou wilt close thy weary eyes to rest, 
 As a child sleepeth calm and undismayed, 
 Trusting to wake to a more glorious morrow, 
 Free from thine earthly heritage of sorrow. 
 
THE DYING MISSIONARY. 61 
 
 In India s sunny clime, 
 Thy faithful followers will lay thy head 
 
 Where the acacia and the fragrant lime 
 Shower their blossoms o er thy lowly bed, 
 And where the graceful palm will gently wave 
 Its broad green leaves above thy verdant grave. 
 
 Thy noble task is done ; 
 Rest thee, young martyr, for thy toil is o er ; 
 
 A glorious heritage thy deeds have won, 
 A home where grief will wring thy breast no 
 
 more : 
 
 There was too little stain of earthly clay 
 On thy soul s pinions, to prolong its stay. 
 
 And thou hast won a name 
 Not with the vain ones of our fleeting earth ; 
 
 But an enduring and immortal fame 
 Enwreaths thee with a crown of richer worth ; 
 Each rescued soul will be to thee a gem 
 
 O 
 
 Glowing upon thy heavenly diadem. 
 6 
 
62 
 
 AY ! Love s frail shrine is broken, and the vail 
 Of his bright temple hath been rent at last ; 
 
 And naught but memory, shadowy and pale, 
 Is left to mourn above the ruined past. 
 
 The flowers you gave have withered ; I have seen 
 Their leaves fall slowly one by one away ; 
 
 And their frail buds, like our young hopes, have been 
 Destined alike to premature decay. 
 
 I look upon the page thou lovest, and dream 
 Thine eyes are bent upon me, and I raise 
 
 Mine own to meet their fond, approving beam, 
 And find tis but on vacancy I gaze. 
 
TO -. 63 
 
 And in the breeze thy voice is ever near, 
 
 With the lost melody of other days, 
 When its soft notes were music to my ear, 
 
 And fancy s power their loss but ill repays. 
 
 And though thy hand the magic chain hath broken, 
 That bound my willing spirit unto thee, 
 
 I love each gentle thought, each word and token 
 Of what we were, and what we ne er shall be. 
 
64 
 
 SB raaq not 
 
 Slgiuti! 
 
 I PRAY we may not meet again ! 
 
 The cold, false world has thrown 
 Around thy heart its glittering chain, 
 
 And made thee all its own ; 
 And though thy smile be still as bright, 
 
 Its soft and ceaseless play 
 Reflects no more the heart s warm light 
 
 That beam hath passed away. 
 
 Thy voice s flute-like notes may fall 
 In music on my ear, 
 
I PRAY WE MAY NOT MEET AGAIN. 65 
 
 They want the earnest truthfulness 
 
 That made them once so dear ; 
 And though thy words be whispered low, 
 
 In the soft tones of yore, 
 I could not list their measured flow 
 
 Their charm for me is o er. 
 
 I pray we may not meet again ! 
 
 Within my heart s deep cell, 
 Let thy loved image still remain, 
 
 Nor break fond memory s spell; 
 I would not meet thee, since a change 
 
 Hath swept o er brow and heart 
 I d rather dream thee what thou wert, 
 
 Than know thee what thou art. 
 
66 
 
 Bonn. 
 
 THOUGH perfumed breezes softly sweep 
 
 Through Persia s vales o er fadeless roses, 
 Where buds in richest perfume steep 
 
 Their silken leaves, and earth discloses 
 Her choicest treasures ; on the air, 
 
 The simoom s fatal breath will come 
 Give me the breeze that bends the trees, 
 
 Whose branches shield my forest home. 
 
 They tell me of the mighty Rhine, 
 Of vine-clad hills whose feet it laves, 
 
 With many a castle on its shores, 
 
 That frowns within its tranquil waves ; 
 
MYFOKESTHOME. 67 
 
 Though wild romance its spell may twine, 
 Round those old towers I would not roam, 
 
 A stream far brighter than the Rhine 
 Rushes apast my woodland home. 
 
 Italia s skies are deeply blue, 
 
 But bend above a land of slaves ; 
 Ours, boasting not so rich a hue, 
 
 Smile gently o er the honoured graves 
 Of those who marked the earth they trod, 
 
 With the red seal of liberty, 
 Not lavished at a tyrant s nod, 
 
 But shed by hearts that would be free. 
 
 Are India s tropic flowers more fair 
 
 Than the wild blossoms at my feet, 
 That give their perfume to the air, 
 
 Half hidden in their deep retreat ? 
 And though unmarked by careless eyes, 
 
 They humbly bud and bloom and die, 
 Too much their modest worth I prize, 
 
 To pass their beauty idly by. 
 
68 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 Yes, nature s hand, with matchless power, 
 
 Has left its glorious impress here, 
 On hill and dale, on tree and flower, 
 
 And her sweet music greets my ear, 
 In one wild gush of melody : 
 
 There is no spot neath heaven s blue dome, 
 Has half so many charms as thee, 
 
 My loved and lovely forest home. 
 
69 
 
 forgotten. 
 
 HAVE you forgotten the sunny glade, 
 
 Down by the little spring, 
 And the spreading oak tree s leafy shade, 
 
 Where first the wild birds sing ; 
 And the hill where the purple violets blow, 
 
 With the wood-lily s snowy bell, 
 And where the mint and rushes grow 
 
 In the green and mossy dell ? 
 
 Do you remember the swing we made, 
 
 Of the wild and bending vine, 
 Where I sat and sang neath its leafy shade? 
 
 For a merry heart was mine ! 
 
70 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 And the bench on which you carved my name, 
 
 Beneath the walnut tree ? 
 Far dearer was that rustic seat 
 
 Than a regal throne could be ! 
 
 There s a purer joy within the breast, 
 
 In childhood s happy days, 
 When all the holier feelings rest 
 
 Unharmed by blame or praise ; 
 When tears are only April showers, 
 
 And followed by a smile, 
 And we only see life s sunny hours, 
 
 Without its pain and guile. 
 
 The flowers still bloom as sweet and fair, 
 
 The wild birds sing as sweet, 
 And the brook rolls on its silvery waves, 
 
 O er the pebbles at my feet ; 
 But I ve sat upon its banks and tried 
 
 To be as gay in vain, 
 For those days of innocence and glee, 
 
 Ne er come to us again. 
 
71 
 
 t inbtntra lament. 
 
 I MUST leave the forest green where oft I chased 
 
 the flying deer, 
 The river where my swift canoe has cleft the waters 
 
 clear, 
 The hills o er which with footsteps light in youth 
 
 I ve bounded free, 
 The plain on which our warriors sat beneath the 
 
 council tree. 
 
 And never will one shrill war-whoop awaken vale 
 
 or hill ; 
 That sound was once familiar, but tis now for ever 
 
 still; 
 
72 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 And useless is my tomahawk, unbended is my 
 
 bow 
 All, all are worthless, we are weak, and mighty is 
 
 our foe. 
 
 Like the snow upon the mountains we are wearing 
 
 fast away, 
 And the white man in his avarice will joy in our 
 
 decay ; 
 He bids us leave the cherished homes where first we 
 
 drew our breath; 
 He forces us to stranger lands and leaves us naught 
 
 but death. 
 
 I wept not when I laid my aged father down to 
 
 rest, 
 Nor when I heaped the grassy mound above his 
 
 valiant breast ; 
 For little thought the mighty chief of our once 
 
 powerful race, 
 The white man s plough would e er be driven above 
 
 his resting-place. 
 
THE INDIAN S LAMENT. 73 
 
 The mounds that we have raised will soon be levelled 
 with the plain ; 
 
 Upon the graves that we have loved we ne er may 
 look again ; 
 
 The white man s careless foot will o er the moul 
 dering ashes tread 
 
 Tis bitter from our homes to part, but more to leave 
 our dead. 
 
74 
 
 a /mnb at parting. 
 
 A SMILE and a sigh to the past ere we part, 
 A smile for its brightness, a sigh for its flight ; 
 
 The wishes that rise from the depths of my heart 
 Are full of warm feeling Adieu and good night ! 
 
 Too fleetly those hours have passed they flew by, 
 And left but their mem ry to hallow their 
 
 fading ; 
 
 As the bright summer roses, that wither and die, 
 Yet fall with sweet perfume their scattered leaves 
 lading. 
 
 Adieu ! I have looked in your heart, and I know 
 You will not forget me I too will remember ; 
 
TO A FRIEND AT PARTING. 75 
 
 Though love in your bosom has long ceased to glow, 
 Let the pure light of friendship replace the lost 
 ember. 
 
 And should you live on when this heart has grown 
 
 cold 
 
 And still, and my kindred earth has me in keep 
 ing? 
 
 Perchance you will drop a warm tear on the mould 
 That wraps the chill form that so calmly is sleep- 
 
 Then a smile and a sigh to the past ere we part, 
 A smile for its brightness, a sigh for its flight ; 
 
 And the wishes that rise from the depths of my 
 
 heart 
 Are full of warm feeling Adieu and good night ! 
 
76 
 
 Visitant. 
 
 The same mysterious murmur he had wondered at when lying on his 
 couch on the beach, he thought he still heard wandering through his 
 sister s song. 
 
 "Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face. But tell them that 
 the print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The light about 
 the head is shining on me as I go." 
 
 The golden ripple on the wall came back, and nothing else stirred in the 
 room. 
 
 DOMBET AND SON. 
 
 WAS it a voice from a far-off land, 
 
 In the moan of the fitful sea, 
 As its waves broke on the shelly strand, 
 
 With a strange, wild melody ? 
 It floated upon the balmy air, 
 
 It came in the wind s loud play, 
 As it swept o er thy brow so pale and fair, 
 
 And whispered, "Come, come away!" 
 
THE HEAVENLY VISITANT. 77 
 
 Oh ! a mother s love is strong and deep ! 
 
 Did she soar from her home of light, 
 And fold her wings to watch thy sleep, 
 
 And make thy visions bright ? 
 When thy young heart beat when thou wert alone, 
 
 And shook neath a mystic sway, 
 Did she hover around thee with soft, low tone, 
 
 And bid thee to come away ? 
 
 Didst thou see her form in the pale moonlight 
 
 As it gleamed on the placid sea, 
 When thy cheek grew warm and thine eye grew 
 bright, 
 
 And thy breast heaved tremblingly ? 
 For a voice came out on the summer air, 
 
 In that lovely, cloudless night, 
 Pale boy, was thy mother s spirit there, 
 
 To hasten thy young soul s flight ? 
 
 In the golden light of the setting sun, 
 Did she bend o er thy couch of pain ? 
 
 7* 
 
78 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 Ere thy earthly pilgrimage was done, 
 Did she visit her child again ? 
 
 And when all earthly ties were riven, 
 And thy guileless heart at rest, 
 
 Did she soar again to her native heaven, 
 With her treasure on her breast ? 
 
79 
 
 BEND down thy head beneath the wave, pale flower; 
 
 Seek thou a shelter for thy fragile form ; 
 The tempest-breathing clouds, with sullen lower, 
 
 Frown fierce and dark canst thou abide the 
 storm ? 
 
 The winds moan fitfully list thou the warning ! 
 
 Fold thy leaves closely o er thy spotless breast ; 
 Bend thy fair head, or thou wilt rue thy scorning; 
 
 The waves will rend thee in their wild unrest. 
 
 The storm hath passed, but hath not left a token 
 Of the pale flower that dared its wrath to brave, 
 
80 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 Save a few scattered leaves, torn, crushed and 
 
 broken, 
 Floating upon the dark, remorseless wave. 
 
 And many a heart, like thee fair bud, in rending 
 The leaves from off its shrine, hath met thy lot, 
 
 Unveiling its rich depths, and vainly sending 
 Its perfume to the waves that heed it not. 
 
 Better to fold within its deepest cell 
 
 Its treasures, than to cast them to the ocean ; 
 
 Better content in solitude to dwell, 
 
 With leaves unsullied from the world s commo 
 tion. 
 
81 
 
 THE dust is on thy pallid brow, 
 
 The marble on thy breast, 
 And yet thou art beside me now, 
 
 A strange and fearful guest ; 
 I see thee in thy snowy shroud, 
 
 All passionless and cold, 
 And a manly form whose head is bowed 
 
 In sorrow on thy mould. 
 
 Thou art sleeping in a distant land, 
 
 Calmly and peacefully ; 
 And I have won the heart and hand 
 
 That once were pledged to thee ; 
 
82 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 His breath is warm upon my cheek, 
 His heart beats close to mine ; 
 
 And yet the words his fond lips speak, 
 Were once all breathed to thine. 
 
 His eyes look on me tenderly, 
 
 His vows are true, and yet 
 I feel that he still thinks of thee 
 
 With passionate regret. 
 My heart chills at each mystic sound, 
 
 And sinks with sudden dread 
 Of thy pale shade oh ! I have found 
 
 A rival in the dead ! 
 
 Thine eye and cheek have lost their light 
 
 Within the narrow tomb ; 
 But I know he dreams of thee by night 
 
 In thy loveliness and bloom ; 
 And like a distant, pearly star, 
 
 Though gleaming faint and dim, 
 Thy memory is dearer far 
 
 Than my living love to him. 
 
83 
 
 on milt Urnumhn JEU. 
 
 THOU wilt remember me, though we have parted 
 
 As friends should never part estranged and 
 
 cold ; 
 And both will wander, sad and weary-hearted, 
 
 With all our anguish and regret untold. 
 We parted with a smile upon each cheek, 
 
 That mocked the heart by late repentance riven ; 
 Yv r e forced our trembling lips calm words to speak, 
 
 That pride forbade to pray to be forgiven. 
 
 Thou wilt remember me when Summer s breath, 
 Fanning thy brow, brings visions of past hours, 
 
 As lovely as the rosy clouds that wreath 
 
 Her morn alas ! they perished like her flowers. 
 
84 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 When some familiar strain floats on thy ear, 
 
 When soothing words by gentle lips are spoken, 
 
 Then thought will fold her weary pinions here, 
 To mourn the ties that our own hands have 
 broken. 
 
 And when thou wanderest forth at eventide, 
 
 When retrospection s potent chain hath bound 
 
 thee, 
 Or sitting by the lonely fireside, 
 
 How sad remembrances will gather round thee 
 Ah ! memory will be, to thee and me 
 
 No spell to chase the weary hours, nor lighten 
 Life s cares. Alas ! that we should only be 
 
 A shadow on the path w r e fain would brighten. 
 
 When o er some favourite book thine eyes shall 
 
 linger, 
 
 With the world s busy cares shut out from thee, 
 Some page that I have marked with careful 
 
 finger, 
 May meet thy gaze and fill thy thoughts with me ; 
 
THOU WILT REMEMBER ME. 85 
 
 Then fancy will recall the past ; till, deeming 
 That I am bending o er the page with thee, 
 
 Thou lt wake, to find that thou wert only dreaming 
 Of what hath been, and what can never be. 
 
 Thou wilt remember me when withered flowers 
 
 And darkened skies proclaim that Summer s 
 
 bloom 
 Is over : then those sad and heavy hours 
 
 Will fall upon thy heart with deeper gloom ; 
 Thou lt sigh perchance, to see the Autumn wind 
 
 Whirling the yellow leaves, once fair and green ; 
 Those phantoms of the past will bring to mind 
 
 How like those leaves our bright day-dreams 
 have been. 
 
 When years have rolled away, perhaps thou lt 
 
 meet me 
 
 With the same placid brow and careless smile ; 
 And I with measured tone may proudly greet thee, 
 And gentle thoughts within our hearts the while ! 
 8 
 
FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 I breathe no words to fan pale memory s ember, 
 Nor fill thy heart with sorrow and regret ; 
 
 And yet I feel that I must still remember, 
 And thou I know thou never wilt forget. 
 
8T 
 
 How like our childhood s tears and smiles, 
 
 Its rainbow hopes, its April showers, 
 Are life s sad cares, its pleasant wiles, 
 
 Its bitter griefs, its sunny hours ! 
 A child in sorrow bent her head, 
 
 A cloud of grief her young brow shaded- 
 " Ah, see ! my pretty flower is dead, 
 
 The stem is broke, the leaves are faded. : 
 
 She wept ; but while the rising sigh 
 Was trembling in her gentle bosom, 
 
 She spied a painted butterfly, 
 
 And soon forgot the withered blossom : 
 
88 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 And thus, within the web of life, 
 Many a golden thread is gleaming ; 
 
 Peace smooths the gloomy brow of strife ; 
 
 Through sorrow s night hope s star is beaming. 
 
dDIb f Ira. 
 
 I VISIT thee again, old tree, 
 
 I rest beneath thy shade, 
 And think a change hath swept o er me, 
 
 Since last my footsteps strayed 
 A truant from the rustic school, 
 
 To pluck the violets blue, 
 The foxglove and the feathery fern, 
 
 That round thy gnarled root grew. 
 
 Five springs have robed thy boughs with green, 
 
 Five autumns o er them past, 
 And whirled their dark and withered leaves 
 
 Upon the chilling blast, 
 8* 
 
90 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 And left no mark, on trunk or bough, 
 
 To tell how time hath flown; 
 But a thoughtful shade is o er my brow, 
 
 Mj heart less trustful grown. 
 
 Of care or change I had no fear, 
 
 While resting mid the flowers ; 
 I never thought of tempest near, 
 
 In those bright summer hours, 
 When the sun s warm rays, through the parted leaves, 
 
 Came down and kissed my brow ; 
 But I dread the storm when the sky is clear, 
 
 Tis not all sunshine now. 
 
 I used to watch the fleecy clouds 
 
 Float slowly through the air, 
 And thought they might be angel forms, 
 
 They looked so pure and fair ; 
 Like many another childish dream, 
 
 It lost its rosy hue ; 
 
 But I ve trusted winning smiles and words, 
 And found them vapour too. 
 
THE OLD ELM. 91 
 
 And when the balmy summer breeze 
 
 Waved the leaves to and fro, 
 I thought that spirit voices there 
 
 Were whispering soft and low, 
 And with a sense of awe that hushed 
 
 The beating of my heart, 
 I listened, half afraid to stay, 
 
 And yet could not depart. 
 
 And many a wild, sweet melody, 
 
 Up from my light heart sprung, 
 While seated neath thy shade, old tree, 
 
 When hope and I were young ; 
 But my muse hath changed her brilliant robe 
 
 For the sober garb of truth ; 
 For a world of cold realities, 
 
 The fairy -land of youth. 
 
 I ve torn a twig from thee, old tree, 
 With young leaves fresh and green ; 
 
 Twill be a talisman to me, 
 Through every varying scene ; 
 
92 FOBEST FLOWER, S. 
 
 Twill bear my thoughts back to the hours, 
 
 The golden hours, of youth, 
 And teach my heart to keep undimmed 
 
 Its innocence and truth. 
 
93 
 
 Dnminu. 
 
 But the sight of that schoolhouse brings back the days of " lang syne." 
 Well do I remember the old parish school, where I received my preparation 
 for college, under the free and easy but most efficient administration of 
 Dominie Menrose. Dear old man! he has long ago " gone to the yird," but 
 his memory is as green as the grass that waves upon his grave. 
 
 TURNBULL S GENIUS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 THE sight of that old school has brought 
 
 My boyhood back to me, 
 Its transient grief, o er toilsome tasks, 
 
 Its thoughtlessness and glee : 
 I see a venerable face, 
 
 Mid the familiar throng, 
 And through the open casement, hear 
 
 The thrush s matin song. 
 
 I see the yellow, waving broom, 
 The fragrant, heathery lea, 
 
94 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 Where oft I ve conned my task apart, 
 Beneath some spreading tree ; 
 
 Or watched the sun the hill-tops gild, 
 With his departing rays, 
 
 And heard from many a lowly cot, 
 The voice of heartfelt praise. 
 
 The hawthorn with its blossoms white, 
 
 That grew within the dell, 
 Where daisies dotted the long grass, 
 
 And many a heather bell ; 
 The little stream that murmured near, 
 
 With rushes on its brink, 
 Where oft I ve bathed my heated brow, 
 
 Or bent my head to drink. 
 
 When in the pleasant summer-time, 
 I used to haste each morn 
 
 To play before the school began, 
 Upon the dewy lawn ; 
 
 The lark sprang from its grassy couch, 
 Its thrilling notes to pour 
 
THE DOMINIE. 95 
 
 I ve never heard it sing so sweet 
 As in the days of yore. 
 
 Again I see the kind old man, 
 
 Whose mild and pleasant look, 
 More than reproof, would make me fix 
 
 My eyes upon my book, 
 When to the open window pane 
 
 I ve turned my head, to view 
 The humming-birds, that came to sip 
 
 The woodbine waving through. 
 
 The place is strangely altered now, 
 
 The kind old man is gone, 
 And in the little churchyard near, 
 
 A gray and mossy stone 
 Marks where he sleeps ; his soul has found 
 
 Eternal rest above ; 
 But living hearts will keep in mind, 
 
 His gentleness and love. 
 
96 
 
 Cmn0 
 
 IT was a strange and lovely flower 
 I marvelled that so rude a stem 
 
 Could e er be gifted with the power 
 To bear so beautiful a gem. 
 
 No graceful branch above it spread, 
 Nor verdant leaf by zephyrs fanned ; 
 
 But from a dark and thorny bed, 
 I watched the rugged bud expand. 
 
 In vain my humbler flowers exhaled 
 Their perfume on the morning air ; 
 
 Their odour fled, their beauty paled, 
 But won from me no gentle care. 
 
THE NIGHT-BLOOMING CEREUS. 97 
 
 But day by day, and hour by hour, 
 I sought my favourite s green retreat; 
 
 My hand supplied the cooling shower, 
 And screened it from the noontide heat. 
 
 It opened when the waning day 
 
 Shed o er the earth its soft, gray light ; 
 
 And gleaming in the moon s pale ray, 
 It spread its fragrant petals white. 
 
 Its perfume made the slumbering air 
 Heavy with its rich breath, that rose 
 
 Up from a vase as pure and fair, 
 As moonlight upon Alpine snows. 
 
 I left it beautiful and fair, 
 
 I sought it with the morning light, 
 
 Nor bloom nor loveliness was there, 
 A darkened ruin met my sight. 
 
 Thus some fond hope, to which we give 
 
 The mind s rich depths, the soul s full power, 
 
 In one brief night may cease to live, 
 Like this bright, perishable flower. 
 
98 
 
 portraits. 
 
 EDITH. 
 
 THE diamond lights up her midnight hair, 
 
 The soft pearl gleams on her snowy breast ; 
 But the gem illumes not her soul s despair, 
 
 And the pure pearl lies on a heart unblessed. 
 There is no soft light in her glorious eyes, 
 
 By hope, or by gentle feelings, wrought ; 
 And the brow, on the small, white palm that lies, 
 
 Is marked by bitter, and proud, dark thought. 
 
 Memory has no power to bless, 
 
 With some bright hope, nursed in youth s joyous 
 beam, 
 
TWO PORTRAITS. 99 
 
 Or win from its utter wretchedness 
 
 Her heart, with a glimpse of some vanished 
 
 dream. 
 Priestess and victim, her hand has laid 
 
 Her soul s best gifts upon Mammon s shrine ; 
 And now, mid the wreck which her own act made, 
 
 In her stately home, does her spirit pine. 
 
 She is musing alone, with her form of grace 
 
 Scarce seen by the lamp s expiring glare; 
 With her proud neck arched, and her haughty face, 
 
 In its fearful beauty, frowning there. 
 On her queenly lip, and her marble brow, 
 
 As she darkly broods, through the night s still 
 
 gloom, 
 Are evil feelings gathering now, 
 
 And bitter revenge in her heart finds room. 
 
 Revenge for the first warm feeling crushed, 
 That ever sprang in her lonely breast ; 
 
 And the stormy heart, for a moment hushed, 
 Wakens again to its wild unrest. 
 
100 FOKEST FLOWERS. 
 
 No roses spring in her path through life, 
 
 No sweet, pure fount that her lip may taste; 
 
 The past is a ruin the present, a strife 
 And the future, a dark and an arid waste. 
 
 FLORENCE. 
 
 The soft curls lie on her forehead fair, 
 
 With its pearly curve so calm and meek, 
 That sorrow grows gentler while resting there, 
 
 And lightly touches her brow and cheek. 
 There are large, bright tears in her dove-like eyes, 
 
 Such tears as the young and the pure can shed, 
 When some fond hope the heart cherished, flies 
 
 For some harsh word spoken some loved one 
 fled. 
 
 She mourns for the dead ; and sadder far 
 For the living, who have no love to give ; 
 
 But never to her grows dim hope s star, 
 
 And her heart finds strength in its trust to live. 
 
TWO PORTRAITS. 101 
 
 Her rose-lips move, in her earnest prayer 
 For a father s love, a father s kiss 
 
 Strange, that a being so pure and fail- 
 Should be unloved in a world like this ! 
 
 She is kneeling in the silent room, 
 
 By the vacant chair, and the lonely bed ; 
 And the setting sun, with its golden bloom, 
 
 Falls on her fair and bended head ; 
 And in its light does a vision steal, 
 
 Of an angel form and an angel face, 
 Till her heaving bosom seems to feel 
 
 The pressure of that last, dear embrace. 
 
 She feels the kiss, still fresh and warm, 
 
 From lips that are cold neath the churchyard 
 
 stone ; 
 She is folded again by the loving arm 
 
 Whose parting clasp was for her alone ; 
 And her spirit owns their gentle sway, 
 
 Those memories of the loved and dead, 
 And meekly she strives to win her way, 
 
 Through the thorns upon her pathway spread. 
 
102 
 
 tntno. 
 
 WELCOME, sweet summer breeze ! 
 With my loose tresses ye are lightly playing, 
 O er my pale brow I feel your soft breath straying, 
 
 Murmuring low cadences. 
 
 Your gentle soothing brings 
 Sweet pensive recollections, my heart flooding, 
 Where memory, like a plaintive dove, sits brooding 
 
 Ever with folded wings. 
 
 Long years ago, 
 
 Through the dim forest aisles, I ve heard ye sigh 
 ing* 
 While the young rustling leaves did seem replying, 
 
 In whispers soft and low. 
 
STANZAS. 103 
 
 There many a summer day, 
 When the bright sun through the thick branches 
 
 gleaming, 
 Threw his long, golden shafts, I ve whiled in 
 
 dreaming 
 The light-winged hours away. 
 
 It was a happy dream ; 
 
 For youth and hope and joy, the future weaving, 
 Dyed it with their own hues ; and I, believing, 
 
 Crossed childhood s narrow stream. 
 
 And yet, had I 
 
 Been less a dreamer, life had been less weary ; 
 And much that now looks gloomy, wild, and eerie, 
 
 Had worn a brighter dye. 
 
 But not for naught 
 
 Was aught created in God s vast dominions, 
 From Heaven s bright, starry hosts, to thy soft 
 pinions, 
 
 With balmy coolness fraught. 
 
104 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 Then must this heart, 
 
 With lofty thoughts and aspirations teeming, 
 Have some far higher mission than day-dreaming, 
 
 In life some nobler part. 
 
 Then let it be like thine, 
 A gentle one : to soothe the weary hearted, 
 To dry the eye from whence grief s tear has started; 
 
 Let such a task be mine. 
 
 And when mine eyes grow dim, 
 And my breath fails, come thou where I am lying, 
 Death s seal upon my brow, and gently sighing, 
 
 Breathe thou my requiem. 
 
105 
 
 nnmer. 
 
 TwAS a morn in summer, a glorious morn, 
 
 Like a smile from heaven to our sad earth borne ; 
 
 A morn when the spirit exultant springs, 
 
 Full of hope s sweet imaginings : 
 
 The breath of flowers through the casement strayed, 
 
 The breeze with the rustling curtain played ; 
 
 And the twining rose flung in the room 
 
 Bright crimson leaves from its wealth of bloom ; 
 
 The waving boughs of the old oak tree 
 
 Were making a sweet, faint melody, 
 
 As the young leaves rustled to and fro, 
 
 Now with a murmur soft and low, 
 
 Now with a deep and plaintive swell, 
 
 Like the sound enclosed in an ocean shell ; 
 
106 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 And far away, in the clear blue air, 
 Two white clouds spread their pinions fair, 
 Like guardian spirits watching there ; 
 And a halo of beauty spread over all, 
 As if earth were holding a festival. 
 
 A mother her gentle watch was keeping 
 Above the couch where her babe was sleeping : 
 He had folded his dimpled hands to rest, 
 Over his pure, untroubled breast ; 
 The breeze that played round his cradled head, 
 On his pearly forehead a soft glow shed ; 
 And a rosy flush on his cheek so fair ; 
 
 A sunbeam nestled amid his hair, 
 
 As it were charmed with its resting-place, 
 
 So near that lovely and guileless face ; 
 
 And he seemed as bright, as frail a thing, 
 
 As the flowers around him withering. 
 
 A smile on the face of the sleeper woke, 
 And a murmur over his rose-lips broke, 
 And his brow had a look of heavenly bliss 
 But rarely seen in a world like this ; 
 
THE DREAMER. 107 
 
 But a shadow came o er the sleeper s dream, 
 
 Like a shade creeping over a sunny stream ; 
 
 And his brow wore the impress of sad, deep thought ; 
 
 I gazed on the change in a moment wrought. 
 
 Then pressed my lips to his forehead fair, 
 
 And breathed o er the dreamer an earnest prayer. 
 
 The mother looked in my face and smiled, 
 "What were you whispering to the child?" 
 "I was breathing a wish for your gentle boy." 
 "Was it honour, long life, wealth, fame, and joy ?" 
 " I prayed that he might never know 
 Joy s bitter dregs, Fame s dower of woe ; 
 That bright and fleeting might be his stay, 
 As the breath and bloom of a summer day, 
 And that his young spirit might soon take wing, 
 Knowing naught of life but its happy spring." 
 
108 
 
 /anntnin. 
 
 IN a calm and peaceful valley, from the rude world 
 
 far away, 
 Sprang a little fount whose wavelets shunned the 
 
 bright sun s burning ray ; 
 Sheltered by the trees that over it their leafy 
 
 branches spread, 
 And the flowers that on its emerald banks their 
 
 richest odours shed. 
 
 And the murmur of its waters was seldom ever 
 heard, 
 
 For the winged insects joyous hum and the song of 
 summer bird ; 
 
 And wanderers from the busy world but rarely en 
 tered there, 
 
 And the fountain held its gentle course unruffled, 
 pure, and fair. 
 
THE UNSEALED FOUNTAIN. 109 
 
 To that calm, secluded valley an enchanter came 
 
 one day, 
 And he saw the little streamlet winding on its quiet 
 
 way, 
 And he loved it for its hidden charms ; and bending 
 
 o er the stream, 
 He loosed the waves and gave them sparkling to 
 
 the sun s bright beam. 
 
 And at his touch awakened the sweet melody that 
 slept, 
 
 A tide of song that in its depths unknown the foun 
 tain kept ; 
 
 And brighter, purer grew his form when mirrored 
 in the breast 
 
 Of that clear fount whose troubled waves no power 
 could lull to rest. 
 
 But the world had many charms for him, and it 
 
 lured him back again, 
 Ambition round his noble heart had forged its icy 
 
 chain ; 
 
 10 
 
110 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 And he left the fount, unheeding the sad change 
 
 his art had made, 
 Wandering through a rugged channel, far from 
 
 vale and woodland shade. 
 
 And darker grew the waters, though their music 
 
 did not fail, 
 But oftentimes it sounded like a wounded spirit s 
 
 wail ; 
 Its siren power enchained the soul with melody 
 
 divine, 
 And human hearts bowed down to it as to a veiled 
 
 shrine. 
 
 But praise and homage could not fill the fountain s 
 
 source again, 
 With the pure, unsullied waters, that were once 
 
 poured forth in vain ; 
 And sadder grew its melody, and fainter, day by 
 
 day, 
 Till the little fount, aweary, in the dark earth 
 
 passed away. 
 
Ill 
 
 Hums of 
 
 I COVET back the golden hours 
 
 Of youth, too quickly flown ! 
 The hopes, the thoughts, the wasted powers, 
 
 Upon their pathway strown ! 
 But they have passed : too bright to last ! 
 
 The fleetest in life s train ! 
 Like faded flowers, those vanished hours 
 
 Will never come again. 
 
 Oh for the tears, the warm and brief, 
 
 The gushing tears of old ! 
 Ah ! how unlike this wasting grief, 
 
 So heavy, dark, and cold ! 
 
112 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 The heart s quick swell, the drops that fell, 
 
 Its pure, unsullied rain 
 I d give Hope s wiles, Fame s sweetest smiles, 
 
 To shed them o er again. 
 
 Oh for the mirth that used to rise 
 
 Unbidden, pure, and wild ! 
 When coming to my joyous eyes, 
 
 My soul looked out and smiled ; 
 But now the light that sparkles bright, 
 
 In bitterness has birth, 
 The smile that flics to lips and eyes, 
 
 Is mockery, not mirth. 
 
 Oh for the visions that were cast, 
 
 Like sunshine, on life s stream ! 
 Would that my spirit could have passed 
 
 Away in some bright dream ! 
 Nor lived to know the soul s warm glow 
 
 May fade in life s first bloom ; 
 That ere its light is quenched in night, 
 
 The heart may be a tomb. 
 
113 
 
 As a smooth, quiet lake, whose crystal wave 
 
 Scarce ripples with the passing breeze, then lies 
 Mirroring the azure of the summer skies, 
 
 With bosom motionless and tranquil, save 
 
 The rippling murmur of each tiny wave 
 Breaking upon the shore ; the sand below, 
 
 Like liquid silver, in the sunlight gleams ; 
 
 And water-plants and pebbles, white as snow, 
 
 Glow with a brighter lustre in its beams : 
 
 They look so near the surface, you would think 
 To stretch an arm over the water s brink 
 
 That you might reach them ; but the lake is deep, 
 And the still wave, so motionless and clear, 
 10* 
 
114 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 Can rouse its curling billows from their sleep, 
 
 And dash in startled fury on the ear. 
 So many a mind, like that calm lake, may be 
 
 Deeper than the unpractised eye would deem, 
 Holding its treasures safe, while joyously 
 
 Its light waves dance beneath the sun s bright 
 
 gleam ; 
 But, when the darkened horizon foretells 
 
 The wildness of the coming tempest s strife, 
 Undauntedly the fearless bosom swells, 
 
 To battle with the adverse storms of life. 
 
115 
 
 /all of tfjt dbak. 
 
 IN the shadowy land of the past, are sleeping 
 
 Sunny hours, and hopes, and tears ; 
 Soft April showers that were not weeping ; 
 
 Sweet visions, that haunt not our riper years ; 
 Scenes that the heart, in its young life glowing, 
 
 Hallowed with beauty, its own sweet art, 
 On humble things a worth bestowing, 
 
 For an alchemist rare is a light young heart. 
 
 In a dim old wood, by my footsteps haunted, 
 A stately oak tree reared its head ; 
 
 Many a storm it had braved undaunted, 
 With its giant arms like banners spread : 
 
116 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 There is many a sweet remembrance clinging 
 To the days when I nestled at its foot ; 
 
 Sweet as the flowers each year saw springing 
 Mid the moss that grew at its tangled root. 
 
 There many an hour I ve whiled in dreaming 
 
 Dreams such as childhood only weaves, 
 Till the setting sun, through the tree-tops gleaming, 
 
 Flung its golden shafts through the parted leaves; 
 But far away, with a tireless pinion, 
 
 Through the realms of beauty, and hope, and light, 
 Imagination s fair dominion, 
 
 My spirit was winging its eager flight. 
 
 Years past : once more I was idly straying, 
 With an altered cheek and a spirit bowed, 
 Through the wood, whose boughs, in the chill breeze 
 
 swaying, 
 Flung their leaves at my feet, in a withered 
 
 crowd : 
 
 There was no sound of the wild bird singing 
 With the breath of summer the birds had flown ; 
 
THE FALL OF THE OAK. 117 
 
 But the woodman s axe, through the forest ringing, 
 Fell on my ear with its clear, sharp tone. 
 
 Neath the forester s arm was slowly falling 
 
 The oak, the friend of my brighter years, 
 And I gazed on it sadly, the past recalling, 
 
 When it bent o er my joys, and my hopes, and 
 
 fears ; 
 When its rustling leaves, in the light breeze playing, 
 
 Soothed my heart with their music when I wept, 
 Or screened my face, lest the sunbeams straying, 
 
 Should break my dreams as I calmly slept. 
 
 It quivered it bowed the trunk was riven 
 
 It slowly fell on the earth s dark breast: 
 I turned my tears had been freely given, 
 
 But the fount was frozen, each pulse at rest ; 
 For many a golden hope I cherished, 
 
 Fell, ere its stately head was bowed ; 
 Many a sweet, frail dream had perished, 
 
 For which its leaves were a fitting shroud. 
 
118 
 
 Imnbtuh 
 
 MAGIAN, at the golden gate 
 
 Of my heart, why dost thou wait ? 
 
 Why thy ceaseless vigils keep 
 Steeped in sleep s delicious balm, 
 Knowing only holiest calm ? 
 Wouldst thou mar its peace, and call 
 Restless strangers to the hall, 
 
 Where quiet reigns profound and deep ? 
 Ah ! thy trembling hand dost hold 
 A cup of rare and choicest mould, 
 Wrought by fairy hands divine, 
 Mantling with life s richest wine ; 
 But I know it will impart 
 A wild fever to my heart. 
 
THE AWAKENED HEART. 119 
 
 Thy rash hand, magician, stay ! 
 Take the tempting draught away 
 
 Let it sleep. 
 
 Sparkling to the goblet s brim, 
 Glowing, flowing o er the rim, 
 
 Golden drops of nectar weep ; 
 And as falls the rain divine, 
 On this slumbering heart of mine, 
 Trembling with a sudden thrill, 
 I may never, never still, 
 
 Wake its pulses strong and deep. 
 Summoned by thy mystic call, 
 Through the vacant, echoing hall, 
 Come a strange and varied throng, 
 Some with weeping, some with song ; 
 Passion, tenderness, and fear, 
 Hope, and doubt, find entrance here, 
 Crowded to its inmost core, 
 Wakened heart, ah ! never more 
 
 Will it sleep ! 
 
120 
 
 I PRAY thee, do not chide her tears 
 
 I smile to see her weeping ; 
 The youthful heart dissolves in rain, 
 
 The clouds around it sweeping, 
 I love to mark the fluttering sigh 
 
 That stirs within her bosom, 
 The tear that trembles on her cheek, 
 
 Like dew upon a blossom. 
 
 She yearns for kindly tones and words 
 To soothe its heavy aching ; 
 
 When the heart asks for sympathy, 
 Be sure it is not breaking. 
 
TEARS. 121 
 
 Then chide her not those trembling lips, 
 
 In later years, may borrow 
 False smiles and words of wildest mirth, 
 
 To veil a deeper sorrow. 
 
 We learn too soon to mock the woe 
 
 That will not brook revealing, 
 With phosphorescent brilliancy 
 
 The heart s decay concealing ; 
 We wish no eye to scan the tomb 
 
 Where our dead hopes are lying ; 
 Where friendships, pleasures, love and joy, 
 
 Lie faded, crushed, and dying. 
 
 We gaze in silence on the cup 
 
 Presented for our draining ; 
 The gall-drops bathe our shuddering lips 
 
 They utter no complaining ; 
 Yet when one drop of bitterness 
 
 Mingled our draught of gladness, 
 We shed warm tears within the bowl, 
 
 And turned away in sadness. 
 11 
 
122 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 Now is her young heart s April time, 
 
 Its sweetest flowers are springing ; 
 And in some fragrant, sheltered nook, 
 
 The bird of Hope is singing ; 
 Then let her weep, that on her path 
 
 Lies withered one frail flower ; 
 When blossoms, buds, and leaves have died, 
 
 She will not have the power. 
 
123 
 
 THY rock still frowns above the wave 
 
 That sleeps on the breast of the clear, blue Rhine, 
 Whose every bank, and crag, and cave, 
 
 Hath its legend but none so wild as thine. 
 The fisherman paused to list thy song, 
 
 As it floated upon the evening air, 
 But vainly he sought the rocks among, 
 
 For the lovely spirit lurking there, 
 
 Bright Lorely ! 
 
 Thy ethereal nature could it not 
 
 Have shielded thy soft and gentle heart 
 
 From an earthly love and a mortal lot, 
 Ere these wild rocks lost thy tuneful art ? 
 
124 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 When thy snowy fingers led the way, 
 For a human love, to thy rocky bower, 
 
 Where mortal foot might never stray, 
 Thy witching strain lost its siren power, 
 * Sweet Lorely ! 
 
 And prisoned in the azure wave, 
 
 Within whose rapid, foaming tide, 
 Thy maddened lover found a grave, 
 
 But ne er regained his spirit bride, 
 Thy strange, wild beauty never will 
 
 Be seen upon thy rock again ; 
 But when the waves are hushed- and still, 
 
 Is sometimes heard thy mournful strain, 
 Lost Lorely ! 
 
125 
 
 I 
 
 WHEN the cooling breeze of even waved the 
 branches to and fro, 
 
 And the stars, like guardian angels, watched the 
 sleeping world below, 
 
 I leaned upon the casement, with my head upon my 
 hand, 
 
 And sent my restless spirit to the realms of Fancy- 
 land. 
 
 There it wandered through long vistas, full of light, 
 and song, and bloom, 
 
 Where no fading flowers reminded kindred blos 
 soms of their doom ; 
 
126 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 Through fair groves, where golden sunshine con 
 tended with the shade, 
 
 By the interlacing branches and the vines that 
 bound them made. 
 
 And music, like soft incense, floated, rose, and 
 
 swelled around, 
 Till the fragrant air was tremulous with its burthen 
 
 of sweet sound ; 
 And Love was there with folded wings, no blind and 
 
 wayward boy, 
 But an angel, neath whose dreamy lids dwelt pure 
 
 and holy joy. 
 
 In this charmed land of beauty, that wooed its 
 
 longer stay, 
 My soul basked in the loveliness it might not bear 
 
 away; 
 Till, on the crystal bosom of one of its bright 
 
 streams, 
 It floated softly, silently, to the misty realm of 
 
 dreams. 
 
A VISION. 127 
 
 But the placid waves grew troubled as they neared 
 
 the hazy strand, 
 And looming through the mist appeared a wild and 
 
 desert land ; 
 Dark rocks frowned on the sullen sea that beat the 
 
 sullen shore, 
 Till the earth re-echoed back each stroke, in a dull, 
 
 continuous roar. 
 
 No light breeze curled the billows, no breath came 
 
 from the land, 
 Where no wildbird sang, no flower grew, amid its 
 
 waste of sand ; 
 The sullen air seemed palpable, and a heavy rack 
 
 of clouds 
 Was gathered, black and ominous, in dull and 
 
 stagnant crowds. 
 
 And my spirit, sad and fearful, struggled up the 
 
 rocky shore, 
 For its wings were soiled and heavy, and its weary 
 
 feet were sore ; 
 
128 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 And a sense of awe pervaded it, a strange, mys 
 terious gloom, 
 
 Like one who walks at twilight in the shadow of a 
 tomb. 
 
 Upon the thick and moveless air rolled a deep fu 
 nereal bell, 
 
 Till the firm rocks heaved and trembled with the 
 thunder of its knell : 
 
 Keeping time to its solemn tolling, a ghastly train 
 went by, 
 
 Of shadowy forms, that slowly passed before my 
 straining eye. 
 
 And my wondering spirit recognised its half-for 
 gotten dead, 
 
 With the dust of the tomb upon each brow, whence 
 the living bloom had fled ; 
 
 And a sudden terror through my soul a fearful 
 shudder sent 
 
 Eternity might ask of me the bright ones Time had 
 lent. 
 
A VISION. 129 
 
 One passed me with her pallid brow encircled by a 
 wreath, 
 
 But a serpent bound her temples the withered 
 leaves beneath : 
 
 And one swept proudly by me, her dark eyes 
 bright with ire, 
 
 And flung, in anger, at my feet, a broken, chord- 
 less lyre. 
 
 And one gazed at me mournfully, with eyes all dim 
 and meek, 
 
 And with her tresses strove to hide a stain on lip 
 and cheek ; 
 
 One hand clasped a fair rose-bud, but she pressed 
 the leaves apart, 
 
 And I saw a fearful canker feeding on the with 
 ering heart. 
 
 And some went empty-handed, with listless step 
 
 and slow, 
 Murmuring over idle thoughts, with voices faint 
 
 and low ; 
 
130 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 Thoughts that crushed their young lives recklessly 
 with their gift of glorious powers 
 
 Oh, never may my soul again behold its murdered 
 hours ! 
 
 With hands clasped close together, in vain I strove 
 
 to speak, 
 
 But the effort only ended in an agonizing shriek ; 
 Then fading from my vision, rolled the strange 
 
 and shadowy land 
 I was leaning on the casement, with my head upon 
 
 my hand. 
 
131 
 
 dMhn Haunts, 
 
 ALL our olden haunts I wandered o er, 
 
 In the forest s shade, by the lake s green shore, 
 
 Where the pensive willow stoops to lave 
 
 Its slender arms in the glassy wave ; 
 
 I gathered sweet flag by the water s edge, 
 
 And heard the breeze moan through the restless 
 
 I sought our nook in the dim old wood, 
 
 But the tree was gone where our playhouse stood ; 
 
 And over our rustic seat of stone, 
 
 Moss and rank weeds had thickly grown ; 
 
 And the beech tree, scathed by the lightning s blight, 
 
 Spread its naked arms in the mocking light. 
 
132 FOKEST FLOWERS. 
 
 In the meadow bubbles the little spring, 
 Where the swallow dips his tireless wing ; 
 And the small waves tinkle as they flow, 
 Over the silver sands below, 
 And the clean white pebbles gleaming up, 
 Like flakes of snow in a crystal cup. 
 
 The meadow was white with clover bloom, 
 That filled the air with its rich perfume ; 
 And the lulling sound of the wild bee s hum 
 Upon my dreamy mood would come ; 
 And the drowsy chanting soothed the train 
 Of thoughts that haunted my busy brain. 
 
 It lured them back to a golden time, 
 
 In a far-off land, in a sunny clime, 
 
 Whose clouds betokened but April weather, 
 
 And sunlight and rain came down together 
 
 Twas a beautiful land to thee and me, 
 
 An orient isle in a summer sea. 
 
 From the lake s clear mirror looked up and smiled 
 The dimpled face of a rosy child, 
 
OLDEN HAUNTS. 133 
 
 With laughing eyes, and brow of snow, 
 And parted lips, and cheeks aglow 
 But a light breeze over the still lake flew, 
 And shivered the mirror of limpid blue. 
 
 The spell was broken my thoughts came back 
 
 "Wearily, over a dusky track : 
 
 That time will be mine no more," I cried ; 
 
 And mournful echo, "No more!" replied; 
 
 And the moaning sedge, on the lake s green shore, 
 
 Seemed ever repeating, "No more, no more!" 
 
 12 
 
134 
 
 enh. 
 
 I KNELT beside the bed of one 
 
 I dearly loved, and watched the breath 
 Flow through her lips, and knew the sun 
 
 That next arose, would herald death. 
 I saw the soft and placid eye 
 
 Grow dim, death s dew the fair brow chill ; 
 I heard the quick and struggling sigh 
 
 And then that gentle heart was still. 
 
 And when the morning s gladsome ray, 
 Lit mountain top, and vale, and lea, 
 
 I clasped a hand of pulseless clay, 
 That gave no answering clasp to me. 
 
THE TRULY DEAD. 135 
 
 Though years have passed since that sad hour 
 
 When thy unsullied spirit fled, 
 Though I have plucked the woodland flower, 
 
 A sacred thing, from thy dark bed ; 
 
 I cannot think thee dead, nor grieve 
 
 Sweet thoughts of thee my bosom fill ; 
 At joyous morn, or thoughtful eve ? 
 
 I feel that thou art with me still; 
 I see thy gentle face once more, 
 
 So full of love and purity: 
 Ah ! though thy mortal life be o er, 
 
 Thou never canst be dead to me. 
 
 But thou ! unhappy one, ah ! thou 
 
 Deservedst a more ungentle doom ! 
 Though youth and health still flush thy brow, 
 
 Contempt hath hollowed thee a tomb : 
 I know that from thy breast each spark 
 
 Of truth and honour s pride hath fled ; 
 Thy place within my heart is dark 
 
 And thou art dead, ay, thou art dead. 
 
136 
 
 AY, hasten on thy mission, 
 
 Herald of joy and woe ; 
 For sorrowing hearts thou art too fleet, 
 
 To joyous ones too slow 
 Thou bringest the mellow lovelight 
 
 To many a sparkling eye ; 
 To many a cheerful bosom, 
 
 Grief s deep, convulsive sigh. 
 
 By yonder open casement 
 
 Sits a fair and youthful maid, 
 
 With hope and fear upon her face, 
 Mingling their light and shade 
 
THE POST-MAN. 137 
 
 Now she clasps the precious missive, 
 The hand trembling all the while, 
 
 And she scarcely heeds thy merry jest, 
 And thy arch but kindly smile. 
 
 Within the narrow doorway 
 
 Of yon mansion old and gray ; 
 With a face and garb that harmonize 
 
 With its quiet and decay, 
 Stands an aged woman, watching 
 
 For thy coming all too fleet 
 The tidings that thou bearest 
 
 Her tearful eyes will greet. 
 
 The thoughtful merchant at his desk, 
 
 Skilled in trade s mystic art ; 
 The poet with impassioned soul, 
 
 And yearning, restless heart ; 
 The artist gazing on his work, 
 
 With heart and brow elate 
 Ah ! oftentimes to all thou comest, 
 
 A messenger of Fate. 
 
138 FOREST FLOWERS. 
 
 The bundle grasped within thy hand, 
 
 A magic thing appears ; 
 For many smiles are locked therein, 
 
 And many bitter tears, 
 Then hasten on thy mission, 
 
 Herald of joy and woe, 
 Weaving the dark and golden threads 
 
 That form Life s web below. 
 
BETHUNE S POEMS, 
 
 LINDSAY & BLAKISTON PUBLISH, 
 
 LAYS OF LOVE AND FAITH, 
 
 WITH OTHER 
 
 FUGITIVE POEMS. 
 
 BY THE 
 REV. G. W. BETHUNE, D.D. 
 
 This w an elegant Volume, beautifully printed on the finest and 
 paper, and richly bound in various styles. 
 
 As one arranges in a simple vase 
 
 A little store of unpretending flowera. 
 
 So gathered I some records of past hours, 
 And trust them, gentle reader, to thy grace, 
 Nor hope that in my pages thou wilt trace 
 
 The brilliant proof of high poetic powers; 
 But dear memorials of happy days, 
 
 When heaven shed blessings on my heart like showera, 
 Clothing with beauty e en the desert place; 
 Till I, with thankful gladness in my looks, 
 
 Turned me to God, sweet nature, loving friends, 
 Christ s little children, well-worn ancient booki, 
 
 The charm of Art, the rapture music sends ; 
 And sang away the grief that on man s lot attends. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 We beg leave to express our thanks to the diligent author of those Poems, for this 
 additional and highly valuable contribution to the treasures of American literature. 
 The prose writings of Dr. Bethune, by their remarkably pure and ehaste language, 
 their depth and clearness of thought, their force and beauty of illustration, and by their 
 intelligent and elevated piety, have justly secured to him a place with the very best 
 authors of our land, whose works are destined to exert a wide-spread and most salutary 
 influence on the forming character and expanding mind of our growing republic. This 
 volume of his collected poetry, though it be, as the author observes in his beautiful 
 introductory sonnet, but the "gathered records of past hours," or the fruit of rnonu-nts 
 of industrious relaxation from more severe labours, may without fear take it? place by 
 the side of our best poetic productions; and there are many pieces in it, which, fin 
 accuracy of rhythm, for refined sentiment, energy of thought, flowing and lucid <;x 
 pression, and subduing pathos, are unsurpassed by any writer. 
 
 Exteriorly, arid in the matters of paper and typography, this is an elegant volume, 
 and so far is a fitting casket for the gems it contains for gems these beautiful poenia 
 are, of "purest ray serene" lustrous jewels ornaments of purest virgin gold. 
 
 Many hallowed breathings will be found among the poems here collected all distin 
 guished by correct taste and refined feeling, rarely dazzling by gorgeous imagery, but 
 always charming by their purity and truthfulness to nature. JV. Y. Commercial. 
 
 The author of this volume has a gifted mind, improved by extensive education; a 
 .heerful temper, chastened by religion ; a sound taste, refined and improved by extensive 
 observation and much reading, and the gift of poetry. Worth American. 
 
 The Volume before us contains much that is truly beautiful ; many gems that sparkle 
 with genius and feeling. They are imbued with the true spirit of poesy, and may be 
 wad ogain and agnip with pleasure. Inquirer. 
 
LINDSAY & BLAKlSTOiN PUBLISH, 
 
 THE OF LIFE, 
 
 A TRULY AMERICAN BOOK, ENTIRELY ORIGINAL, 
 
 PRESENTING A VIEW OF THE PROGRESS OF LIFE, 
 
 FROB I INTA^CIT TO OLD 
 
 Illustrated by a series of Eleven Engravings, beautifully 
 executed on Steel, 
 
 BY J. SARTAIN, PHILADELPHIA, 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 Infancy, (Vignette Title,) Designed .......... by Schmitz. 
 
 Childhood, Painted ........................ Eichholtz. 
 
 Boyhood, (Frontispiece,) Painted ............. Osgood. 
 
 Maidenhood .............................. u Rothermel. 
 
 The Bride ................................ Rossiter. 
 
 The Mother .............................. Rossiter. 
 
 The Widow .............................. Rossiter. 
 
 Manhood, Designed ........................ Rothermel. 
 
 Old Age ................................. Rothermel. 
 
 The Shrouded Mirror, Designed ............. Rev. Dr. Morton. 
 
 The literary contents comprise original articles in prose and verse, from 
 
 the pens of 
 
 RBV. G. W. BETHUNE, REY. CLEMENT M. BUTLER, MRS. SIGOURNEY, MRS 
 
 OSGOOD, MRS. HALE, MRS. ELLET, J. T. HEADLET, REV. M. A. DM 
 
 WOLFE HOWE, Miss SEDGWICK, REV. WM. B. SPRAGUE, REV. 
 
 H. HASTINGS WELD, Miss CAROLINE E. ROBERTS, BUSHROD 
 
 BARTLETT, Esa., ALICE G. LEE, HOPE HESSELTINE, 
 AND OTHER FAVOURITE AUTHORS OF OUR OWN COUNTRY. 
 
 EDITED BY MRS. L. C. TUTHILL, 
 
 And richly bound in various styles. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 This is an elegant volume ; with an excellent design, combining all that is attractir* 
 n typographical execution, with beautiful engravings, it illustrates the progress of 
 human life in a series of mezzotints of the most finished style. These handsome pic 
 tures present boyhood and girlhood, the lover and the loved, the bride and the mother 
 the widow and old age, with many other scenes that will leave a pleasing and salutary 
 impression. The literary department is executed by a variety of able and entertainin 
 writers, forming altogether a beautiful gift-book, appropriate to all seasons. JV. Y. of- 
 terver 
 
 > ^rr n ^f^,?* of \ b .. k and a su P erb specimen of artistical skill, as well ai 
 m Jr t f ff ; j brilliant and tasteful ornament for the centre-table, or a 
 
 memento of affection and good wishes, to be presented in the form of a Birthday 
 
 5 entilled to tlie consideratio " and 
 
 ?i?l e tn dea iS tf h?P - Py - ne and the work " every wa ^ wor thy of its subject. Without 
 
 too costly it is in every respect a very handsome volume ; the sentiments it con- 
 
 lams are not only unobjectionable, but salutary ; and we cannot conceive a cift of th 
 
 " be morc acceptabie to the ** 
 
LINDSAY & BLAKISTON 
 
 PUBLISH 
 
 THE ROSEMARY, 
 
 A COLLECTION 
 
 OF 
 
 SACKED AND RELIGIOUS POETRY, 
 
 /rnm tlji fnglisl; Mil 5lratritun |Snrts; 
 
 WITH 
 
 EIGHT SPLENDID ILLUSTRATIONS ON STEEL BY SARTAIN. 
 
 of 
 
 MOSES SMITING THE ROCK ........... MTJRILLO. 
 
 HEBRON ................. BRACEBRIDGE. 
 
 DANIEL IN THE LIONS DEN ........... ZEIGLER. 
 
 ELIJAH FED BY RAVENS ........... CORBOULD. 
 
 ABRAHAM OFFERING UP ISAAC .......... WESTALL. 
 
 GOD S COVENANT WITH NOAH .......... ROTHERMEL. 
 
 JOSEPH SOLD BY HIS BRETHREN ......... ZUCCHI. 
 
 THE WOMEN AT THE SEPULCHRE ......... P. VIET. 
 
 (Bxtrnrt from tjp ^tofra, 
 
 In presenting in "The Rosemary" some of the choice selections 
 of Sacred Poetry in an attractive garb, it is hoped that it will be 
 received as an evidence of that religious feeling, which at times has 
 actuated most of the great poets, and been displayed in some of their 
 finest productions. 
 
 (Opnums nf tip 
 
 This book is a beautiful pearl, rich in the treasures of thought and 
 imagination, which form its contents, as well as in the elegance of its cos 
 tume, and the delicate and finished engravings which embellish it.- 
 Christian Observer. 
 
 In this attractive volume we find much to please the eye ; but the most 
 valuable recommendation of the work is found in the lessons of piety, 
 virtue, morality, and mercy, which are thrown together in this many-co 
 loured garland of poetic flowers. Episcopal Recorder. 
 
 The volume before us commends itself to every one who with a gift 
 would connect the highest sentiment of purity for it is a casket of spiritual 
 gems radiant with the light of true religion. Christian Gem. 
 
 This collection is made with great taste, and is, perhaps, the finest ever 
 comprised within the limits of one volume. Godey s Lady s Book. 
 
LINDSAY & BLAKISTON PUBLISH 
 
 WATSON S I : 
 DICTIONARY OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS, 
 
 CONSISTING OP 
 
 ELEGANT EXTRACTS ON EVERY SUBJECT, 
 
 COMPILED FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS, AND ARRANGED UNDER 
 APPROPRIATE HEADS, 
 
 BY JOHN T. WATSON, M. D., 
 
 WITH 
 
 NINE SPLENDID ILLUSTRATIONS ON STEEL, 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 The Noontide Dream, 
 
 Contemplation, 
 
 Modesty, 
 
 The Thunder-Storm, 
 
 The Village Tomb-Cutter, 
 
 The Parting Wreath, 
 
 Bereavement, 
 
 The Bashful Lover, 
 
 Love and Inndcence. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 We may safely recommend this hook as a collection of some of the most beautiful conceptions, 
 elegantly expressed, to be found in the range of English and American poetry. Saturday Conner. 
 
 We regard this as the best book of a similar character yet published. Germantown Telegraph. 
 
 In this Dictionary of Quotations every subject is touched upon; and, while the selection has been 
 carefully made, it, has the merit of containing the best thoughts of the Poets of our own day, which 
 no other collection has. U. S. Gazette. 
 
 The selections in this book are made with taste from all poets of note, and are classed under a 
 great variety of subjects. Presbyterian. 
 
 The Quotations appear to have been selected with great judgment and taste, by one well acquainted 
 with whatever is most elegant and beautiful in the whole range of literature. Christian Observer. 
 
 A volume exhibiting industry and taste on the part of the compiler, which will often facilitate re 
 searches in the mines of gold whence it was dug. Maysville Eagle. 
 
 In his arrane-pment, the compiler hns assigned the immortal Shakspeare his deserved pre-eminence, 
 and illumined his pages with the choicest beauties of the British Poets. Herald. 
 
 We do not hesitate to commend it to our poetry-loving readers, as a book worth buying, and worth 
 reading. Clinton Republican. 
 
 Hie extracts display great care and taste on the part of the editor, are arranged in chronological 
 order, and embrace passages from all the poets, from the earliest period of our literature to the pre 
 sent time. State Gazette. 
 
 This book will be read with interest, as containing the best thoughts of the best poets, and is con 
 venient for reference, because furnishing appropriate quotations to illustrate avast variety of subjects. 
 Old Colony Memorial. 
 
 We view it as a casket filled with the most precious srems of learning and fancy, and so arranged 
 as to fascinate, at a elam e, the delicate eye of taste. By referring to the index, which is arranged in 
 alphabetical order, you can find, in a moment, the best ideas of the most inspired poets of this country, 
 as well as Europe, upon any desired subject. Chronicle. 
 
LINDSAY & BLAKISTON 
 
 PUBLISH THE 
 
 AMERICAN FEMALE POETS: 
 
 WITH 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES, 
 
 BY 
 CAROLINE MAY. 
 
 AN ELEGANT VOLUME, WITH A HANDSOME VIGNETTE TITLE, 
 
 AND 
 
 PORTRAIT OF MRS. OSGOOD, 
 
 The Literary contents of this work contain copious selections from 
 
 the writings of 
 
 Anne Bradstreet, Jane Turcll, Anno Eliza Bleecker, Margarcttn 
 
 V. Faugeres, Phillis Wheatley, Mercy "Warren, Sarah. Porter) 
 
 Sarah Went worth Morton, Mrs. Ldttle, Maria A. Brooks, 
 
 Lytlia Huntley Sigourney, Anna Maria Wells, Caroline Gril 
 
 man, Sarah Josepha Hale, Maria James, Jessie G M Cartee, 
 
 Mrs, Gray, Eliza Follcn, Liouisa Jane Hall, Mrs. Swift, 
 
 Mrs. E. C. Kiniiey, Marguerite St. Lieon Loud, IJitella J. 
 
 Case, Elizaheth Bogart, A. D. Woodbridge, Elizabeth 
 
 Margaret Chandler, Emma C. Embury, Sarah Helena , 
 
 "Whitman, Cynthia Taggart? Elizabeth J. Eamcs, 
 
 <fcc. ifcc, &c. 
 
 Tho whole forming a beautiful specimen of the highly cultivated state oi 
 
 the arts in the United States, as regards the paper, topography, 
 
 and binding in rich and various styles. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM THE PREFACE. 
 
 One of the most striking characteristics of the present age 
 is the number of female writers, especially in the department 
 of belles-lettres. This is even more true of the United 
 States, than of the old world ; and poetry, which is the lan 
 guage of the affections, has been freely employed among us 
 to express the emotions of woman s heart. 
 
 As the rare exotic, costly because of the distance from 
 which it is brought, will often suffer in comparison of beauty 
 and fragrance with the abundant wild flowers of our mea 
 dows and woodland slopes, so the reader of our present 
 volume, if ruled by an honest taste, will discover in the effu 
 sions of our gifted countrywomen as much grace of form, 
 and powerful sweetness of thought and feeling, as in the 
 blossoms of woman s genius culled from other lands. 
 
LINDSAY & BLAKISTON 
 
 HAVE JUST PUBLISHED 
 
 THE WOMEN OF THE SCRIPTURES, 
 
 EDITED BY THE 
 
 REV. H. HASTINGS WELD; 
 
 WITH 
 
 ORIGINAL LITERARY CONTRIBUTIONS, 
 
 BY 
 
 DISTINGUISHED AMERICAN WRITERS: 
 
 BEAUTIFULLY ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 TWELVE SUPEKB ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL, 
 BY J, SARTAIN, PHILADELPHIA, 
 
 FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS, EXPRESSLY FOR THE WORK, 
 
 BY T, P, ROSSITER, NEW YORK! 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 Miriam, 
 Eve, 
 Sarah, 
 Rachel, 
 
 Hannah, 
 
 Ruth, 
 
 Queen of Sheba, 
 
 Shunamite, 
 
 Esther, 
 
 The Syrophenician 
 
 Martha, 
 
 The Marys. 
 
 Elegantly Bound in White Calf, Turkey Morocco, and Cloth 
 Extra, with Gilt Edges. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE subject of this book entitles it to a high place among illustrated 
 volumes. The execution, literary and artistic, will, we are confident, be 
 found worthy of the theme ; since we have received the assistance ot 
 authors best known in the sacred literature of our country, in presenting, 
 in their various important attitudes and relations, the WOMEN OF TH* 
 SCRIPTURES. The contents of the volume were prepared expressly for it, 
 with the exception of the pages from the pen of Mrs. Balfour ; and for the 
 republication of her articles, no one who reads them will require an apology. 
 The designs for the engravings are original; and the Publishers trust that 
 in the present volume they have made their best acknowledgment for the 
 favour with which its predecessors have been received. The whole, they 
 believe, will be found no inapt memento of those to whom St. Peter refera 
 the sex for an ensample : " the holy women, in the old time." 
 
LINDSAY & BLAKISTON 
 
 P U B L I S H 
 
 THE LIFE, LETTERS AND POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 EDITED BY PUS DAUGHTER. 
 With a Portrait. 
 
 Extract from the Preface. 
 
 In compiling the present volume, it has been the wish of the editor, in 
 some measure, to carry out her father s favourite but unfulfilled design 
 of an autobiography. It is with reference to this that both the letters 
 and poems have been selected. The great bulk of the poems are reli 
 gious ; but there are not wanting those of a lighter character, which will 
 be found to be the wholesome relaxation of a pure, good, and essentially 
 religious mind. These may succeed each other as gracefully and bene 
 ficently as April sunshine and showers over the meadow. So, indeed, 
 such moods followed in his own mind, and were so revealed in his do 
 mestic intercourse. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 This is a very handsome volume, enriched with a neat and graphic portrait 
 of the worthy quaker lyrist, and forms a valuable addition to our poetical 
 literature. In the interesting Memoir and rich collection of Epistolary Re 
 mains, the fair editress has conferred a most acceptable favour upon the many 
 admirers of her gifted parent. Among the correspondence are letters from 
 Southey, Charles Lamb, Sir Walter Scott, and other distinguished cotempo- 
 ries. Evening Bulletin. 
 
 The poems of this meritorious writer, better known by the name of the 
 Quaker Poet, have long been popular in England, and are much admired 
 in this country for their simplicity and warmth of feeling. American and 
 Commercial Advertiser, Baltimore. 
 
 Barton was a Quaker, but mingled a good deal with the "world s people," 
 at least with such as were, like himself, addicted to literary pursuits. His 
 correspondence with Southey and Charles Lamb, is full of interest. Many 
 of his poems are very beautiful ; and the present volume is worth a place in 
 every good library. Evening Transcript. 
 
LINDSAY & BLAKISTON 
 
 PUBLISH THE 
 
 BRITISH FEMALE POETS: 
 
 WITH 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES, 
 
 BY 
 
 GEO. W. BETHUNE. 
 
 AN ELEGANT VOLUME, WITH A HANDSOME VIGNETTE TITLE, 
 
 AND 
 
 PORTRAIT OF THE HON. MRS, NORTON. 
 
 The Literary contents of this work contain copious selections from 
 
 the writings of 
 
 Anne Boleyn, Countess of Arundel, Q,ueen Elizabeth, Duchess of 
 
 Newcastle, Elizabeth Carter? Mrs. Tighe, Miss Hannah More, 
 
 Mrs* Hcmaiis. Lady Flora Hastings, Mrs* Amelia Opie, Miss 
 
 Eliza Cook, Mrs. Soutliey, Miss Lowe, Mrs. Norton, Elizabeth. 
 
 B. Barrett, Catharine Parr, Mary Queen of Scots, Countess 
 
 of Pembroke, Lady Mary \Vortley Montague, Mrs* Gre- 
 
 ville, Mrs. Barbauld, Joanna Baillie, Lctitia Elizabeth 
 
 I*andon, Charlotte Elizabeth, Mary Russell Mitford, 
 
 Mrs. Coleridge, Mary Howitt, Frances Kemble Butler, 
 
 &C. &C* &C. 
 
 The whole forming a beautiful specimen of the highly cultivated state of 
 
 the arts in the United States, as regards the paper, typography, 
 
 and binding in rich and various styles. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 In the department of English poetry, we have long looked for a spirit cast in nature s finest, yet 
 most elevated mould, possessed of the most delicate and exquisite taste, the keenest perception 
 of the innate true and beautiful in poetry, as opposed to their opposites, who could give to us a 
 pure collection of the British Female Poets; many of them among the choicest spirits that ever 
 graced and adorned humanity. The object of our search, in this distinct and important mission, 
 is before us; and we acknowledge at once in Dr. Bethune. the gifted poet, the eloquent divine, 
 and the humble Christian, one who combines, in an eminent degree, all the characteristics above 
 alluded to. It raises the mind loftier, and makes it purified with the soul, to float in an atmosphere 
 of spiritual purity, to peruse the elegant volume before us, chaste, rich, and beautiful, without and 
 within. Ttie Spectator. 
 
 We do not remember to have seen any previous attempt to form a poetical bouquet exclusively 
 from gardens planted by female hands, and made fragrant and beautiful by woman s eentle culture. 
 We know few men equally qualitied with the gifted Editor of this volume for the tasteful and 
 judicious selection and adjustment of the various (lowers that are to delight with their sweetness, 
 soothe with their softness, and impart profit with their sentiment. The volume is enriched with 
 Biographical Sketches of some sixty poetesses, each sketch being followed with specimens charac 
 teristic of her style and powers of verse. In beauty of typography, and general yetting up, tliii 
 Tolume is quite equal to the best issues of its tasteful and enterprising publishers. Episcopal Recorder. 
 
 It is handsomely embellished, and may be described as a casket of gems. Dr. Bethune, who it 
 himself a poet of no mean genius, has in this volume exhibited the most refined taste. The work 
 may be regarded as a treasury of nearly all the best pieces of British Female Poets. Inquirer. 
 
 This volume, which is far more suited for a holyday gift than many which are prepared expressly 
 for the purpose, contains extracts from all the most distinguished English Female Poets, selected 
 with the taste and judgment which we have a right to expect from the eminent divine and highly 
 gifted poet whose name auorus the title page. It is a rare collection of the richest gems. Balti 
 more American. 
 
 Dr. Bethune has selected his materials witli exquisite taste, culling the fairest and sweetost 
 flowers from the extensive field cultivated by the British Female Poets. The brief Biographical 
 Notices add much interest to the volume, and vastly increase its value. It is pleasant to find hard 
 working and close-thinking divines thus recreating themselves, and contributing by their recrea 
 tions to the refinement of the age. Dr. Bethune has brought to his task poetic enthusiasm, and 
 eady perceution of the pure and beautiful. N. Y. Commercial 
 
LINDSAY & BLAKISTON S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 BOOK FOR EVERY CHRISTIAN, 
 
 THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 MEMOIR OF MISS MARGARET MERCER, 
 
 BY CASPAR MORRIS, M. D. 
 
 A neat 18mo. volume, with a beautiful Engraved 
 PORTRAIT OF MISS MERCER, 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 Miss Mercer was a daughter of the late Governor Mercer, of Maryland. Her father. 
 Who was a Virginian, and the descendant of a distinguished family, removed to Straw 
 berry Hill, near Annapolis, Md., soon after his marriage. In the memoir of the daughter, 
 tve have the moral portraiture of a character of great moral worth. Miss Mercer was 
 a Christian, who earnestly sought to promote the glory of the Saviour, in persevering 
 efforts to be useful in every position, and especially as a teacher of the young. Her 
 energy of mind and elevated principles, united with humility and gentleness, and devoted 
 piety, illustrated in her useful life, rendered her example worthy of a lasting memorial. 
 The work is accompanied by numerous extracts from her correspondence. Christian 
 Observer. _ 
 
 The perusal of this Memoir will do good ; it shows how much can be accomplished by 
 superior talents, under the control of a heart imbued with love to the Saviour. The 
 contemplation of the character of Miss Mercer may lead others to put forth similar 
 efforts, and reap a like reward. Christian Chronicle. 
 
 It is impossible to read this Memoir without the conviction that Miss Mercer was a 
 very superior woman, both in her attainments and her entire self-consecration. In 
 laying down the book, we feel alike admiration for the biographer and the subject of the 
 Memoir. Presbyterian. 
 
 WATSON S NEW DICTIONARY OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 A neat 12mo. Volume in plain and extra bindings. 
 
 A NEW DICTIONARY OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS, 
 
 CONS [STING OF ELEGANT EXTRACTS ON EVERY SUBJECT, 
 
 Compiled from various Authors, and arranged under appropriate heads, 
 
 BY JOHN 1 T. W-ATSOJNT, 3VE.D. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 We may safely recommend this book as a collection of some of the most beautiful 
 conceptions, elegantly expressed, to be found in the range of English and American 
 poetry. Saturday Courier. 
 
 ^ **** b k f a similar cnarac er yet published. Oermaatoum 
 
 In this Dictionary of Quotations every subject is touched upon ; and, while the snlcc- 
 tion has been carefully made, it has the merit of containing the best thoughts of the 
 i>oets of our own da which no t 
 
 , s e mer o contanng the b 
 
 i>oets of our own day, which no other collection has. U. S. Gazette. 
 
 The selections in this book are made with taste from all poets of note and are clasiod 
 under a great variety of subjects. Presbyterian. 
 
 The Quotations appear to have been selected with great judgment and taste, bv ona 
 well acquainted with whatever is most elegant and beautiful in the whole ran-e ot 
 literature. Christian Obtervtr 
 
LINDSAY & BLAKISTON 
 
 HAVE RECENTLY PUBLISHED, 
 
 SCENES EN THE LIFE OF THE SAVEOUR, 
 
 EY THE 
 
 POETS AND PAINTERS: 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 A N Y GEMS OF ART A N D G B IT I U S, 
 
 ILLUSTRATIVE OF 
 
 THE SAVIOUR S LIFE AND PASSION, 
 
 EDITED BY THE 
 
 REV. RUFUS GRISWOLD. 
 
 THE ILLUSTRATIONS, WHICH ARE EXQUISITELY ENGRAVED ON STEEL, 
 BY JOHN SARTAIN, ARE : 
 
 The Holy Family, painted by N. Poussin ; 
 The Snvwur, bv Paul Deluroche ; 
 Christ by the Well of Sychar, by Emelio Signol ; 
 The Daughter of Janus, by Delonue ; 
 
 Walking on the Sea, by Henry Richter ; 
 The Ten Lepers, by A. Vandyke ; 
 The Last Supper, b 
 
 by Benjamin West; 
 e Sepulchre, by Philip 
 
 The Women at the Sepulchre, by Philip Viet. 
 
 THE LITERARY CONTENTS, COMPRISING SIXTY-FOUR POEMS, ARE BY 
 
 >n, He main, Montgomery* Keljle, Mrs. Sigourney, Miss L.n.n 
 don, Dale, Willis, Bulftiich, Bethune, Longfellow, Whittier. 
 Croly, Klopstoclc, Mrs. Osgood, Pierpont, Crosswcll, and 
 other celebrated Poets of this and other Countries* 
 
 The volume is richly and beautifully bound in Turkey Morocco, gilt, white 
 calf extra, or embossed cloth, gilt edges, sides and back. 
 
 We commend this volume to the attention of those who would place a 
 Souvenir in the hands of their friends, to invite them in the purest strains of 
 poetry, and by the eloquence of art, to study the Life of the Saviour. Christ. Obi 
 
 The contents are so arranged as to constitute a Poetical and Pictorial Life 
 ol iho Saviour, and we can think of no more appropriate gift-book. In typo 
 graphy, embellishments, and binding, we have recently seen nothing more 
 tasteful and rich. North American. 
 
 We like this book, as well for its beauty as for its elevated character, (t 
 is jus! such an one as is suited, either for a library, or a parlour centre-table ; 
 and no one can arise from its perusal without feeling strongly the sublimity 
 ind enduring character of the Christian religion. Harrisburg Telegraph. 
 
 This is truly a splendid volume in all its externals, while its contents are 
 richly worthy of the magnificent style in which they are presented. As illus 
 trations of the Life and Passion of the Saviour of mankind, it will form an 
 appropriate Souvenir for the season in which we commemorate his cominp 
 ipon earth. Neal s Gazette. 
 

 a Smith (Ri 
 rers " 
 
 key) 
 
 R6428 
 
 M189018 
 
 for 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY