I seek the brook : And, in the silver shout of waters, hear Of lilies floating from the flowery land, A likeness of my early, only love- Over the billow, and the bedded pearls, As well as in the beauty of the sea, Thine image in the loveliness that dwells I am thine own, My dearest, though thou never mayst be mine; I would not if I could the band untwine Around me thrown Since first I breathed to thee that word of fireRe-echo'd now, how feebly! by my lyre. Love, constant love! Age cannot quench it-like the primal ray Our cloud-encircled region, it will flow O, when I die (If until then thou mayst not drop a tear) Denied in life, in death, if fondly given, III. Dost thou not turn, Fairest and sweetest, from the flowery way On which thy feet are treading every day, And seek to learn Tidings, sometimes, of him who loved thee well-More than his pen can write or tongue can tell? Gaze not thine eyes (0, wild and lustrous eyes, ye were my fate!) Upon the lines he fashion'd not of late, But when the skies THE DEPARTED. REST thee, old hunter! the evening cool Thou art very weary-O, rest thee now! O, give some rest to thy tired feet! There's not a nook in the forest wide Nor a leafy dell unknown to thee; The wind's low murmur, the tempest's roar, Or thy whistle shrill, were heard before. Then rest thee!-thy wife in her cottage-door, Shading her eyes from the sun's keen ray, Peers into the forest beyond the moor, To hail thy coming ere fall of day;— But thou art a score of miles from home, And the hues of the kindling autumn leaves Grow brown in the shadow of evening's dome, And swing to the rush of the freshening breeze. Thou must even rest! for thou canst not tread Till yon star in the zenith of midnight glows, And a sapphire light over earth is spread, The place where thy wife and babes repose. Rest thee a while-and then journey on Through the wide forest, and over the moor: Then call to thy dogs, and fire thy gun, And a taper will gleam from thy cottage-door! THE departed! the departed! They visit us in dreams, And they glide above our memories But where the cheerful lights of home In constant lustre burn, The departed, the departed Can never more return! The good, the brave, the beautiful, Or where the hurrying night-winds In the cities of the dead! I look around and feel the awe Is borne upon the breeze. That solemn voice! it mingles with I scarce can think earth's minstrelsy The thrilling notes of birds, As their remember'd words. I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles I know that they are happy, With their angel-plumage on, But my heart is very desolate To think that they are gone. I AM NOT OLD. I AM not old-though years have cast I am not old-though youth has pass'd For in my heart a fountain flows, I am not old--Time may have set Thoughts, sweet as flowers, that once were mine. THE DOVE'S ERRAND. Under cover of the night, Now I bind a perfumed letter In that vale, with dwellings strown, By a lattice, wreathed with flowers To her lips the lines she'll press, Till night's shadow turns your breast "HOW CHEERY ARE THE MARINERS!' How cheery are the mariners Those lovers of the sea! Their hearts are like its yesty waves, As bounding and as free. They whistle when the storm-bird wheels And sing when deep in foam the ship What care the mariners for gales? The vessel stout will ride it out, With streamers down and canvass furl'd, A silken-tassell'd boat; And some with watchful eyes, That roll along the skies. Safe in the hollow of His hand, LINES SPOKEN BY A BLIND BOY. THE bird, that never tried his wing, And though I never long'd to view Now, since I've learn'd to read and write, A sight so beautiful as sound? Tell me, kind friends, in one short word, I live in song, and peace, and joy,- THE ELYSIAN ISLE. "It arose before them, the most beautiful island in the world."-IRVING'S Columbus. It was a sweet and pleasant isle- And the wave that kiss'd its sandy shore It seem'd an emerald set by Heaven It glows as greenly now. I've wander'd oft in its valleys bright, Through the gloom of its leafy bowers, And breathed the breath of its spicy gales And the scent of its countless flowers. I've seen its bird with the crimson wing In the starry noon of its brilliant night, And I gather'd the shells that buried were There are sister-spirits that dwell in the sea, Of the spirits that dwell in the air; But around the shores of the Indian isles Though I saw them not, I heard by night Elysian isle! I may never view Thy birds and roses more, Yet thou art treasured in my heart And, in all my dreams of the spirits' home A GREAT NAME. TIME! thou destroyest the relics of the past, And hidest all the footprints of thy march On shatter'd column and on crumbled arch, By moss and ivy growing green and fast. Hurl'd into fragments by the tempest-blast, The Rhodian monster lies; the obelisk, That with sharp line divided the broad disc Of Egypt's sun, down to the sands was cast: And where these stood, no remnant-trophy stands, And even the art is lost by which they rose: Thus, with the monuments of other lands, The place that knew them now no longer knows. Yet triumph not, O, Time; strong towers decay, But a great name shall never pass away! INDOLENCE. THERE is no type of indolence like this:- Sailors recumbent, listless, stretch'd around To his tough limbs that scarce have ever found A bed more tender, since his mother's knee The stripling left to tempt the changeful sea. Some are asleep, some whistle, try to sing, Some gape, and wonder when the ship will sail, Some damn' the calm and wish it was a gale; But every lubber there is lazy as a king. SPORT. To see a fellow of a summer's morning, That probably they may be shot hereafter, Of harmless murder, yet it is to me Almost the funniest thing on earth to see A corpulent person, breathing with a snort, Go on a shooting frolic all alone; For well I know that when he's out of town, He and his dog and gun will all lie down, And undestructive sleep till game and light are flown. M. I. BORN in the north, and rear'd in tropic lands: No coldness in her deep, melodious words, TO MY SISTER. SISTER! dear sister, I am getting old: My hair is thinner, and the cheerful light That glisten'd in mine eyes is not as bright, Though while on thee I look, 'tis never cold. My hand is not so steady while I pen These simple words to tell how warm and clear Flows my heart's fountain toward thee,sister dear! For years I've lived among my fellow-men, [joys, Shared their deep passions, known their griefs and And found Pride, Power, and Fame but gilded And, sailing far upon Ambition's waves, [toys; Beheld brave mariners on a troubled sea, [graves. Meet, what they fear'd not--shipwreck and their My spirit seeks its haven, dear, with thee! ΤΟ "TIs Winter now---but Spring will blossom soon, And flowers will lean to the embracing airAnd the young buds will vie with them to share Each zephyr's soft caress; and when the Moon Bends her new silver bow, as if to fling Her arrowy lustre through some vapour's wing, The streamlets will return the glance of night From their pure, gliding mirrors, set by Spring Deep in rich frames of clustering chrysolite, Instead of Winter's crumbled sparks of white. So, dearest! shall our loves, though frozen now By cold unkindness, bloom like buds and flowers, Like fountain's flash, for Hope with smiling brow Tells of a Spring, whose sweets shall all be ours! ΤΟ LADY, farewell! my heart no more to thee Bends like the Parsee to the dawning sun; No more thy beauty lights the world for me, Or tints with gold the moments as they run. A cloud is on the landscape, and the beams That made the valleys so divinely fair, And scatter'd diamonds on the gliding streams, And crown'd the mountains in their azure airAre veil'd forever!--Lady, fare thee well! Sadly as one who longeth for a sound To break the stillness of a deep profound, I turn and strike my frail, poetic shell:Listen! it is the last; for thee alone My heart no more shall wake its sorrowing tone. TO A LADY WITH A BOUQUET. FLOWERS are love's truest language; they betray, Like the divining rods of Magi old, Where priceless wealth lies buried, not of gold, But love--strong love, that never can decay! I send thee flowers, O dearest! and I deem That from their petals thou wilt hear sweet words, Whose music, clearer than the voice of birds, When breathed to thee alone, perchance, may seem All eloquent of feelings unexpress'd. O, wreathe them in those tresses of dark hair! Let them repose upon thy forehead fair, And on thy bosom's yielding snow be press'd! Thus shall thy fondness for my flowers reveal The love that maiden coyness would conceal! |