SONG. WHICH is the finest feature Of a lovely woman's face? I think that a red lip pouting Is a very bright and lovely thing. But, after all, the feature Of a lovely woman's face What to the gentle creature Adds the greatest grace — Is the word, and look, and tone, That proclaim her all your own. STANZAS. No bugle must sound: Ye bright, waving banners, stoop low! Let your lances with cypress be bound Let the drums be all silent in woe ! The bravest in fight The pride of our glory-is slain! On the war-cloud, to mansions of light, His spirit has sped from the plain. EAST FLORIDA, 1840. THE FLATTERER. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A LADY AND HER MAID. Lady. NAY, Florence, do not flatter me. I hate flattery. Tell me the truth. What did Sir Charles say? Maid. He said you had the finest form he ever saw. Lady. Pshaw! nonsense! You said he spoke of my eyes. What did he say of them? Maid. I am afraid I shall offend you. Lady. Offend me? Why? Maid. You said you did not like flattery. Lady. Nor do I. I hate it. I hate flattery. But what said Sir Charles about my eyes? Maid. He said they united the softness of the opal with the brilliancy of the diamond. He said they became one whose dignity would have been forbidding, had it not been redeemed by so much grace. Lady. Was that all he said? Lady. Are you sure ? Maid. Yes, I am sure, my lady. Lady. Well, Flora, this is the same dress I wore when Sir Charles said those things of me; is it not? Maid. The same. Lady. Florence, you are a good girl, and I beg you to accept this brooch; but do not flatter me more. I wish you would not tell me those things of Sir Charles. I hate flattery above all things. Maid. (Aside.) No doubt; witness this beautiful brooch! ON ABSENCE. FRIENDSHIP and love, divinely sung, And were there none who owe me these, Nor give my heart a moment's load, To know that through my best of youth With nought to cheer, and nought to soothe, But when I think of those whose eyes United by those kindred ties, Which time may wear but never free,— Of those with whom my early years In boyish innocence were spent, I give perforce my soul to tears, Which else could find no other vent. |