Poems

Front matter

"happy at home"

Page 108

NEW-YORK

The Spirit of Poetry

Thou that cam'st to me in my dreaming childhood, Shaping the changeful clouds to pageants rare, Peopling the smiling vale, and shaded wildwood, With airy beings, faint yet strangely fair; Telling me all the sea-born breeze was saying, While it went whispering thro' the willing leaves, Bidding me listen to the light rain playing Its pleasant tune, about the household caves; Tuning the low, sweet ripple of the river, Till its melodious murmur seem'd a song, A tender and sad chant, repeated ever, A sweet, impassion'd plaint of love and wrong! Leave me not yet! Leave me not cold and lonely, Thou star of promise o'er my clouded path! Leave not the life, that borrows from thee only All of delight and beauty that it hath!

Thou, that when others knew not how to love me, Nor cared to fathom half my yearning soul, Didst wreathe thy flowers of light, around, above me, To woo and win me from my grief's control. By all my dreams, the passionate, and holy, When thou hast sung love's lullaby to me, By all the childlike worship, fond and lowly, Which I have lavish'd upon thine and thee.

By all the lays my simple lute was learning, To echo from thy voice, stay with me still! Once flown—alas! for thee there's no returning! The charm will die o'er valley, wood, and hill. Tell me not Time, whose wing my brow has shaded, Has wither'd spring's sweet bloom within my heart, Ah, no! the rose of love is yet unfaded, Tho' hope and joy, its sister flowers, depart.

Well do I know that I have wrong'd thine altar, With the light offerings of an idler's mind, And thus, with shame, my pleading prayer I falter, Leave me not, spirit! deaf, and dumb, and blind! Deaf to the mystic harmony of nature, Blind to the beauty of her stars and flowers Leave me not, heavenly yet human teacher, Lonely and lost in this cold world of ours! Heaven knows I need thy music and thy beauty Still to beguile me on my weary way, To lighten to my soul the cares of duty, And bless with radiant dreams the darken'd day: To charm my wild heart in the worldly revel, Lest I, too, join the aimless, false, and vain;

Let me not lower to the soulless level Of these whom now I pity and disdain! Leave me not yet!—leave me not cold and pining, Thou bird of paradise, whose plumes of light, Where'er they rested, left a glory shining; Fly not to heaven, or let me share thy flight!

The Lutin-Steed

"The Lutins are abroad, In thousand forms of might, To mock the feeble faith of man;— Ye shall not forth to-night!"

Out spake the eldest proudly, And toss'd his cluster'd curls,— "I go to meet my Jacqueline, My blue-eyed girl of girls!"

Out spake the second loudly, "Nor Lutin, elf, or fay, Shall keep me from the beach to-night, Where foams the flashing spray!"

"And thou, my fair-hair'd darling! My beautiful and bright! Of stories fine, great store have I, Thou wilt not forth to-night?"

"Nay, grandam!" lisp'd the loved one, With playful, pleading look, "Thy legends keep, till I come back, With blossoms from the brook!"

"They're gone!" old Margaret murmur'd, And fierce the Mistral blew, And spirit voices echo'd round, "Gone! gone!" the long night through!—

"She talk'd of wind and tempest," The careless wanderers cried,— "Now never walk'd the moon in heaven, With more resplendent pride!

"Ha! there's old Caspar's horse, His mane like midnight flows, Mount! mount! away, my little steed! How gallantly he goes!

"He'll bear us to the fountain; He'll have a glorious ride!" "Oh! brothers dear—I fear—I fear!" The youthful Adolphe cried,—

"He goes not to the fountain— I hear the sea-waves roar— And hark! the tempest raves above— And see—the rain doth pour!

"Oh! turn him!—turn him homeward! How wild—how fast he flies! It is—it is—a Lutin-steed! And he who rides him—dies!"

They strove in vain to turn him, They strove to check his speed;— The lightning glares!—the thunder howls Around the demon-steed!—

The ocean heaves before him— He neighs with fiendish joy— His flaming hoofs have touch'd the beach— Heaven save that hapless boy!

The cold waves kiss their white lips, And deeper yet they go; The cold waves close above their heads,— And drown that shriek of wo!—

The maiden at her lattice,— The grandam at her door,— And morning on the misty hills!— But they come never more!

Love's Reply

And proud Georgine,—with stately mien, And glance of calm hauteur, Who moves—a Grace,—and looks—a queen, All passionless and pure;

And Kate, whose low, melodious tone Is tuned by Truth and Feeling, Whose shy yet wistful eyes talk on, When fear her lips is sealing.

"From what far country shall I write?" I ask'd, with pride elated, "From what rare monument of art Shall be my letters dated?"

Julie toss'd back her locks of light, With girlish grace and glee,— "To me from glorious Venice write, Queen-city of the Sea!"

"And thou, Georgine?" Her dark eyes flash'd,— "Ah! date to me your lines From some proud palace, where the pomp Of olden Honor shines!"

But Kate,—the darling of my soul, My bright, yet bashful flower, In whose dear heart some new, pure leaf, Seems to unfold each hour,—

Kate turn'd her shy, sweet looks from mine, Lest I her blush should see, And said—so only Love could hear— "Write from your heart to me!"

The Fan

Till the lay of love shall seem Light and airy as its theme.

Ah! not unto mortal wight Wilt thou whisper, frolic sprite! Fancy! wave thy fairy wing, While the magic Fan I sing!

Airy minister of Fate, On whose meaning motions wait Half an hundred butterflies, Idle beaux—more fond than wise— Basking in the fatal smile That but wins them to beguile! Blest be they who fashion'd thee, Beauty's graceful toy to be! Virgin gold from Orient cave— Veined pearl from ocean's wave— Showing like her temples fair Through her curls of lustrous hair— Tints of richest glow and light From a master's palette bright, On the parchment rarely wrought, Till the painting life has caught,—

All have made thee plaything fit, For a maiden's grace and wit. She can teach thee witchery's spell, Make thy lightest motion tell, Bid thee speak, though mute thou art, All the language of the heart.

When her eyes say softly "yes," Thou canst hide and yet express All the enchanting blush would speak While it warms her modest cheek, And thy motion well can show, With one flutter to or fro, Her disdain's indignant "no."

Queen of fans! the downy pressure Of her snow-white, dimpled hand, As it clasps the costly treasure, Wrought in India's glowing land, Has it not a soul impress'd On the toy by her caress?

Ah! what ministry divine, Frail, yet love-taught fan, is thine!

Thou shouldst be a beauteous bird, Flying at her lightest word, Nestling near her silken zone, Like a gem on Beauty's throne, Or a young aerial sprite Watching every smile of light: Art thou not? Methinks I trace, Bow and then, an angel face Gleaming, as thy painted wing Flies before her—happy thing! Sometimes I could almost swear Love himself had hidden there, Aiming thence his shafts of fire, Now in sport and now in ire. Hearts obey each proud behest By thy lightest touch express'd, As thou glancest to and fro, Fluttering in her hand of snow. So, fair spirit, fold thy wing While thy ministry I sing! Softly wave each careless curl O'er her brow—the radiant girl; Fan each pure and precious tint Feeling on her cheek doth print;

Wake it from its pure repose, Till the dear blush comes and goes; Shade the dimple's frolic grace Sporting o'er her sunny face; Hide the smile of playful scorn From her spirit's buoyance born; Veil the timid sigh that parts, Trembling, from her "heart of hearts;" Aid the glances—words of light— Flashing from her eye's blue night, And her dearest bidding do, Like an Ariel fond and true!

All sweet airs and incense wait On thy wave, fair wand of Fate! Soft and balmy, as her sigh, Be each zephyr thou dost wake, Round her graceful head to fly, Blest be thou for Beauty's sake!

Yet, oh spirit! fold thy wing, While thy ministry I sing! Show her how some touch, too bold, Marr'd thy robe of pearl and gold;

Whisper as thou wavest by, Beauty's light like thine will die If she waste its bloom divine On the idlers round her shrine; Warn her that her spirit's wing Be not ever fluttering; For if that should break, or show Lightest shade upon its snow, Lives no mortal artisan That can make it bright again! Tears may bathe the broken plume, Sighs may mourn its early doom— Only may it hope for rest Folded on the Father's breast.

So, fair spirit, wave thy wing, And my message softly sing! "Do thy spiriting gently" there, Lest thou wound a soul so rare, And be this the warning dear Murmur'd in her ivory ear—

Lovely lady, have a care! Words are more than idle air,

Smiles can surer wound or heal Than the stars, whose light they steal. She whose power is undenied Should have pity with her pride, Should remember, while her frown Clouds the hope she may not crown, Rarest skill and subtlest art Cannot mend the broken heart!" So, fair spirit, wave thy wing, And thy warning softly sing!

To Sybil

tpp|TO SYBIL.| {smaller} Sooth her in sorrow and brighten her smile; Chide her most gently if folly beguile; One so unsullied and trustful of heart, From the good shepherd will never depart.

{smaller} Now she adores thee as one without spot, Dreams not of sorrow to darken her lot. Joyful, yet tearful, I yield her to thee; Take her, the light of thy dwelling to be." >><< Yes! go to him—thy young heart full

Of passionate romance,

And be the fiat of thy fate

His lordly word and glance!

Be thy soul's day, his careless smile;

His frown, its clouded night;

His voice, the music of thy life;

His love, thy one delight!|e=stanza

Sit at his feet, and raise to his Those large, pure, dreaming eyes, And tell him all thy lovely thoughts As radiantly they rise.

Press to his hand that childish cheek, And stroke his stern dark face, And charm him with thy ways so meek, Thy glad, aerial grace!

Look for his coming with clasp'd hands And hush'd and listening heart, And strive to hide thy joyous tears With woman's bashful art.

And in thy low Eolian tones, Melodiously wild, Falter thy fond, sweet welcome out, Oh, rare, enchanting child!

Then if he coldly turn away, In silence to him steal, And touch his soul with one long gaze Of passionate appeal.

I know them all—th' endearing wiles— The sweet, unconscious art— The graceful spells that nature taught Her darling's docile heart.

I know them all—I've seen thee lift, At some unkindly tone, Those dark, upbraiding eyes of thine, Where sorrowing wonder shone,

And sudden tears would dim the glance, And then—the wrong forgiven— A smile would steal up in the cloud, Like starlight into heaven.

Go—try them all—those girlish wiles! He cannot choose but love, He cannot choose but guard from ill His little, nestling dove!

For rare, my Sybil, 'tis to see Thy iris-mind unfold; The magic of th maiden glee, That turns all gloom to gold;—

Th' aurora blush that on thy cheek Thy heart's love-story tells; The wondrous world within thine eyes Lit up like the gazelle's.

But if thou think'st, dear dreaming child! That he will watch as now, In after years, each smile and shade That cross thy changing brow;

And modulate his tone to meet The pleading of thy soul, And feel in all his wanderings, Thy gentle breast his goal;

And daily feed thy mind and heart With hallow'd love and lore, Nor turn from those imploring eyes, That wistful look for more;

And watch thee where—as borne in air— Thou float'st the dance along, And deem thy form alone is fair, Of all the fairy throng;

In transport look and listen when Thy light caressing hands Lure forth the harp's harmonious soul, From all its silver bands;

Indulgent stoop his falcon-will To let it fly with thine, And smile in manly pride to see His pet's soft plumage shine;

And yield to every gay caprice, And grieve for every sigh, And grant all airy hopes that play On pleading lip or eye;

If this thy dream, enthusiast, be, I can but idly pray, Heaven shield thee in thy waking hour, And keep it long away!

A Flight of Fancy

Any question to your ear, so lightly you're led, At once to gay Fancy, you turn your wild head; And she leads you off in some dangerous dance, As wild as the Polka that gallop'd from France.

"Now up to the stars with you, laughing, she springs, With a whirl and a whisk of her changeable wings; Now dips in some fountain her sun-painted plume, That gleams thro' the spray, like a rainbow in bloom; Now floats in a cloud, while her tresses of light Shine through the frail boat and illumine its flight; Now glides through the woodland to gather its flowers; Now darts like a flash to the sea's coral bowers; In short—cuts such capers, that with her I ween It's a wonder you are not ashamed to be seen!

"Then she talks such a language!—melodious enough, To be sure--but a strange sort of outlandish stuff! I'm told that it licenses many a whapper, And when once she commences no frowning can stop her;

Since it's new—I've no doubt it is very improper! They say that she cares not for order or law; That of you—you great dunce!—she but makes a cat's paw. I've no sort of objection to fun in it's season, But it's plain that this Fancy is fooling you, Reason!

Just then into court flew a strange little sprite, With wings of all colors and ringlets of light! She frolick'd round Reason—till Reason grew wild, Defying the court and caressing the child. The judge and the jury, the clerk and recorder, In vain call'd this exquisite creature to order:— "Unheard of intrusion!"—They bustled about, To seize her, but, wild with delight, at the rout, She flew from their touch like a bird from a spray, And went waltzing and whirling and singing away!

Now up to the ceiling, now down to the floor! Were never such antics in courthouse before! But a lawyer, well versed in the tricks of his trade, A trap for the gay little innocent laid: He held up a mirror, and Fancy was caught

By her image within it, so lovely, she thought. What could the fair creature be!—bending its eyes On her own with so wistful a look of surprise! She flew to embrace it. The lawyer was ready: tie closed round the spirit a grasp cool and steady, And she sigh'd, while he tied her two luminous wings, "Ah! Fancy and Falsehood are different things!"

The witnesses--maidens of uncertain age, With a critic, a publisher, lawyer and sage— All scandalized greatly at what they had heard, Of this poor little Fancy, (who flew like a bird !) Were call'd to the stand and their evidence gave: The judge charged the jury, with countenance grove. Their verdict was "guilty," and Reason look'd down, As his honor exhorted her thus, with a frown:—

"This Fancy, this vagrant, for life shall be chain'd, In your own little cell, where you should have remain'd; And you—for your punishment—jailer shall be: Don't let your accomplice come coaxing to me! I'll none of her nonsense—the little wild witch! Nor her bribes—although rumor does say she is rich.

"I've heard that all treasures and luxuries rare, Gather round at her bidding, from earth, sea, and air; And some go so far as to hint, that the powers Of darkness attend her more sorrowful hours. But go!" and Judge Conscience, who never was bought, Just bow'd the pale prisoner out of the court.

'Tis said,—that poor Reason next morning was found, At the door of her cell, fast asleep on the ground, And nothing within, but one plume rich and rare, Just to show that young Fancy's wing once had been there. She had dropp'd it, no doubt, while she strove to get through The hole in the lock, which she could not undo.

The Heart's Answer

"Ask not the word from my lips, love; Need'st thou so idle a sign! Dost thou not hear my heart answer, Thus beating softly on thine?"

Love's Mistake

And while the wily siren sings, The boy forgets his angel-wings!

Yet still he sometimes leaves his play, And asks to Virtue's shrine the way; But Beauty weaves anew her chain, And Virtue looks for Love in vain.

To a Dear Little Truant

Up in the blue air, the clouds are at play,— You are more graceful and lovely than they; Birds in the branches sing all the day long, When are you coming to join in their song? Fairer than flowers, and freshet than dew! Other sweet things are here,—why are not you?

Why don't you come? we have welcomed the Rose! Every light zephyr, as gayly it goes, Whispers of other flowers, met on its way, Why has it nothing of you, love, to say? Why does it tell us of music and dew? Rose of the South! we are waiting for you!

Do not delay, daring, 'mid the dark trees, "Like a lute" murmurs the musical breeze; Sometimes the brook, as it trips by the flowers, Hushes its warble to listen for yours. Pure as the rivulet,—lovely and true! Spring should have waited till she could bring you!

Lulu

There are bright eyes by thousands, Black, hazel, and blue; But whose are so loving As those of Lulu!

And waves of soft hair, That a poet would vow Was moonlight on marble, Droop over her brow. The rose rarely blooms Thro' that light, silken maze, But when it does play there, How softly it plays! Oh! there's many a maiden More brilliant, 'tis true, But none so enchanting As little Lulu!

She flits, like a fairy, About me all day, Now nestling beside me, Now up and away! She singeth unbidden, With warble as wild

As the lay of the meadow-lark, Innocent child! She's playful, and tender, And trusting, and true, She's sweet as a lily, My dainty Lulu!

She whispers sweet fancies, Now mournful, now bright, Then deepen her glances, With love and delight; And the slow, timid smile, That dawns in her face, Seems fill'd with her spirit's Ineffable grace. Oh! the world cannot offer A treasure so true, As the childlike devotion Of happy Lulu!

A Reply to one who said, "Write from your Heart"

The carol low, As coo of dove He warbles to his woodland-love!

The world would say 'Twas vain and wild, Th' impassion'd lay of Nature's child; And Feeling, so Should veil the shrine, Where softly glow her fires divine!

To My Mother

I would not, for all that the Future can bring me, Forget the dear hours when I sat at your feet, The song, that was sure of approval to sing thee, The look, that was always so loving to meet.

When I flew to your smile with each joyous emotion, But hid from your heart every sorrow I knew;— Oh! wayward perhaps was my childish devotion; But it ne'er for a moment was cold or untrue.

And still, when the chill wing of wo darkens o'er me, I am grateful its shadow extends not to thee; While if Praise thrill my heart or if joy smile before me, I sigh—"Could she know it, how glad she would be!"

Sweet mother! too fondly your darling you cherish'd, For me to forget you, wherever I go— Ah no: not till memory's power has perish'd; I love you too dearly to turn from you so!

Golden Rules in Rhyme

tpp|GOLDEN RULES IN RHYME.| <>from a matron to a maiden.

{fine} While I touch the string,

Wreathe my brows with laurel;

For the song I sing

Has for once a moral!"—Moore.

>><< Come listen, while in careless rhyme,

Some golden rules I give you

That you may hoard the wealth of Time,

And life may not deceive you.

In childhood's hours, when in the sun

Our sportive group assembled,

And off our frail pipes, one by one,

The glittering bubbles trembled;

If mine with lovelier lustre shone,

Or higher soar'd,—what trouble!

My brother, leaving all his own,

Blew out my beaming bubble!|e=stanza

And thus the world—when young Romance Her airy dreams is weaving, And Hope's soft rainbows round them dance, As radiant, as deceiving,

Thus will the world, my child, destroy, With treachery more refined, The soaring dreams of love and joy, The bubbles of the mind!

Then yet in time a lesson learn, From one who learn'd too late, That world, whose laugh we laugh to scorn, Her fiat here is fate!

When honor, placed in reason's scales, Outweighs the owl's opinion, All free and fearless, trim your sails, And steer for Heaven's dominion!

But still in trifles, where no wrong Can come of yielding to her, Oh! chord with hers your careless song, And of her smiles be sure!

When Love would fling his flowery net Around your joyous spirit, Ask not for rank, or wealth, or wit, But yield to manly merit.

Remember—Love but seldom strings His flowers on golden wire, Remember—Wit has wanton wings, That might put out his fire.

Your heart be like a stainless glass, Where fleeting, outward graces But lend their beauty as they pass, And leave behind no traces;

On which—its subtle nature's such, The gem of gems—in glory— The diamond, with its lightning touch. Alone can write love's story.

As to the moon, the ocean's tide Subjects its strength unruly, So let a light from Heaven, love, guide The tide of passion truly.

If sorrow come—resist it not, Nor yet bow weakly to it; Look up to meet the Heaven-sent storm; But see the rainbow thro' it!

And let not pleasure's reckless hands Too often shake time's glass, love: At best, the few and priceless sands Too surely, swiftly pass, love!

And seek not bliss on airy heights, Where dizzy power doth rally! The "fragrant little heart's-ease" lights The lowliest, humblest valley.

The gem that clasps a royal robe The worldling's eye may dazzle, But Love will light his glow-worm lamp In cot as well as castle.

The magic flower in Erin's Isle, That bears about a blessing, Perchance is but good-humor's smile, A kindly heart's caressing.

If comes a blow, from friend or foe, With earnest good avenge it, "The sandal-tree, with fragrant sigh, Perfumes the axe that rends it."

Be like the sun, whose eye of joy Ne'er on a shadow lay, love! Be like the rill that singeth still, Whate'er be in its way, love

Ne'er waste your heart in vain regret, Tho' youth be dimm'd by care; "For lovelier flowers than summer wreathes May twine in winter's hair."

With childlike trust look forward still, For Heaven is always near; "Full oft our very fear of ill Exceeds the ill we fear."

Nor question Fate! the world-ship still Under seal'd orders sailing; 'Twere best the great Commander's skill To trust with faith unfailing.

Nor idly waste the golden hours, The plumes of Time's swift wings: The watch must still be wound to work, Or rust corrodes its springs.

If once a purpose pure and high You form, for naught forego it! "The mulberry leaf to silk is changed By Patience," says the poet.

Let Fancy fly her fairy kite, And light with wit its wing, dear But oh, lest it go out of sight, Bid Reason hold the string, dear.

For, soaring where the poet's heaven With starry gems is spangled It might, by Folly's zephyr driven, In moonshine get entangled.

Yet sneer not thou at those who rise To loftier delusions; "Great truths are oft," the sage replies, "Foreshadow'd by illusions."

Confide in Friendship's right good-will, But not too often task it; "It is the highest price we pay For any thing, to ask it."

If Nature's glorious overture Discordant seem to be, love, Be sure your heart is out of tune, And try the sounding key, love!

Let more than the domestic mill Be turned by Feeling's river; Let Charity "begin at home," But not stay there forever.

Look on the poor with pitying eyes, And "reason not the need;" For angels in that mean disguise May often ask their meed.

But if a debt by honor seal'd Uncancell'd yet remain, Oh, ne'er to generous impulse yield What Justice asks in vain!

Be frank and pure, and brave and true,— True to thyself and Heaven; And be thy friends, the gifted few; And be thy foes forgiven.

And hold thyself so dear, so high, That evil come not near thee, That meanness dare not meet thine eye, And Falsehood fly and fear thee!

Shrink not to aim the shafts of wit, At all that's mean or narrow; But oh, before you bend the bow, Be sure it holds the arrow!

Command your temper, guard your tongue, Lest they have sway undue; For deeds, not words, the bell be rung, Which fame may ring for you!

And so, if from my careless rhyme, You cull the rose of Reason, I have not wasted all my time, But said "a word in season."

A Song

Call me fond names, dearest! Call me a star, Whose smile's beaming welcome thou feel'st from afar, Whose light is the clearest, the truest to thee, When the "night-time of sorrow" steals over life's sea: Oh! trust thy rich bark, where its warm rays are, Call me pet names, darling! Call me thy star!

Call me dear names, darling! Call me thine own! Speak to me always in Love's low tone! Let not thy look nor thy voice grow cold: Let my fond worship thy being enfold; Love me forever, and love me alone! Call me pet names, darling! Call me thine own!

The Spirit's Voyage

But that they wear no smile of joy, And fondly watch its snowy wing, As if it were a holy thing:— Why send they forth their boat to be A plaything for the reckless sea "Oh, stranger! calm or wild the tide, Their light canoe will safely glide, And all unscathed by tempest-shock, By coral-reef or roughest rock, Ere morn, its white sail will be furl'd Forever in the spirit-world. A viewless hand that bark obeys, A voice unheard the sea-wave sways, A thing so holy and so fair, Serene and safe, is smiling there, That fiercest winds before it falter, And into harmless zephyrs alter. Ah! well may they the wanderer mark; For know,—within that blessed bark, The spirit of a little child Is playing on the waters wild! Behold our chieftain's burial-ground! We raised to-day another mound. Behold its lone and hallow'd tree So graceful and so fair was she.

But look!—the boat is seen no more; The mourning train have left the shore; And, hark! those accents sad and wild! Our island chief laments his child."

No more with lightest limbs she'll spring Far up the cocoa-tree, No more the cocoa-cup she'll bring, With sunny smile to me!

But safer, through the land of souls, Those tender feet shall go, And where the endless river rolls, More rich the cocoas grow;

And still beneath her joyous hand The spirit-fruit shall rise, Forever blooming through the land, Where nothing droops and dies!

Her dark hair's long and glossy stream, And wreaths of rainbow shells shall gleam Around her arms and neck.

Play on amid those fragrant bowers, My fair and happy child! Ere long another bark of ours Shall brave the waters wild;

And though 'twould scarce—a boat so weak, The sin-weighd soul, sustain, A father's spirit cannot seek His only child in vain!

A Remonstrance

Where the skies seem to bend, in their luminous beauty, So loving and low o'er the green mountain-sod, That the spirit, attuned to devotion and duty, Sees Nature embracing her Father and God!

No temple can match, with a glory so solemn, The forest-cathedral that rises around; The pine's stately shaft, for the fair marble column, All vein'd with the sunlight, and gracefully crown'd;

Its dome—the unlimited arch, glowing o'er us; Its censer—yon budding spray, swung by the breeze; Its music—the hymn of the fountain before us; Its light—Heaven's smile—stealing soft through the trees:

And oh! the bright treasures around and below us, The buds of the wild mountain-laurel, behold! So perfect, so gem-like! where, where will you show us A richer mosaic in temple of old?

Profane not the place by so base a libation! Look around ye—look upward! and drink if ye dare! Away with the wine-cup, the curse of creation! Yon fount has enough for us all, and to spare.

"Bois ton Sang, Beaumanoir"

Back to the battle, with forehead all flush'd, Stung to wild fury, the noble youth rush'd! Scorn in his dark eyes—his spirit on fire— Deeds were his answer that day to his sire. Still where triumphant the young hero came, Glory's bright garland encircled his name; But in her bower, to beauty a slave, Dearer the guerdon his lady-love gave, While on his shield that no shame had defaced, "Bois ton sang, Beaumanoir!" proudly she traced!

The Lily's Delusion

"Why does he gaze on me the while!" The light, deluded Lily said.

Poor dreaming flower!—too soon beguiled, She cast nor thought nor look elsewhere, Else she had known the star but smiled To see himself reflected there.

The Fetter 'neath the Flowers

Long she sported freely, lightly, With her soft and glowing chain;— "Nay ! it clasps my heart so tightly, I must break the toy in twain."

Vain resolve!—the tie that bound her, Harden'd 'neath her struggling will; Fast its blossoms remonstrance fell around her, But the fetter linger'd still.