Poems

Front matter

BY

AMELIA.

SECOND EDITION, ENLARGED.

The Rainbow

POEMS.

How calm was the ocean! how gentle its swell! Like a woman's soft bosom it rose and it fell; While its light sparkling waves, stealing laughingly o'er, When they saw the fair rainbow, knelt down on the shore. No sweet hymn ascended, no murmur of prayer, Yet I felt that the spirit of worship was there, And bent my young head, in devotion and love, ’Neath the form of the angel, that floated above.

How wide was the sweep of its beautiful wings! How boundless its circle! how radiant its rings! If I looked on the sky, 't was suspended in air; If I looked on the ocean, the rainbow was there; Thus forming a girdle, as brilliant and whole As the thoughts of the rainbow, that circled my soul. Like the wing of the Deity, calmly unfurled, It bent from the cloud and encircled the world.

There are moments, I think, when the spirit receives Whole volumes of thought on its unwritten leaves, When the folds of the heart in a moment unclose Like the innermost leaves from the heart of a rose. And thus, when the rainbow had passed from the sky, The thoughts it awoke were too deep to pass by; It left my full soul, like the wing of a dove. All fluttering with pleasure, and fluttering with love.

I know that each moment of rapture or pain But shortens the links in life's mystical chain;

I know that my form, like that bow from the wave, Must pass from the earth, and lie cold in the grave; Yet O! when death's shadows my bosom encloud, When I shrink at the thought of the coffin and shroud, May Hope, like the rainbow, my spirit enfold In her beautiful pinions of purple and gold.

Melodia

I've gazed on many a brighter face, But ne'er on one for years, Where beauty left so soft a trace As it had left on hers. But who can paint the spell, that wove A brightness round the whole? 'T would take an angel from above To paint the immortal soul— To trace the light, the inborn grace, The spirit, sparkling o'er her face.

Her bosom was a soft retreat For love, and love alone, And yet her heart had never beat To Love's delicious tone. It dwelt within its circle free From tender thoughts like these, Waiting the little deity, As the blossom waits the breeze Before it throws the leaves apart And trembles, like the love-touched heart,

She was a creature, strange as fair, First mournful and then wild— Now laughing on the clear bright air As merry as a child, Then, melting down, as soft as even Beneath some new control, She'd throw her hazel eyes to heaven And sing with all her soul,

In tones, as rich as some young bird's, Warbling her own delightful words.

Melodia! O how soft thy darts, How tender and how sweet! Thy song enchained a thousand hearts And drew them to thy feet; And, as thy bright lips sang, they caught So beautiful a ray. That, as I gazed, I almost thought The spirit of thy lay Had left, while melting on the air, Its sweet expression painted there.

Sweet vision of that starry even! Thy virgin beauty yet, Next to the blessed hope of heaven. Is in my spirit set. It is a something, shrined apart, A light from memory, shed, To live until this tender heart. On which it lives, is dead— Reminding me of brighter hours, Of summer eves and summer flowers.

The Freed Bird

Up, where the morning stars once sang together, To pour the fullness of thine own rich song; And now thou'rt mirrored to my dazzled view, A little dusky speck amid a world of blue.

Yet I will shade mine eye and still pursue thee, As thou dost melt in soft ethereal air. Till angel-ones, sweet bird, will bend to view thee, And cease their hymns awhile thine own to share; And there thou art, with light clouds round thee furled, Just poised beneath yon vault, that arches o'er the world.

A free wild spirit unto thee is given, Bright minstrel of the blue celestial dome! For thou wilt wander to yon upper heaven, And bathe thy plumage in the sunbeam's home; And, soaring upward from thy dizzy height On free and fearless wing, be lost to human sight.

Lute of the summer clouds! whilst thou art singing Unto thy Maker thy soft matin hymn, My own mild spirit, from its temple springing, Would freely join thee in the distance dim; But I can only gaze on thee and sigh With heart upon my lip, bright minstrel of the sky!

And yet, sweet bird! bright thoughts to me are given As many as the clustering leaves of June; And my young heart is like a harp of heaven, For ever strung unto some pleasant tune;

And my soul burns with wild poetic fire, Though simple are my strains, and simpler still my lyre.

And now, farewell! the wild wind of the mountain And the blue streams alone my strains have heard; And it is well, for from my heart's deep fountain They flow, uncultured, as thine own, sweet bird! For my free thoughts have ever spurned control, Since this heart held a wish, and this frail form a soul!

The Sea-Shell

Scattered in waste o'er that sea-gulf of tombs? Hush thy low moan and tell.

But yet, and more than all— Has not each foaming wave in fury tost O'er earth's most beautiful, the brave, the lost, Like a dark funeral pall?

'T is vain—thou answerest not? Thou hast no voice to whisper of the dead; 'T is ours alone, with sighs like odors shed, To hold them unforgot!

Thine is as sad a strain, As if the spirit in thy hidden cell Pined to be with the many things, that dwell In the wild restless main.

And yet there is no sound Upon the waters, whispered by the waves, But seemeth like a wail from many graves, Thrilling the air around.

The earth, O moaning shell! The earth hath melodies more sweet than these— The music gush of rills, the hum of bees Heard in each blossom's bell.

Are not these tones of earth, The rustling forest, with its shivering leaves,

Sweeter than sounds that e'en in moonlit eves Upon the seas have birth?

Alas! thou still wilt moan— Thou 'rt like the heart that wastes itself in sighs E'en when amid bewildering melodies, If parted from its own.

On Seeing an Infant Sleeping on its Mother's Bosom

And the new moon, like a pure shell of pearl Encircled by the blue waves of the deep, Lay 'mid the fleecy clouds, that love to curl Around the stars when they their vigils keep.

My heart grew softer, as I gazed upon That youthful mother as she soothed to rest, With a low song, her loved and cherished one, The bud of promise, on her gentle breast; For 't is a sight, that angel-ones above May stoop to gaze on from their bowers of bliss, When Innocence upon the breast of love Is cradled, in a sinful world like this.

The Green Mossy Bank

How glad was my spirit! for then there was nought To burthen its wing, save some beautiful thought Breaking up from its depths with each wild wind, that blew O'er the green mossy bank where the buttercups grew.

The paths I have trod I would quickly retrace, Could I win back the gladness, that looked from my face As I cooled my warm lip in that fountain, I love With a spirit as pure as the wing of a dove— Could I wander again where my forehead was starred With the beauty that dwelt in my bosom unmarred, And, calm as a child in the starlight and dew, Fall asleep on the bank where the buttercups grew.

Musings

They linked their hands, but, ere I caught Their sprinkled drops of dew, They kissed my feet, and, quick as thought, Away the ripples flew.

The twilight hours, like birds, flew by, As lightly and as free; Ten thousand stars were in the sky, Ten thousand on the sea; For every wave with dimpled face, That leaped upon the air, Had caught a star in its embrace And held it trembling there.

The young moon too with upturned sides Her mirrored beauty gave, And, as a bark at anchor rides, She rode upon the wave; The sea was like the heaven above, As perfect and as whole, Save that it seemed to thrill with love As thrills the immortal soul.

The leaves, by spirit-voices stirred, Made murmurs on the air, Low murmurs, that my spirit heard And answered with a prayer; For 't was upon that dewy sod, Beside the moaning seas,

I learned at first to worship God And sing such strains as these.

The flowers, all folded to their dreams, Were bowed in slumber free By breezy hills and murmuring streams, Where'er they chanced to be; No guilty tears had they to weep, No sins to be forgiven; They closed their leaves and went to sleep 'Neath the blue eye of heaven.

No costly robes upon them shone, No jewels from the seas, Yet Solomon, upon his throne, Was ne'er arrayed like these; And just as free from guilt and art Were lovely human flowers, Ere sorrow set her bleeding heart On this fair world of ours.

I heard the laughing wind behind A-playing with my hair; The breezy fingers of the wind— How cool and moist they were! I heard the night-bird warbling o'er Its soft enchanting strain; I never heard such sounds before, And never shall again.

Then wherefore weave such strains as these And sing them day by day, When every bird upon the breeze Can sing a sweeter lay! I'd give the world for their sweet art, The simple, the divine— I'd give the world to melt one heart As they have melted mine.

To the Sky-Lark

And from her full melodious heart She pours her strains of love; And now her quivering wings fling back The golden light, that floods her track, Now scarcely seems to move, But floats awhile on waveless wings, Then soars away, and, soaring, sings.

Bird of the pure and dewy morn! How soft thy heavenward lay Floats up, where light and life are born Around the rosy day! And, as the balm that fills the hour Lies soft upon each waving flower, The happy wind at play Tells, as its voice goes laughing by, The lark is singing in the sky.

When shall thy fearless wing find rest, Bird of the dewy hours? When wilt thou seek thy little nest, Close hid among the flowers? Not till the bright clouds, one by one, Are marshalled round the setting sun, In heaven's celestial bowers, Shall the old forest round thee fling Its mournful shades, O lonely thing!

Lonely! and did I call thee lone? 'T was but a careless word:

The round blue heaven is all thine own, O free and happy bird! Wherever laughs a singing rill, Or points to heaven a verdant hill, Thy waving wing hath stirred; For all sweet things, where'er they be, Are like familiar friends to thee.

Could I, O living lute of heaven! But learn to act thy part, And use the gift so freely given, That floods my inmost heart; Each morn, my melting strains of love Should rise like thine to Him above, Who made thee what thou art, And spread abroad each waving tree, For thee, O little bird! for thee.

And shall the poet envy thee, Bird of the quivering wing, Whose soul immortal, swift, and free, Should ever soar and sing? Predestined for a loftier flight, The spirit, filled with heavenly light, From this cold earth shall spring, And soar where thou canst never roam, Bird of the blue and breezy dome!

O! if our hearts were never stirred, By harsher sounds than these—

The low sweet singing of a bird, The murmur of the breeze,— How soft would glide our fleeting hours, Blest as the sunshine and the flowers, And calm as summer seas! Linked hand in hand with Love and Hope We'd wander down life's flowery slope.

To a Lovely Girl

And, as for me, where'er my footsteps wend, My heart brim full of thee, my happy friend! Shall pine, when musing on thy sweet young face, Thine airy footstep, and thy breezy grace, To lay a soft hand 'mid thy trembling curls And bless thee as the loveliest of girls.

Lines to a Lady

Her voice was like the softest flow Of some melodious breeze; Yes, she was young and fair, but O! Her charms were more than these.

O, how I loved her! yet, methinks, Should friendship's glittering chain Unite in bliss its broken links, Around my heart again, Those soft and melting orbs of thine, That sparkle as they burn, From this too tender heart of mine Would meet a soft return; For, lady! till that first sweet even, You stole within my view, My melting heart to her had given The softest throbs it drew.

O, could thy glowing fancy trace The form, my fancy sees— The ringlets lifted from her face By every passing breeze; The clearness of her ample brow, Her orbs of hazel hue Soft melting on thee—even thou Would st love and mourn her too! She lived as lives a peaceful dove; She died as blossoms die;

And now her spirit floats above, A seraph in the sky.

Farewell! I ask no vow of thine, I feel no foolish fears; For if thy heart be formed, like mine, For softness and for tears, Each whisper of the twilight breeze, Each murmur of the sea, Will fill thy heart with thoughts like these— Will fill it full of me; Each floating cloud, each trembling star, Will tell a tale of one, Who dwells, from thee and thine afar, Beneath the setting sun.

I Weep Not

And thy sweet form of grace, That went to rest too soon, And the turning up of thy young face Beneath the placid moon!

I sometimes think thy hand Is on my forehead prest, And almost feel thy tresses, fanned Across my beating breast, And catch the sunny flow Of thy mantle on the air, And turn to see if it is so— Alas! thou art not there!

And I wander out alone Beside the singing rills, When nothing but the wind's low tone Comes stealing down the hills; And while along the deep The moonbeams softly shine, My silent soul goes forth to keep Its blessed tryste with thine.

I weep not though thou'rt laid In such a lone dark place, Thou, who didst live without a shade, To cloud thy sweet young face; For now thy spirit sings Where angel-ones have trod,

Veiling their faces 'neath their wings Around the throne of God.

Thy faults were slight and few As human faults could be, And thy virtues were as many too, As gems beneath the sea; And thy thoughts did heavenward roam Until, like links of gold, They drew thee up to thy blue home Within the Saviour's fold.

Lines Written on a Miniature

Caught from the moving form, and breathing face, Beneath his touch, like soft enchantment stole, And on the ivory smiled the living soul! Flushed with delight, in that triumphant hour, His heart expanded like an opening flower; His hopes on airy wings were lightly raised, And all his soul exulted as he gazed. But ah! such thrilling joys are known to few, They are the painter's meed, the poet's due. And O! how sweet the bliss such joys impart, Although their very raptures break the heart! What, though the poet, bending o'er his lyre, Like his own songs, in sweetness may expire! Who would not, swan-like, waste his sweetest breath, To taste such rapture—die so sweet a death? Flushed, faint, and trembling at his own success, Such joys as these, the lonely painter bless. As some fair face his silent toil repays, And bursts in beauty on his raptured gaze, His thoughts, too sweet for mortal hearts to share, Float up to heaven, and find an echo there, While on his heart descends immortal fire, And his own soul becomes his funeral pyre.

I Know that thy Spirit

And pale, pale, alas! is thy rosy lip now, Its melody broken and gone, And cold is the young heart, whose sweet dreams below Were of summer, of summer alone.

Yet the rise and the fall of thine eyelids of snow O'er their blue orbs so mournfully meek, And the delicate blush that would vanish and glow Through the light of thy transparent cheek, And thy tresses all put from thy forehead away— These, these on my memory rise, As I gaze on yon bright orb, whose beautiful ray Hath so often been blest by thine eyes.

The blue-girdled stars and the soft dreamy air, Divide thy fair spirit and mine; Yet I look in my heart, and a something is there, That links it in feeling to thine: The glow of the sunset, the voice of the breeze, As it cradles itself on the sea, Are dear to my bosom, for moments like these Are sacred to memory and thee.

When Shines the Star

For never does the soft south wind Steal o'er the hushed and lonely sea, But it awakens in my mind A thousand memories of thee.

O! could I,—while these hours of dreams Are gathering o'er the silent hills, While every breeze a minstrel seems, And every leaf a harp, that thrills— Steal all unseen to some hushed place, And kneeling 'neath those burning orbs, For ever gaze on thy sweet face Till seeing every sense absorbs, And, singling out each blessed even The star, that earliest lights the sea, Forget another shines in heaven While shines the one beloved by thee!

Lost one! companion of the blest! Thou who in purer air dost dwell, Ere froze the life-drops in thy breast, Or fled thy soul its mystic cell, We passed on earth such hours of bliss As none but kindred hearts can know, And, happy in a world like this, But dreamed of that, to which we go, Till thou wert called in thy young years To wander o'er that shoreless sea,

Where, like a mist, Time disappears, Melting into Eternity.

I 'm thinking of some sunny hours, That shone out goldenly in June, When birds were singing 'mong the flowers With wild sweet voices all in tune; When o'er thy locks of paly gold Flowed thy transparent veil away, Till 'neath each snow-white trembling fold The Eden of thy bosom lay; And sheltered 'neath its dark-fringed lid, Till raised from thence in girlish glee, How modestly thy glance lay hid From the fond glances bent on thee.

There are some hours, that pass so soon, Our spell-touched hearts scarce know they end; And so it was with that sweet June, Ere thou wert lost, my gentle friend! O! how I'll watch each flower that closes Through autumn's soft and breezy reign, Till summer-blooms restore the roses, And merry June shall come again! But, ah! while float its sunny hours O'er fragrant shore and trembling sea, Missing thy face among the flowers, How my full heart will mourn for thee!

My Sisters

Will, like the perfume of each blossom, Live in our hearts where'er we roam, As when we slept on one fond bosom, And dwelt within one happy home.

I know that changes have come o'er us; Sweet Sisters! we are not the same, For different paths now lie before us And all three have a different name; And yet, if sorrow's dimming fingers Have shadowed o'er each youthful brow, So much of light around them lingers I cannot trace those shadows now. Ye both have those, who love ye only, Whose dearest hopes are round you thrown, While, like a stream that wanders lonely, Am I, the youngest, wildest one.

My heart is like the wind, that beareth Sweet scents upon its unseen wing— The wind! that for no creature careth, Yet stealeth sweets from every thing; It hath rich thoughts for ever leaping Up, like the waves of flashing seas, That with their music still are keeping Soft time with every fitful breeze; Each leaf that in the bright air quivers, The sounds from hidden solitudes,

And the deep flow of far-off rivers, And the loud rush of many floods; All these, and more, stir in my bosom Feelings that make my spirit glad, Like dew-drops shaken in a blossom; And, yet there is a something sad Mixed with those thoughts, like clouds, that hover Above us in the quiet air, Veiling the moon's pale beauty over, Like a dark spirit brooding there.

But, Sisters! those wild thoughts were never Yours! ye would not love, like me, To gaze upon the stars for ever, To hear the wind's wild melody. Ye 'd rather look on smiling faces, And linger round a cheerful hearth, Than mark the stars' bright hiding-places As they peep out upon the earth. But, Sisters! as the stars of even Shrink from day's golden flashing eye. And, melting in the depths of heaven, Veil their soft beams within the sky; So shall we pass, the joyous-hearted, The fond, the young, like stars that wane, Till every link of earth be parted, To form in heaven one mystic chain.

The First Death of the Household

And yet it seemed like sin to grieve For one so patient and resigned; For, if she mourned, 't was but to leave Such breaking hearts behind.

She died—yet death could scarcely chill Her smiling beauties, though she lay With cold extended limbs, for still Her face looked fairer than the day. Those eyes, once eloquent with bliss, Were closed as soft as shutting flowers. O! few could bear a sight like this, Yet such a sight was ours.

How slowly wore that long, long day! Like spirits in some haunted place We 'd sit and sigh, then steal away To look once more on that pale face; We could not think her soul had past The awful bounds of mortal strife, That the warm heart was cold at last, That loved us more than life.

And when the funeral rite was said, They bore her from our happy home, And left her with the silent dead, A pale-faced tenant of the tomb, They reared no marble 'mid the flowers Above her grave to mark the spot,

Yet many a heart as fond as ours Still holds her unforgot.

Months passed, yet still our sorrow gushed, The free glad laugh no more was heard, And many a little voice was hushed, That used to warble like a bird. And though at times we strove to smile Serenely for each other's sake, We wept in secret all the while As if our hearts would break.

Yet why should death be linked with fear? A single breath, a low-drawn sigh, Can break the ties, that bind us here, And waft the spirit to the sky. Such was her end, a calm release, No clingings to this mortal clod; She closed her eyes, and stood in peace Before a smiling God.

The Maiden's First Love

Thine is the mournful joy, that in the dawn Of early love upon the spirit broods, Till the young heart, grown timid as a fawn, Seeks the still star-light and the shadowy woods.

Yes, by the chastened light of those soft eyes, That never swam in sorrowing tears before, By the low breathing of those mournful sighs, That, like a mist-wreath, cloud thy spirit o'er, And by the color that doth come and go, Making more lovely thy bewildering charms— Maiden! ' t is love that fills thy breast of snow, Heaving with tender fears and soft alarms.

My bosom trembles at the love intense, Breathed eloquently from thine earnest eyes, The love that is to thee a new-born sense, Waking sweet thoughts and gentle sympathies; O! for the sake of all thou wert, and art, May Love's soft Eden-winds, that seem to kiss The very foldings of thy love-toned heart, Be but the prelude to some deeper bliss.

The Stars

Whose mossy sides went sloping to the sea Where slept another heaven serenely still, While, from the mighty strong-hold of the seas, The dead sent up their dirge upon the twilight breeze.

And there beneath a fringe of dewy leaves, That drooped away from many a bended bough, I used to lie on summer's golden eves, And gaze above as I am gazing now, Thinking each lustrous star a heavenly shrine For an immortal soul, and wondered which was mine.

But now the moon, beside yon lonely hill, Lifts high her trembling cup of paly gold, And all the planets, following slow and still, Along the deep their solemn marches hold, While here and there some meteor's startling ray Shoots streaks of arrowy fire far down the milky-way.

The milky-way! ah! fair, illumined path, That leadest upward to the gate of heaven, My spirit soaring from this world of scath, Is lost with thee amid the clouds of even, And there, upborne on Fancy's glittering wing, Floats by the golden gate, and hears the angels sing.

O! who can lift above a careless look, While such bright scenes as these his thoughts engage, And doubt, while reading from so fair a book, That God's own finger traced the glowing page,

Or deem the radiance of yon blue expanse, With all its starry hosts, the careless work of Chance?

O blessed stars! whene'er ye softly fling A silvery trembling down by lake and hill, 'T is then that sweet Religion's holy wing Broods o'er the spirit, and doth softly fill Its silent depths with that pure heavenly bliss, That we so seldom feel, save at an hour like this.

For ne'er since love's sweet raptures o'er me stole. As first its young existence dawned in sighs, Have I e'er felt such fullness in my soul, Such depth of softness at my heart and eyes, As I now feel upon this dewy sod. Pondering with holy awe the wondrous works of God.

Ye bring the time when happy lovers meet In some lone spot, when not a sound is heard Save their own sighs, or the unequal beat Of their young hearts to tender wishes stirred, As hand seeks hand, and meeting glances tell The unuttered tale of love, too sweetly, and too well.

But all in vain to thought's tumultuous flow I strive to give the strength of glowing words; The waves of feeling, tossing to and fro In broken music o'er my harp's loose chords, Give but their fainting echoes from my soul, As through its silent depths, their wild swift currents roll.

Yet, thou, who art mine inspiration, thou, For whose sweet praises still I strive to sing, I will not murmur once, when, bending low, At thy dear feet my broken harp I fling. Well pleased if others think this song I send, Though all unworthy praise, too simple to offend.

Stanzas

And star on star, all soft and calm, Floats up yon arch serenely blue, And lost to earth, and steeped in balm, My spirit floats in ether too.

Loved one! though lost to human sight, I feel thy spirit lingering near, As softly as I feel the light That trembles through the atmosphere; As in some temple's holy shades, Though mute the hymn, and hushed the prayer, A solemn awe the soul pervades, Which tells that worship has been there; A breath of incense left alone, Where many a censer swung around, Will thrill the wanderer like a tone, Who treads on consecrated ground.

I know thy soul, from worlds of bliss, That stoops awhile to dwell with me, Hath caught the prayer I breathed in this, That I at last might dwell with thee. I hear a murmur from the seas That thrills me like thy spirit's sighs; I hear a voice on every breeze; That makes to mine its low replies— A voice, all low and sweet, like thine, It gives an answer to my prayer,

And brings my soul from heaven a sign That it shall know and meet thee there.

I'll know thee there by that sweet face, Round which a tender halo plays, Still touched with that expressive grace That made thee lovely all thy days; By that sweet smile, that o'er it shed A beauty like the light of even, Whose soft expression never fled, Even when its soul had flown to heaven; I'll know thee by the starry crown, That glitters in thy golden hair: O! by these blessed signs alone I'll know thee there—I'll know thee there.

For thy soft eye, within whose sphere, The sweets of youth and beauty met, That swam in love and softness here, Must swim in love and softness yet; For O! its dark and liquid beams, Though saddened by a thousand sighs, Were holier than the light that streams Down from the gates of paradise— Were bright and radiant like the morn, Yet soft and dewy as the eve— Too sad for eyes where smiles are born— Too young for eyes, that learn to grieve.

I wonder if this cool, sweet breeze Hath touched thy lips and fanned thy brow; For all my spirit hears and sees Recalls thee to my memory now; For every hour we breathe apart Will but increase, if that can be, The love, that fills this mournful heart Already filled so full of thee; Yet many a tear these eyes must weep, And many a sin must be forgiven, Ere these pale lids shall sink to sleep— Ere thou and I shall meet in heaven.

Time

Swift stars shoot round thee in thy rapid flight, Dropping like gems from midnight's blue profound; Swept on with thee, through vast immensity, Each blazing sphere in its swift course revolves, The sunny streams go singing to the sea, And the blue wave upon the beach dissolves Like woman's hopes, and manhood's high resolves.