Poems

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S

BY

E. L. F.

The forget-me-not

S

BY

E. L. F.

to

MY HUSBAND AND CHILDREN

THIS VOLUME

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AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED

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CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED

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So calmly still, the dewy air Seemed but to breathe in slumber there. High rocks encircled that lone vale, Where dwelt the hero of our tale. A man, by age and sorrow bent, Had years of loneliness here spent— In this lone valley, far removed' From all he ever knew or loved. But deem not that he friendless dwelt, Or that all feeling was unfelt: The tow'ring rocks that fiercely flung Their giant fragments o'er the vale— The feeble flowers that closely clung To those rude tenements of the dale— The sweeping wind, the murmuring breeze, The shadowed foliage of the trees,— All things in nature seemed to be The friends of his adversity.

Long years had faded life's young bloom, And wrapt his soul in shades of gloom,

As o'er his darkly-troubled breast, That never knew one hour of rest, Dim visions of the past would roll In strange confusion round his soul; And then across his burning brow Would rush the thought, What am I now? A being lonely, wild, and rude— A man of earth, in solitude. … One night a vision (Wrapt his soul With fierce and startling deep control, And scenes and actions long gone by Were hurled o'er his memory, As If his wondering eyes were cast On some bright mirror of the past; And all he ever did or said Was in that fearful moment read:— His infant hours of laughing grace, When all the soul shone in his face; And those bright years, that knew the boy A playful child of mirth and joy; The scenes and visions that had shed Their light and shadow o'er his head,

And left the child a noble youth, With heart of love, and soul of truth— A being formed to grace the earth, A monument of beauty's worth! But ere those days of sunshine past, His young heart's promise was o'ercast. Who ever felt a moment's joy Unfollowed by a deep alloy, Or knew not life must ever be A vision of uncertainty? …He knew and loved a being bright, Who was to him a star of light, Or seemed an angel lent to earth To fix his soul on moral worth. Adela was the child of one O'er whom the tides of Fate had run With fearful force, and left her sire A man of deep and gloomy ire: And fits of passion, wild and deep, Would o'er his frenzied spirit sweep; While men would tremble neath the blight Of one whose frown was dark as night.

Yet there was one who had the power To soothe the terrors of that hour, And quell the fury of the storm That shook the tall and stately form,— His child, the idol of his soul, O'er these dark moments held control A sound, a breath from her could chase The demon from its lurking-place; Her sweet low voice, her fairy foot, The music of her magic lute,— A glance from her deep swimming eye, Would quell his fiercest agony. Then he would gaze on that dear face, Intently bent on his, to trace The shade depart from off that brow, Thus smiling on her brightness now; And then he felt there still was one To whom his spirit fondly clung; The last of his proud race was she, The lode-star of his destiny. Adela loved him—loved, 'tis true, But then she feared and dreaded too;

Alternate shadows crossed her mind, With feelings deep, though undefined; Obedience marked her inmost soul, She knew no law save his control: The last leaf of the fading tree Clung not with more intensity Unto the dark and withered bough Than she clung to her father now. … She knew young Rudolph—I loved him too, With feelings deep, intensely true: He was the friend of those bright years, When hope is life, and smiles and tears Alternately enfold the heart 'Neath visions that ere long depart, Unveiling to the trusting mind The world is not what it defined. Young Rudolph's history none could tell; There seemed a deep and mystic spell Encircling all that could relate To his untoward, friendless state. None knew the tale of ages gone, Saving the dark and stern one,

Who wrapt in shadows of the past The being on his bounty cast. He never felt a parent's care His infant joys or sorrows share, He never felt the voice of love O'er his young spirit gently move, Until he saw the bright Adel, And then the lightning of love's spell Broke o'er the spirit of life's dream, As sunshine o'er the darkened stream. But as he loved, hope, withering, fled, Like the pale memory of the dead. He knew and felt each childish scene Must cease to be what it had been, And that the day-dream of his soul Was but a visionary goal— A madd'ning hope, that chain'd his heart To one from whom he must depart. … Adela grew in beauty's light, A thing of earth, yet passing bright, And like the wild and blooming flower, That bent but to the fragrant shower,

She ne'er had felt the breath of storm Convulsive shake her fragile form. She knew her father's dreaded mood, His fierce-toned passion, wild and rude; And could his child, his own Adel, On whom his fondest day-dreams dwell— Could she, the only thing he loved, Behold that spirit deeply moved, And feel the deep-toned anger wrest Her image from his frenzied breast, Nor quail beneath the storm's frown, That bent her young heart's promise down? … She knew that in her infant years She was the promised bride of one Whose image haunted her with fears And terrors she in vain would shun:— A man of noble, far descent, O'er whom the shades of time had bent— An agèd Count, whose treasured gold His heart's best virtues did enfold— A man her inmost soul would shun, Must he, the hated, dreaded one,

Be doomed for her benighted heart, Her brightest hopes for ever part, The fairest visions of her mind Pass like the breathings of the wind? The thought was horror—yet she knew It was reality—too true! Her fate was fixed by one who never The thought and action deigned to sever, And bent her soul in silent grief, To misery without relief.

"Thy child shall yet live if my Prince doth know Three beings on earth who have ne'er felt woe, Whose bosoms have never re-echoed a sigh For the loved or the lost, who have long gone by."

And the Prince long sought, as the Sage had said, But years flew by, and his heart's hope fled; And he found 'twas a fruitless search at last; And his voice was hush'd o'er the silent past.

The sun shone brighter in those days, Fairer each flower that grew; The very birds sang lighter then, As if they loved them too.

I loved a fair and joyous girl, And made her all mine own; And here long months of tenderness In beauty glided on.

She was to me a brightening star Of life and love on earth, And joy lay laughing in her eye— Her very voice was mirth.

Those days were far too bright to last— Mine, but to pass away; And dread consumption's fatal blast Made all I loved its prey.

And it smiled upon her placid brow, Blushing on that fair cheek;

But the anguish of a breaking heart No words could ever speak.

I saw her dying day by day, And still no power to save The lovely and the loving one From the dark and cheerless grave.

And yet the sun, with brightening ray, Shone o'er the deep-blue sky, While my Mary's spirit passed away To its better home on high.

And I fled, from that sad hour, away, I knew not, cared not, whither; And I wished, in passion's fearful play, That we had died together.

And many a year I wandered far, In many a distant clime; And my heart's young grief is shadowed now By the blending hand of Time.

Sweet flowers in their beauty would stray, As if visions like these ne'er had been.

Oh! 'tis thus, in this world of care, Though age may be totterihg near, Youth smiles with as buoyant an air As if Time were no messenger here.

Roseneath, 1842.

Doth nothing earthly weigh 'gainst thee In boundless love's security?

Such are the doubts and fears that greet All those who sigh at Cupid's feet; There is no cure for love's deep spell, But there's a palliate—Marry well.

The music that I doted on, No more a pleasure lend.

I live the long sad hours away— They bring no joy to me; I never loved the bright or gay That was unshared by thee.

And from the depths of time will save, The tears and smiles that friendship gave.

Then wake not Memory's dreamy trance, Nor lose its time-reflecting glance; Think not the hour is spent in vain, That gives the past to thee again.

Through those dark trees, and streaming shone Like sheets of liquid flame.

And many a shadowy spot and lone, And many an aged tree, And fragments grey of rock and stone, Wake melody to me.

For oft before, in sunny hours, I've smiled o'er that loved scene; Oh! I do love the hallowed powers That echo what hath been.

A harmony pervades the whole, At once to calm and soothe the soul.

The music breathes from yonder rill, As onward flows the silvery stream— A scene as beautiful and still As ever haunted poet's dream.

The morn of life, however bright, Doth quickly vanish from our sight; And but a shade of what hath been, Remains to shadow out life's scene.

And there was ne'er a joyous heart Where sorrow was unfelt.

But long, long may your summer be, And bright your days of peace; And may ye find a home above, When earthly realms shall cease.

When years have stamped the brow of man With characters of life's brief span, His heart will echo this.

When years of sorrow blight the heart, And cherished hopes and joys depart Like visions of the night, 'Twill soothe the inmost soul to trace The scenes that time can ne'er efface— Our infant hours of light.

That those vivid circles that o'er the lip play With the light flash of lightning, our feelings portray!

There's a silence that speaks in the low hectic tinge, And the brilliancy sparkling beneath the dark fringe; And the throbs heard to beat in that fast-fading form, Tell a far sadder tale than the lip could have borne.

The jealous fear, the fretting care, Found no heart-aching echo there; And feelings, that for years had clung To the lone heart from whence they sprung, Were hushed awhile in that noiseless hour By the voiceless spell of nature's power.

I watch thee when midnight Hath darkened the earth, And that pure delight Is sweeter than mirth. Away with the brightness That's not from above! I worship no lightness That breathes not of love.

Long hushed hath been 'neath the blighting spell Of death's dark and chill alloy.

And the fairy dream of childhood's hour, That o'er my spirit passed, Was all too bright for the chilling power Of life's enduring blast.

Then tell me not of other years, For I would fain forget The joys and woes, the smiles and tears, That cling to memory yet.

tpp|THE FORGET-ME-NOT.| The spirit of the flowers one day A-botanising went, folk say, And stumbling o'er a lonely flower, No habitant of lady's bower— A tiny weed of palest blue, Celestial nature's fairest hue; While spiral stem, and leaves all green, Of colour faint as childhood's dream, Support the flower, in beauty grown, Thus blooming in a wild alone;}— And, conning o'er some name to bless This tiny gem of loveliness, The zephyring breeze the sound had caught, And murmuring breathed—Forget-me-not.

And bring the heart, with many a tear, The treasured tones it loved to hear— The gentle smile, that seemed to be A respite from earth's misery. Oh, crushing thought! that we live on, While those who made life blest are gone, And we are left alone, to brave The world's cold mockery to the grave. >>Oh! I would be alone In the dark hour, when pent-up grief Gives to the heart its own relief; When the deep tears' unheeding flow Tells of the heart's unmeasured woe, And passions play around the soul, All heedless of the past control— When all is hushed, and none to tell That burning bosom's rising swell. >>Oh! I would be alone In the bright, blissful summer's day, When all around is light and gay, And the dreamy spell of the sunny hour Will smile o'er bird, and tree, and flower;

Each blossom blush a deeper hue, As if it felt a gladness too, And perfumed zephyrs, hovering high, Lend a sweet fragrance to the sky, Where the light clouds fantastic play, Rejoicing in the bright array. Oh! then the weary heart may feel A calm enjoyance o'er it steal, Blessing all nature fair and bright, That thus can make the lone heart light, Chasing each sad and glistening tear, Hushing the voice of every fear. Oh! then the heart may muse away The memory of each sad dismay, And o'er the future fondly gaze, While hope on hope we onward raise. Each cherished thought of coming joy Is one bright promise—no alloy To wake the charm of that sweet dream, Gliding along life's fitful stream, Dancing in sunshine, till the mind Is lost, is dazzled, far behind,

Until at last some worldly care, Like a huge rock uplift in air, Breaks the pure radiance of the past— By far too bright and smooth to last: It may unite, yet be no more The same bright stream it was of yore. These lone, sweet hours I would not give For all that makes the gay heart live; The meaner joys, that cling to earth, Can never make existence worth; But the spell of nature lives for ever, And is to man a life-long treasure.

In all the fretwork of anxiety, That ever haunts each honour-gaining step Tn this strange life, that levels man with man, 'Neath the sad pressure of adversity. Some griefs there are that pass like clouds away, Leaving a sunshine brighter than before; And e'en the storm's dread and biting blast Must cease conflicting, and subside at last— But there's a sorrow that will last for ever, Wrapping the soul in grief too deep for words— Keen, burning feelings, that may never wake The slumbering echo of a kindred soul, And thoughts that soar on imag'ry's wild wing, And find no resting-place, but turn again To the lone shelter of that lonely heart.

Oh! think not there could ever be A thought of mine unshared by thee.

The deep emotions of that soul, Flushing the tell-tale cheek With thoughts of high and holy things, That words were faint to speak. Oh! I could gaze each hour away, Reading thy features' speaking play.

Or I would hush, in gentle calm, Thy mind with words of song, Whose tones could wake the melody Of worshipped days now gone; And I would be in soul with thee, Amid that speaking melody.

Oh! say not that thou canst not love, Thy heart is passion'é own, That only wants one gentle touch To thrill from tone to tone.

Oh! could I, dare I, touch that chord, Thou wert my own, in deed and word.

It is because thou art apart, A being wrapt and lone, All differing from those around, I'd make thee all mine own. And thou art fair, and good, and true, With something more, than all I knew.

Thou art not of the giddy throng, Who laugh each hour away, As if the heart could never know A shadow of decay. And yet thy smile is pure and bright— Something of mirth, yet more of light.

In heart and soul thou art above The many round thee met; And yet how few could ever tell What I can ne'er forget.

That mind may speak through beauty's eye, Though lip may not the look belie.

Oh! tell me, idol of my soul, If this fond prayer of mine, Concent'ring all my hopes in life, Is still unheard in thine? For I would rather die than live, To leave the hopes thy words can give.

Was false and fleeting as the light, Whose meteor phantoms greet the sight.

That smile of mirth and joyousness, That calm and placid brow— Oh! could I doubt their truthfulness? The thought is anguish now. And yet I love—yet live to tell Of this fond passion's fearful spell.

A spell it was, and is to me— My life's first joy—and blight; E'en thou couldst never be to me My young hope's visioned light: But in this bosom will remain, The poisoned barb that dealt its pain.

And thou wilt cease to wonder now, Why I am lone and sad; For thou wouldst think it stranger how I ever could be glad.

All I can give, all I can claim, Is friendship's dear and lasting name.

Forget what I have ever been, In thy love's dreamy hour; Oh! would that I could have foreseen, My all unwitting power: For, oh! it gives me untold pain, To know thou lov'st, yet love in vain.

For love can never more be mine, My passion's hour is gone; But had I loved a heart like thine, I ne'er had sorrow known: My heart is all unfit for thee— Nought but a blighted, withered tree.

Time soon will bring again to thee, A balm for present pain; And thou wilt cease to think of me, And learn to love again: For I would live, and hope to see Another's heart rejoice in thee.

Then mayest thou bless this year as other years, With lip of joy, and eye undimmed by tears, And give to God a heartfelt song of praise, And trust his power in yet unborn days. Yet there are some to whom this day may bring No voice of gladness, and no second spring— Whose hopes have fled like visions of the night, Too void, unreal, for earth's searching light— Whose fondest wishes fade and fall away, The cherished blossoms of a summer day— On whom misfortune bends with chilly eye, To freeze the soul in one bleak agony. To live, to know and feel this cherish'd life, Is but one heartless, aimless, weary strife Of joy and sadness, ennui and gloom— A trembling shadow, hov'ring o'er the tomb. To those who feel this wreck of soul, to-day Is but a stage of misery on their way; And to move onward, fretted, feverish still, Is the first impulse of creative will. Oh! there is mercy in the moving power, That gives no second acting of an hour:

There is no pause in time, the present's past Ere we one thought have o'er its briefness cast. We would not wish to live, oh, not again! A life so checkered with disease and pain, With grief and sadness,—even hope and joy Are dear-bought treasures of the heart's alloy. The very brightest, gayest, of earth's blest, Would tell the tale, if truth were all confest. And thus, as years fleet by in swift array, 'Tis but the short'ning of our fitful day. Oh! let us prize the present, passing hour, Brief as the beauty of a summer flower; The future is a mystery asleep— The hidden treasure of an unknown deep; In vain we think to reach, in vain to scan, The wonder-workings of the coming plan. How strange is man! how strange the human heart! Where bright emotions live but to depart, And earnest hopes but rear their head and die, Entombed by fate in sad adversity. Why seek for joy, that evanescent thing, Whose beauty's gone if we but touch its wing?

And sister pleasure gilds but to betray The phantom brilliance of a fitful day. Contentment may be ours, if we but seek The lasting treasures of its boundless keep; 'T will tame the eager soul, whose daily strife Is the protracted misery of life, And give to man a happiness secure, That through long years of suffering will endure, And sweeten life; while, to the lonely heart, 'T will be the sunshine of its better part. Yet let us hope and trust this year may bring, Like the fair flow'rets of the coming spring, A promise of much joy, and trust for ever That Power, which blends our good and ill together.

It breathes not of the common herd, In sight of human ken.

Like a lone spirit left on earth, Fond, desolate, and proud, Wailing the hour that gave it birth, Amid the heartless crowd.

The gentle music of the wave, Kissing the pebbly shore, As if it knew the joy it gave,, And would that it were more;—

The rushing of the waterfall, The gurgling of the stream— Will on my musing senses fall Like a sweet and pleasant dream.

The very air breathes summer joy— One long bright sunny smile— As if the earth had no alloy, The present to beguile.

Of all the joys that give the heart That bounding thrill of bliss, From all earth-brooding cares apart, There's none so sweet as this—

To see and feel the beautiful Around thee and above: Oh! this is earth's first joy to me— An atmosphere of love.

Wherever nature feeds my soul With beauty, rich and rare, My wandering thoughts, with fond control, Will turn to thee, Loch Gair.

The dearest moments fate has given, To woo my spirit's care, Or give my soul one gleam of heaven, Were passed by loved Loch Gair.

And live and love, two souls, to heaven, Although on earth one heart were given. … If worldly care disturbs the mind, And friends prove false, and fate unkind— When all around is dark and drear, With nought but woman's love to cheer, Man still may bless the hand of fate, And own earth is not desolate, If woman's love, and woman's care, Hush the wild voice of his despair. Woman, whose heart can only know A part of life's own care and woe; Whose griefs, like shadows, pass away, If love's own glance alluring stay— The one dear source of all her joy, Which, living on, bears no alloy. Oh! this can make her days appear One long bright smile, without a tear, And give her heart that joyous tone, That lives and lasts in love alone. … Man will go forth the world's own child, And many schemes careering wild,

Fill up the measure of a heart, Where love plays but inferior part; A pretty pastime, meant to chase The slow dull hours of life's sad pace. Or, like a sunbeam glancing o'er A waste, all dark and drear before— One momentary gleam of light, And all again is dark as night; And then the heart once more is given To all that calls the soul from heaven: Riches and power usurp the place Of nature's beauty, love and grace. Oh, fell ambition! whose vast power Is felt in life, through every hour, Welling affections to decay, Wearing each better grace away; Consuming hopes and blest emotions, Crushing the soul's own best devotions; Would that thy tyrant days were run, And love's soft reign on earth begun: When each, preferring other's weal, And feeling more, where others feel,—

When the heart beats with joy to see Another's greater ecstasy— Or give the heart a fond relief, By sharing half another's grief,— All would be bright, and pure, and good, With not one soul in solitude: No bosom feeding its despair, By brooding over bygone care, Till heart in selfish thought is cast, A broken reed, upon the past. But, oh! not thus should woman be, Not in her darkest misery; For ever and anon will gleam, Like the pure sunbeam o'er the stream, A thought, a sigh, for others given, The last faint gleam of her soul's heaven.

Oh, Molly dear! oh, Molly dear! Thy life seems a brig:ht dream, And thou hast much in life to cheer Thy passage down life's stream. Oh! may thy young heart never know One half this bosom's share of woe.

Oh, Molly dear! oh, Molly dear! May blessings on thee light; And may thy every smile and tear Be like the rainbow light. And thou art blessed if thou canst know No deeper shade of grief or woe.

Oh, Molly dear! oh, Molly dear! No parent's love hast thou; But I will watch each smile and tear, And shadow on thy brow. And pray that we may be for ever Entwined in heart and soul together.

In tracing o'er those memories of the past, Where joy and misery blend unto the last. But, oh! there is a pleasure greater still, When thought takes form 'neath man's creative will, And, in the long futurity of years, No sad distortion of our fate appears; When each fond hope seems nursed by smiles of joy, With not a trace of sadness to destroy; When all is bright, and earth in gladness seems The waking memory of our latent dreams. 'Tis the uncertainty of time that lends The mystic charm that for ever blends With all we know of Fate: if we but knew The many heart-breaks, we would fain eschew The dark misfortunes that for ever meet— The few rejoicings we would fondly greet; But hope, for ever buoyant, leaves behind Whate'er of misery might oppress the mind, And only trusts that future days may be A wider field for its expectancy. Oh, blessed thought! since man can never know The coming joy, there's no expectant woe

To darken life; where deeper shadows dwell Than bursting hearts can learn to bear with well. But when we know there is a home above, Where all is perfect and undying love, The heart will bend, in trusting grace, to meet The promised justice of the Mercy-seat.

But Nature, with smiles that are sweet and alluring, Can give to such darkness the prescience of day.

Oh! soft o'er the spirit comes Nature's own beauty, No feeling on earth bears the same calming power: Like a conscience ab rest—a bright soul in its duty, So tranquil the presence of fancy's fond hour.

It is not to all that this spirit is given— This worship of things that are lovely and good; But, oh! my heart tells me this bright beam of Heaven Is mine, midst the darkness of earth's solitude.

Oh! what is this spirit that steals From the bosom its loveliest sleep?

I know not: but yet I have felt This sadness the voice cannot tell; And the gloom o'er my spirit dwelt With a weary and heart-sick'ning spell.

There are bosoms that never throbbed— There are hearts that never knew This hour of the shadowing forth, Sad heritage of the few.

Oh! are there not griefs enough% Real, living, sad as true— That the heart claims kindred with, But mind must create anew?

But such is my spirit's frame— This shade o'er my heart's young life; And the past and the present agree To tell of the future's strife.

And dearer, sweeter far to thee, When thine in all its purity. For who reveals each treasured thought Unto the worldly giddy throng? As if heart-worship could be bought, Or sold, the wondering few among. I knew thee in thy girlish day, And thou wert grave as well as gay, Which told thy spirit had its care, Though mirth could also linger there; For sun and shadow there must be, To balance life's expectancy; And woman's heart, and woman's mind, Is purified when both's combined; As darkened sorrow clouds the heart, To leave it brighter, and depart. I see thee in thy wedding hour, That moment of love's thrilling power; I see the blush, the tear, the smile, Striving for mastery the while; I see the fond confiding glance That would each word of love enhance;

I see thee give thyself away— 'Tis done—and thou art his to-day. Oh! may he keep that sacred gift— A woman's love: his heart uplift In one long, fervent, hopeful prayer, To love, while life is beating there. And though life's storm may o'er thee lower, Thou'lt battle with its master-power, And feel no shadow dark can be While love lives on, and lives for thee. It tempers all this world can bring Of joy, or grief, to living thing. So my first hope and wish for thee Is love undying, fervent, free. May every blessing on thee light, My dearest Mary;—now, "Good-night."

First hope of every brighter hour, Thou'rt gone; and what is mine?—despair.

A few short months of bliss were mine, To die in one soul-crushing day; In silent grief we stood amazed— Heart-broken gasped, Is this decay?

So softly sleeping seemed my babe, Life's bloom scarce brushed from off his brow; I pressed the pale cold cheek, and felt That death could deal no deadlier blow.

No words can paint that hour of grief; Feelings too deep for tears may tell How Time, that brings all else relief, Bears with it but a darkened spell.

Nor would I even hush my sorrow: Treasured memories still live on, And holy day-dreams of a morrow, When I shall re-clasp mine own.

Turn from thy thoughts and feelings, turn and give Thy thoughts to others, lone, mayhap, as thee; Or list affection's calling—turn and live— This world bears each his load of misery.

The tones of duty flit across the mind, But love's soft whisper deepens in the heart; Let both their echo in my sadness find, And wake my being to its brighter part.