Poems

Front matter

.

c|.

.

Burns

.

'Tis sad to see the eyes we love, O'erflow with tears which cannot save; To leave the blessed sun above, For the pale twilight of the grave; And dark will be the hour, I ween, Which parts me from my "darling Jean."

Though dewy morn, and golden noon, Shall make the scenes I love look gay; By Yarrow's banks, and "bonnie Doon," My blithesome steps no longer stray. The breeze will curl the silver Dee, Whose glancing waves I may not see.

No more I muse the hours away, By wimpling burn, or heather wide, Or hasten back at gloamin' gray, To dear ones by the ingle side. The linnet on the hawthorne bough, From sadness cannot charm me now.

Though wild and wayward my career, By sorrow marked, by sin defiled, My Father, thou wilt deign to hear The prayers of thy repentant child. In folly's path I wandered free, But still my heart remembered thee.

With dear and ever new delight, I gazed on all thy hand hath made; The roaring linn, the rocky height, The burn that winds through sun and shade. I plucked the flowers along my road, And looked through nature up to God.

I loved the laverock's lay at morn, The mavis' song at eventide, The blossom of the hoary thorn, The daisy on the mountain side, The purple heather's tiny bell, The foxglove in the silent dell.

A May-day morn, or breezy noon, Could charm my thoughts from care away; I mused beneath the skies of June, And sighed o'er autumn's slow decay; And nature sometimes gave me leave, Their beauty in my strains to weave.

As well might clouds refuse to fly Which zephyrs on their pinions bear, Or the Æolian harp deny Its music to the streaming air, As the poor poet e'er refuse A tribute to his gentle muse.

I wove among our lonely hills Lays for the peasant in his cot, Of his own bright and dancing rills, And many a dear familiar spot: He sings them while at early day, His ploughshare turns the turf away.

I could not bend the knee to pride, Whose favors may be bought and sold, Or turn from honor's path aside, To "coin my mind" for paltry gold. My thoughts were free for all to share, As my own Scotland's mountain air.

But fortune smiled not on the bard Who ever held her favors light; His way was rough, his lot was hard, His noonday early changed to night; And now he mourns o'er wasted powers, O'er blighted hopes, and vanished hours.

Life's weary voyage is nearly o'er, Its strife, its passion, and its care, And soon my bark will reach the shore, Whose peaceful rest I sigh to share; Then let me still the sunlight see, Which is not long to shine for me.

The Broken Hearted

But insect hum, and voice of bird Should float upon the balmy air; The happy would not turn away While cheerful sights and sounds were there.

And if some gentle step should come With blossoms in the morning hours, O, welcome would the offering be, For I have dearly loved the flowers! Perchance my spirit, freed from pain, Might linger round the verdant tomb, To bless the loving hand that gave, And borrow pleasure from their bloom.

To-morrow, and the setting sun Its shadows round my rest will cast; I shall not watch the fading light, On tree and flower I look my last; And on those orbs of purest gold, So thickly strewn in yonder sky, With the fair goddess of the night Walking in loveliness on high.

Long have those bright, mysterious stars Their silent watch o'er sorrow kept,

And the pale moon looked calmly down, As if she saw no eyes that wept; There tracing still her radiant path, Far out upon the spotless blue, Why may not love thus steady burn? Why cannot friends be always true?

Still will they shine, when I am gone, As they have ever shone before; And weary eyes will meet their beams, When I shall wake to weep no more. O, beautiful upon the grave, The starlight and the moonbeams lie! With such sweet watchers o'er our sleep, Why should we ever fear to die?

A weight is on my closing lids, The dews are gathering on my brow, And, with the shade of vanished years, Fond memory holds communion now; Inwove with many a darkening thread The texture of my life appears; How vain were all its sweetest hopes, How more than bitter were its tears!

I strive to imitate His love, Which every cruel wrong forgave, Till o'er my tried and suffering soul Peace, like a river, rolls its wave. O! surely, in that better land, No vulture shall the dove molest, Or worm devour the rose's heart, Take me, my Father, to its rest!

To Frances

Thy voice was like the breathing of a flute, Heard at still evening o'er the moonlit sea; My heart sang with the, but my lips were mute, I did not share the gift bestowed on thee. Strong is the spell by music round me thrown, But never could my voice awake its tone.

O, there are strains which thrill the feeling heart, With sadly sweet remembrance of the past; With joys that all too soon we saw depart, And hopes which brightened to deceive at last: They smile once more, as o'er life's mazy track, The song-woke spirit swiftly wanders back.

Soon we were parted, and the years passed on; The tireless steps of time we cannot stay; But weary seemed the hours while thou wert gone To find another home so far away: I longed to fold thee to my heart the while, To hear thy voice again and see thee smile.

Then thou wert ill, and yet I was not near To bathe thy brow and hold thine aching head, To seek with pleasant words thy heart to cheer, And keep love's patient watch beside thy bed. While far I waited with a heart of care, Thy name was breathed in many a fervent prayer.

But health returns, and on the wings of love Again thou comest to thine early home, The truth of childhood's memories to prove, And through its old familiar scenes to roam. Dear eyes beam on thee with affection's light, Fond lips with thine in many a kiss unite.

We stand where autumn leaves are thickly strewn, And see the beauty of the year depart; Thus has the brightness of our young days flown, And "hours that were" come thronging to the heart; Like the aroma of the dying flowers, Sweet is the memory of those vanished hours.

Frances, thou art not here! I did but dream I heard the numbers of my favorite song; But O, so pleasant did the vision seem, I would that fancy might the spell prolong. Lonely and sad I muse, thou art not near, The music of thy voice I may not hear.

Now must I say farewell! that mournful word; A word I cannot breathe without regret; But silent is my lyre, its strings were stirred To say that thy dear love I cherish yet; And O, may Heaven its choicest favors send, To bless thy lot, my cousin and my friend.

Passing Time

But now 'tis autumn-time; Dark leaden clouds come o'er the sunny sky, And summer birds to seek a softer clime, From the wild tempest fly.

O, solemn are the hours! The winds are wailing o'er the withered leaf, They tune their harps, and to the faded flowers Sing a sad song of grief.

Where are the kind and true? Who watched together nature's changing moods, The lightning's fiery flash, the sunset's hue, Or fading of the woods;

Who loved, each long bright day, And when the moonlit eve did stillness bring, To read the thrilling tale and poet's lay, Or songs of Zion sing.

Vainly I look around For those whose words were music to my heart; Time his attaching ties had closely bound, Then coldly bade us part.

The steps no more are nigh, Which lingered with my own by mount and wave; Swift flew the happy hours uncounted by, That such bright moments gave.

O, deeply are those hours Enshrined in memory till life shall cease, When time the moments told by strewing flowers Round our abode of peace.

Each night returns the star, And spring shall call the bud on vale and plain, And friends who now by-fate are severed far, May often meet again.

But if no more on earth, Those kindred hearts can hold communion sweet; If some loved face, and form, and voice of mirth, Death's cold embrace shall greet;

Lift we the trusting eye, To a sure meeting on that better shore, Where clouds come not, and roses never die, And time shall reign no more.

The Days of Chivalry

Seeks to surprise his mistress "in the suds," And pops right in upon a Monday morning.

Give me the valiant knight, who breaks a lance With every cavalier my beauty doubting, And thinks himself repaid with one bright glance, For the light toil of a whole dozen routing.

Who, in his calender, but marks the hour Which brings him to my feet with homage lowly, And if I chance to drop a faded flower, Among his relics treasures it as holy.

See, in the bannered hall, on dais high, The queen of hearts all other maids excelling, While her fair damsel-train are clustering nigh, And at her feet his tale the minstrel telling:

How, on some deed of high emprise, departs A knight, "without reproach," Orlando fearless, Who humbly worships in his heart of hearts, Some lilly of the vale, or rose the peerless.

Or how he seeks a castle old and gray, When careless sentinels are idly dreaming,

And a lone taper sheds its steady ray, Love's beacon fire from the high turret gleaming.

A ladder light will soon the lady find, Who on his honor places firm reliance, And their fleet steeds leave danger far behind, Bidding to warder and to watch defiance.

But now we have a tale so tame and true, Of some plain couple, that our pen may honor, Who for a year, or more, will worry through A humdrum courtship in the chimney corner.

Where knight and dame rode o'er the velvet green, With flowers and streams along their pathway lying, A host of hurrying bipeds now are seen, In rail-road cars like evil spirits flying.

No more may wandering minstrel prove to be Some gallant prince with love and valor burning; Or constant maid her own heart's idol see In paladin from Holy Land returning.

For ah, the days of chivalry are o'er, Of wild adventure and romantic story, When father Time his jeweled pinions wore, And knights and ladies lived for love and glory.

Fill high the Cup

The sapphire's lustre and the ruby's blaze, No more afford me pleasure as I gaze.

My thoughts are troubled and my cheek grows pale; I hear the widow's sigh the orphan's wail: Ill-gotten wealth! how worse than vain art thou, To smooth one furrow on the care-worn brow.

Where are my troops of friends whose ready wiles Could teach my lip to wear unwonted smiles? The fawning followers, and the gazing crowd, Who hailed my coming with their plaudits loud?

Alas! those faithless friends my presence shun, Their once full ranks are thinning one by one; I pass unheeded through the silent streets, No more mine ear the flatterer's music greets.

My day is o'er, my race is nearly run; Some other idol has their homage won: O, Fame and Friendship! brief must be your reign, With those whose deeds your sunbright garments stain.

Let the seared heart its vain complainings cease, The virtuous only can be blessed with peace; Then take my friends, my fortune, and my fame, And give me back my sinless days again.

O, trust not in the things of Earth

The fondest friends grow changed and cold, And strongest ties are riven; The heart's desires earth cannot hold, Then give thy love to Heaven.

To fading joys why clingest thou, With faith so fond and deep? O'er promise false, and broken vow, Soon wilt thou vainly weep. When thy deceived and wounded heart, With silent grief is riven, Like Mary choose the "better part," And fix thy faith on Heaven.

Spring

The cold and bitter winds which swept So wild and often through the vales, Have softened down their raging wrath To mild and balmy-breathing gales.

Some happy birds make glad the morn, Waking beneath its rosy skies Some early flowers the fields adorn, Which cheer our hearts and bless our eyes.

The blue-bell's tiny cup expands, The snow-drop spreads its petals fair, The iris shows the blue of heaven, And violets breathe upon the air.

Sweet season, to the dreary earth, Thus thy return will ever bring Gladness and beauty, smiles and mirth, Such is thy mission blessed spring!

Yes, bright as in the days gone by, Thy cheering presence still appears; But can I hail thy coming now, With all the joy of other years?

Wilt thou give back those golden dreams, Which made life's vernal hours so gay? Wilt thou restore the blissful hopes, That bloomed along youth's flowery way?

Ah, no, but though thou canst not bring The spirit's freshness back again; Yet even to the weary heart, Thy mission is not wholly vain.

Wake then my soul! nor longer droop, But far aside all sadness fling; Wake to the whisperings of hope! Wake to the influence of Spring!

On the death of a Child

There came a shower, a sweet refreshing shower, The liquid pearls with colored sunbeams met, And the meek eyes of that uplifted flower, Saw its own dew-drop in a rainbow set.

Mother, thy child was like the morning dew: As pure, and fair, and with a life as brief; Closed are its eyes of evening's softest blue, Its cheek is paler than a damask leaf.

And thou mayest weep, young mother, for thy child; Thy loved, thine only one, so early lost; Gone to her God with spirit undefiled, And heart by sin, or passion, never crossed.

Weep, but not bitterly, and let thy' grief By a firm faith be softened and subdued; Turn unto Him who chastened for relief, And onward press with hope and strength renewed.

Look upward to the clime beyond the skies, And the lost gem for which thy tears are given, Again shall greet thy sad and longing eyes, Re-set among the jewelry of heaven.

Magnum est veritas

Thou canst not hope for wealth, or worldly fame; But peace shall round thy brow her olive twine; Thou 'wilt not hear the million shout thy name, But the warm heart's approval shall be thine. Oh, waver not! nor let thy courage fail! For truth is great and surely will prevail.

Heaven bless thine efforts with a saving grace, And vanquish all which may thy way oppose; Make glad the wilderness and dreary place, And cause the waste to blossom as the rose. Fear not, though danger should thy path assail, For truth is great and surely will prevail.

To a young Friend

Those rainbow hopes shall pass away, And fancy's dreams depart; But an unfading light remains, To bless the pure in heart.

The Messiah's Advent

He died for our sins. With the scorners around him, In silence and anguish he yielded his breath; And when the cold grave in its stillness had bound him, He burst the dark bonds to redeem us from death; And our song of rejoicing, dear Jesus, shall be, That from sin and the grave we are ransomed by thee!

Redeemer! and Saviour! green garlands are wreathing The place where we meet to remember thy love; And O, may the incense of praise we are breathing, An offering pure, be accepted above; And though swiftly the hour of thine advent departs, Still fresh may thy memory remain in our hearts.

The Wine Cup

But the jesting word and the merry song, Will be hushed as the morning hour steals on; And the faltering step and the sunken eye, Shall follow the feaster's revelry.

There is one who says "the wine maketh glad," But his head is heavy, his soul is sad; Awhile he watched the red poison's play, Then tasted the draught and was led astray.

The pale wife weeps as his step draws nigh, And the child shrinks back from his altered eye; But no signs of woe his heart can move, Though it answered once to the voice of love.

O, changed from all that his Maker made, Is he who long at the revel stayed; With helpless limbs and a brain on fire, He reaps the fruit of his wild desire.

The friends he loved from his side have flown, With the happy hopes which his youth had known; And he follows the path of sin and shame, With a branded, scorned and dishonored name.

Then tarry not thou at the rosy wine, Though the light of joy in the goblet shine; It will lure thee on to a wretched lot; Oh, turn from the wine-cup and taste it not!

A Prayer

tpp|A PRAYER.| {noschere}O, Father! make my bosom right within; Cleanse thou my spirit from all stain of sin; Bid every dark temptation far depart; Grant me the blessing of "the pure in heart."

I would still walk beneath thy watchful eye, With an abiding sense that thou art nigh, Noting my actions with a searching look, Reading my thoughts as from an unsealed book.

If I have sought to wear a meek disguise, E'en while I turned to vanity mine eyes; If calm my brow, while waves of passion roll Within the secret chambers of my soul;

Lord, at thy footstool bending low, I pray That thou wilt wash my guilty thoughts away; Thine own restoring influence impart, And keep me now, and ever, pure in heart.

I think not of Thee

I think not of thee when the summer fair, Is twining gay wreaths in her golden hair; But when faded leaves are falling around, And the wind goes by with a wailing sound, Then do I think of thee.

Charity

And there, amid the blinding sleet, He watched till sight grew dim; He was too young to trust in heaven, Faith could not dwell with him And even hope, which comes to all, Now failed to bring relief; Alas! that childhood e'er should know Such deep and withering grief.

Anon an angel form drew near, With a sweet, pitying eye, And soon she raised him from the ground, And soon his tears were dry. She folded him within her robe, To shield him from the storm, And took him to her cheerful home, To feed, and clothe, and warm.

Yes, thou wilt soothe the suffering one, And bid his woes depart; The orphan's prayers shall follow thee, Maid of the gentle heart. Faith leads us through life's trying scenes, Hope's smiles are sweet to see, But lovelier than these art thou, O, soft-eyed charity!

Daughter of heaven! 'tis thine to cheer The hearts that hopeless grieve, To follow in the steps of want Its victims to relieve. Fain would we imitate thy love; Fain would we walk with thee; Come thou, and make our hearts thy home, O, blessed Charity!

Death and the Mother

He charmed her hours of pain away, And bade her cares depart, And every hour, and every day, Grew closer to her heart.

But soon a sad, stern looking man, To the bright boy came nigh; His breath was chill, his features wan, And glassy was his eye. The tender mother's fears were wild; Her eye with tears grew dim "Kind Death, it is my gentle child, Oh, come not near to him!

"How can I those dear eyes behold, When all their light has flown? Or feel his little hand grow cold, While clasped within my own? Some wait for thee, whose weary years Know neither hope or joy; They look towards the grave through tears, Take them, and spare my boy."

Death pitied the poor mother's grief; Pity he sometimes knew;

And kindly sought to give relief, While nearer still he drew. "Thy child is very fair to see, And very dear to love, The best and fairest go with me, To brighter worlds above.

"Though sadness now thy bosom fills, Why wouldst thou have him stay, To suffer all the thousand ills, That throng life's weary way? Let Him who gave thy blossom birth, Beneath the autumn skies, Now take it from the frosts of earth, To bloom in Paradise."

Her tears were dried, her hopes grew bright, As faith marked out the road, Where walked the Lamb, in garments white, Bearing her babe to God. She felt that it was hard to part From one so lately given, But with a firm and trusting heart, She yielded him to Heaven.

I would not grow old

Then if hope only dwells with the young and the glad, O, who would not fear to be aged and sad? And who would not wish Time's flight to delay, If he carries our youth on his pinions away?

O, dreary and long is our journey below, With the path growing darker as onward we go; But I doubt if at last the affections are cold, And the heart, O, the warm heart can never grow old!

For the ear dulled to earth sweeter sounds may be given, And the eye that is dim may see pictures of heaven; While our hopes, bathed anew in the waters of love, Shall soar to the light and the glory above.

Then Time, do thy worst, to thy sceptre I bow, O'er the deathless affections no power hast thou, And I covet no draught from the fountain of youth, If my heart may remain still unchanged in its truth.

Twilight

One star, one bright and quiet star, Hangs out its steady light above, Over the hushed and resting earth Still watching like the eye of love.

The birds that woke such joyous strains, With folded pinions seek repose, All save the minstrel sad who sings, His plaintive love-lay to the rose.

The weary bees have reached the hive Rejoicing over labor done, And blossoms close their fragrant cups, Which opened to the morning sun.

The winds are hushed, that music made The leafy-laden boughs between, And scarce the lightest zephyr's breath Now dallies with the foliage green.

This is the hour so loved by all Whose thoughts are lingering with the past, For scenes and forms to memory dear, Gather around us dim and fast.

Childhood's bright hours, youth's short romance, And manhood's dreams of power and fame, Again come back to cheat the heart, So changed by time, yet still the same.

The mingling tones of voices gone, Are breathing round us sweet and low, And eyes are beaming once again, That smiled upon us long ago.

We gaze upon those loving orbs, Which never coldly turn away; We clasp the hand, and press the lip, Of forms that but in memory stay.

We feel the influence of a spell, And wake to smiles, or melt to tears, As pass before the dreaming eye, The light and shade of other years.

O, pleasant is the dewy morn! And golden noon is fair to see; But sweeter far the closing day; Dearer the twilight hour to me.

Song of the Sailor's Bride

A pure, bright star is glittering now, In the azure depths above; The fairest gem on night's radiant brow, Where a brilliant wreath is wove. Bright star of hope, in thy light I bow, Art thou watching o'er my love?

While I kneel upon the wave-washed shore, Of the blue and sounding sea, All my fond heart's wishes upward soar, And I pray to Heaven for thee. The waters divide our souls no more, If thy prayers go up for me.

Rebecca's interview with Rowena

She gazed upon the open brow, The sunny, straying curl, And the soul-speaking, heaven-blue eyes Of the fair Saxon girl.

Her hand a silver casket holds, And bright its contents shine, A priceless gift of orient pearls, And diamonds of the mine. "Lady, a trifle this contains From my own glittering store, I count them of no value now, I ne'er wear jewels more.

"Soon do we wander far away From merry England's shore, Bear to your lord my last adieu, I see his face no more. My prayers shall rise for Ivanhoe, However far removed, That happy be his lot, with one So fair and so beloved."

Then o'er her dark eye's lustrous light, There passed a shade of pain. "Oh lady! take the baubles bright, I ne'er wear gems again!

Think not my father's grateful heart Can be by gold defiled, Or prize these sparkling stones before The honor of his child.

"Mute are the harps by Jordan's waves, Where Judah woke their tone, And we have now no land, no home, That we may call our own. We see the Moslem's step defile The city of our love, And oft our sad and long tried hearts, Droop like the weary dove.

"Say, to the lord of Ivanhoe, My father seeks the halls Of a dear brother of our name, Within Granada's walls. Tell him, our thoughts where'er we roam, Will on his kindness dwell; The sails are spread to waft us hence, I may not stay! farewell!"

Song

Or pass like morning mist, dispersed By sunbeams from the wave. Time tries his all-effacing power In vain on love like mine; Though few now win a smile from me, Still all my tears are thine.

The Warning

"Come, Anna, love!" her mother said, "leave thou the pale moonlight, And bind the wreath upon thy brow to meet the gay tonight. I would not have thee musing here within thy bower alone, But lend thy light step to the dance, thy voice to music's tone."

"Oh, mother, dearest! urge me not to mingle with the gay; A loved voice from the spirit-land is calling me away; I will not bring a pale cheek there, for I have read my doom, And if I wreath my locks to-night, I wreath them for the tomb."

To seek the lone and lovely one, the mother left the crowd, And soon a voice of agony was heard in wailing loud; For fair as a night-folded flower she found her sleeping there, With a sweet smile upon her lips and roses in her hair.

Song

But they heed not my weeping, As coldly they shine. My proud heart shall banish A sorrow so vain, And fond vow, or promise, Trust never again.

To a Cricket

A group are gathered round the household hearth, Where chilly autumn bids the bright flame play, And social converse sweet, and childhood's mirth, Swiftly beguile the lengthened eve away. A laughing girl shakes back her tresses gay, With a half doubtful look and wondering tone, "Hark! there is music! do you hear the lay? Mother, what is it singing in the stone? Some luckless fairy wight imprisoned there alone?"

Tis memory all that doth the spell renew, And though thy notes may strike the "electric chain," Thou canst not bring those vanished forms to view, Or give me back my happy days again. Alone, I am alone, these tears in vain For the loved tenants of the tomb are given; They sleep—no more to suffer grief or pain; No more to gaze upon the star-lit heaven, Or with hushed hearts to list thy solemn strain at even.

Wake not remembrance thus; for stern the fate That marks my pathway with a weary doom, And to a heart so worn and desolate, Thy boding voice may add a deeper gloom. Though few the clouds which o'er the blue sky roam, And green the livery of our forest bowers,

To warn us of a sure decay ye come, In sable guise, trailing the faded flowers, Singing the death-song sad of summer's waning hours.

Those emerald robes shall change to russet brown, Which summer over vale and hill-side cast; To other skies that wear no wintry frown, Bright birds will wing their weary way at last; And autumn's hectic hues, which fade so fast, Shall make the "dark old woods" awhile look gay; But death must come when the rare show is past: Then cease thy chant! dark prophet of decay! I cannot bear to hear thy melancholy lay.

Hymn at Sea

Whom shall we trust beside? alone with thee, Our bark is bounding o'er the solemn sea. On, let the waves heave on! Thou dost not sleep; Thy watchful love is with us on the deep; Guiding us safely o'er the billow's motion, Though dark our pathway on the midnight ocean.

June

Sweet doth the music come From zephyr's harp, in the green branches stirred, The lay of glancing streams, and insect hum, And song of summer bird.

The morning sunlight shines, Robing in golden mist the laughing stream; Shedding a glory where the red rose twines, And many dew-drops gleam.

The moonbeams, pale and mild, Look down upon the buds that folded sleep, Like the young mother watching o'er her child, With love so pure and deep.

Thy joyous presence lends To every heart that droops, a cheering boon; Oh, blessed be the bounteous hand, which sends The leaves and flowers of June.

To the memory of a Friend

And he, the chosen of thy youthful years, How dark to him appears thine early fate; The fountain of his love is turned to tears, His home is sad, his heart is desolate.

Look up, thou mourner, to her blest abode, Where round the throne of God bright seraphs kneel, And bow submissive to the chastening rod, For he who wounds thee now will surely heal.

In that fair land, where blight can never fall, Far from the weary world's perplexing strife, There is a fount which freely flows, where all May drink the waters of eternal life.

Farewell, beloved friend, a long farewell! In Auburn's shades, O, peaceful be thy rest; The anguish of my heart these tears will tell; 'Tis selfish thus to mourn when thou art blest.

To Willie

There are no children round me; I sing my song to day, For a bright boy who dwelleth An hundred miles away.