TO THE PICTURE OF A DEAD GIRL,
ON FIRST SEEING IT.
THE same-and oh! how beautiful!—the same
As memory meets thee through the mist of years!—
Love's roses on thy cheek, and feeling's flame
Lighting an eye unchanged in all—but tears!
Upon thy severed lips the very smile
Remembered well, the sunlight of my youth;
But gone the shadow that would steal, the while,
To mar its brightness, and to mock its truth!—
Once more I see thee, as I saw thee last,
The lost restored,—the vision of the past!
How like to what thou wert—and art not now!
Yet oh, how more resembling what thou art;
There dwells no cloud upon that pictured brow,
As sorrow sits no longer in thy heart;
Gone where its very wishes are at rest,
And all its throbbings hushed, and achings healed;I gaze, till half I deem thee to my breast,
In thine immortal loveliness, revealed;
And see thee, as in some permitted dream,
There where thou art what here thou dost but seem!
I loved thee passing well; —thou wert a beam
Of pleasant beauty on this stormy sea,
With just so much of mirth as might redeem
Man from the musings of his misery;
Yet ever pensive,—like a thing from home!
Lovely and lonely as a single star!
But kind and true to me, as thou hadst come
From thine own element—so very far,
Only to be a cynosure to eyes
Now sickening at the sunshine of the skies!
It were a crime to weep!—'t is none to kneel,
As now I kneel, before this type of thee,
And worship her, who taught my soul to feel
Such worship is no vain idolatry:
:-
Thou wert my spirit's spirit—and thou art,
Though this be all of thee time hath not reft,
Save the old thoughts that hang about the heart,
Like withered leaves that many storms have left;
I turn from living looks-the cold, the dull,
To any trace of thee-the lost, the beautiful!
Broken, and bowed, and wasted with regret,
gaze and weep-why do I weep alone!
I would not-would not if I could-forget,
But I am all remembrance-it hath grown
My very being! Will she never speak?
The lips are parted, and the braided hair
Seemed as it waved upon her brightening cheek,
And smile, and every thing—but breath-are there!
Oh, for the voice that I have stayed to hear,
Only in dreams, so many a lonely year!
It will not be ;-away, bright cheat, away!
Cold, far too cold to love!-thy look grows strange;
I want the thousand thoughts that used to play,
Like lights and shadowings, in chequered change:
That smile!-I know thou art not like her now,-
Within her land-where'er it be- -of light,
She smiles not while a cloud is on my brow:-
When will it pass away-this heavy night!
Oh! will the cool, clear morning never come,
And light me to her, in her spirit's home!
THE DECISION OF THE FLOWER.
Handed from ages down; a nurse's tale.
THERE is a flower, a purple flower,
Sown by the wind, nursed by the shower,
O'er which Love has breathed a power and spell
The truth of whispering Hope to tell.
Lightly the maiden's cheek has prest
The pillow of her dreaming rest,
Yet a crimson blush is over it spread
As her lover's lip had lighted its red.
Yes, sleep before her eyes has brought
The image of her waking thought,-
That one thought hidden from all the world,
Like the last sweet hue in the rose-bud curled.
The dew is yet on the grass and leaves,
The silver veil which the morning weaves
To throw o'er the roses, those brides which the sun
Must woo and win ere the day be done.
She braided back her beautiful hair
O'er a brow like Italian marble fair.
She is gone to the fields where the corn uprears
Like an Eastern army its golden spears.
The lark flew up as she passed along,
And poured from a cloud his sunny song;
And many bright insects were on wing,
Or lay on the blossoms glistening ;
And with scarlet poppies around like a bower,
Found the maiden her mystic flower.
"Now, gentle flower, I pray thee tell
If my lover loves me, and loves me well;"
So may the fall of the morning dew
Keep the sun from fading thy tender blue.
Now I number the leaves for my lot,
He loves not he loves me he loves me not!
He loves me,-yes, thou last leaf, yes,
I'll pluck thee not, for that last sweet guess!
He loves me,"-"YES!" a dear voice sighed :-
And her lover stands by Margaret's side.
ONE eve of beauty, when the sun
Was on the streams of Guadalquiver,
To gold converting, one by one,
The ripples of the mighty river;
Beside me on the bank was seated
A Seville girl with auburn hair,
eyes that might the world have cheated, A wild, bright, wicked, diamond pair!
She stooped, and wrote upon the sand,
Just as the loving sun was going,
With such a soft, small, shining hand,
I could have sworn 't was silver flowing.
Her words were three, and not one more,
What could Diana's motto be?
The Syren wrote upon the shore-
'Death, not Inconstancy!'
And then her two large languid eyes
So turned on mine, that, devil take me!
I set the air on fire with sighs,
And was the fool she chose to make me.
Saint Francis would have been deceived
With such an eye and such a hand :
But one week more, and I believed
As much the woman as the sand.
In alto poggio, in vall' im' e palustre:
Libero Spirito, od a' suoi membri afflisso
Pommi con Fama oscura ò non illustre
Sara qual fui; vivro com' io son visso
Continuando il mio sospir trilustre.
I think of thee, I think of thee,
And all that thou hast borne for me;-
In hours of gloom, or heartless glee,
I think of thee-I think of thee!
When fiercest rage the storms of Fate,
And all around is desolate,
I pour on life's tempestuous sea
The oil of peace, with thoughts of thee!
When Fortune frowns, and Hope deceives me,
And summer friendship veers and leaves me,
A Timon from the world I flee,-
My wreck of wealth-sweet dreams of thee!
Or, if I join the careless crowd,
Where laughter peals, and mirth grows loud,
Even in my hours of revelry
I think of thee-I think of thee!
I think of thee,-I think and sigh
O'er blighted years, and bliss gone by;-
And mourn the stern, severe decree
That hath but left me-thoughts of thee!
In youth's gay hours, 'mid Pleasure's bowers,
When all was sunshine, mirth, and flowers,
We met-I bent the adoring knee,
And told a tender tale to thee!
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