Dazzling as that, oh! too transcendent vision
To Sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given,
When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian,
And paints the lost on earth revived in heaven; Soft as the memory of buried love;
Pure as the prayer which Childhood wafts above;
Was she-the daughter of that rude old Chief,
Who met the maid with tears-but not of grief.
Who hath not proved how feebly words essay
To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly ray?
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight
Faints into dimness with its own delight,
His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess
The might, the majesty of Loveliness?
Such was Zuleika-such around her shone
The nameless charms unmarked by her alone;
The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the music breathing from her face,
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole-
And oh! that eye was in itself a Soul !
SOMEBODY'S DARLING.
From "War Lyrics of the South."
Into a ward of the whitewashed walls,
Where the dead and dying lay,
Wounded by bayonets, shells and balls,
Somebody's darling was borne one day.
Somebody's darling, so young and so brave,
Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood grace.
Matted and damp are the curls of gold
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow,
Pale are the lips, of delicate mold-
Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow
Brush all the wandering waves of gold;
Cross his hands on his bosom now,
Somebody's darling is stiff and cold.
Kiss him once for somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer soft and low;
One bright curl from its fair mates take-
They were somebody's pride, you know.
Somebody's hand had rested there;
Was it a mother's, soft and white?
And have the lips of a sister fair
Been baptized in the waves of light?
God knows best! He was somebody's love,
Somebody's heart enshrined him there;
Somebody wafted his name above,
Night and noon, on the wings of prayer.
Somebody wept when he marched away,
Looking so handsome, brave and grand,
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay,
Somebody clung to his parting hand.
Somebody's waiting and watching for him,
Yearning to hold him again to their heart,
And there he lies, with his blue eyes dim,
And the smiling, child-like lips apart.
Tenderly bury the fair young dead,
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;
Carve on the wooden slab at his head,
"Somebody's darling slumbers here."
THE LAST TIME THAT I MET LADY RUTH.
There are some things hard to understand,
O help me, my God, to trust in thee!
But I never shall forget her soft white hand,
And her eyes when she looked at me.
It is hard to pray the very same prayer
Which once at our mother's knee we prayedWhen where we trusted our whole heart, there Our trust hath been betrayed.
I swear that the milk-white muslin so light
On her virgin breast, where it lay demure,
Seemed to be toucht to a purer white
By the touch of a breast so pure.
I deemed her the one thing undefiled
By the air we breathe, in a world of sin; The truest, the tenderest, purest child
A man ever trusted in!
When she blamed me (she, with her fair child's face!)
That never with her to the church I went
To partake of the Gospel of truth and grace,
And the Christian Sacrament.
And I said I would go for her own sweet sake,
Though it was but herself I should worship there,
How that happy child's face strove to take
On its dimples a serious air!
I remember the chair she would set for me,
By the flowers, when all the house was gone
To drive in the Park, and I and she
Were left to be happy alone.
There she leaned her head on my knees, my Ruth,
With the primrose loose in her half-closed hands;
And I told her tales of my wandering youth
In the far fair foreign lands.
The last time I met her was here in town,
At a fancy ball at the Duchess of D.,
On the stairs, where her husband was handing her down,
There we met, and she talked to me.
She with powder in hair and patch on chin,
And I in the garb of a pilgrim priest,
And between us both, without and within,
A hundred years at least!
We talked of the house, and the late long rains,
And the crush at the French Ambassador's ball,
And....well, I have not blown out my brains,
You see I can laugh, that is all.
Come to me, darling! I'm lonely without thee;
Day-time and night-time I'm dreaming about thee;
Night-time and day-time in dreams I behold thee;
Unwelcome the waking that ceases to fold thee.
Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten;
Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten;
Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly;
Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy!
Swallows shall flit 'round the desolate ruin,
Telling of Spring and its joyous renewing;
And thoughts of thy love and its manifest treasure
Are circling my heart with the promise of pleasure;
O Spring of my spirit! O May of my bosom!
Shine out on my soul till it burgeon and blossom.
The waste of my life has a rose-root within it,
And thy fondness alone to the sunlight can win it.
Figure which moves like a song through the even,
Features lit up with a reflex of heaven,
Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother,
Where sunshine and shadow are chasing each other;
Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple,
And opening their eyes from the heart of a dimple;
Oh, thanks to the Savior, that even the seeming
Is left to the exile, to brighten his dreaming.
You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened;
Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened?
Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love,
As octave to octave, or rhyme unto rhyme, love;
I cannot smile but your cheeks will be glowing;
You cannot weep but my tears will be flowing;
You will not linger when I shall have died, love,
And I could not live without you by my side, love.
Come to me, darling, ere I die of my sorrow;
Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow;
Strong, swift and strong as the words which I speak, love,
With a song at your lip and a smile on your cheek, love;
Come, for my heart in your absence is dreary;
Haste, for my spirit is sickened and weary;
Come to the arms which alone can caress thee;
Come to the heart which is throbbing to press thee!
DER DRUMMER.
Who puts oup at der pest hotel,
Und dakes his oysders on der schell,
Und mit der frauleins cuts a schwell?
Der drummer.
Who vash it gomes indo mine schtore,
Drows down his pundles on der vloor,
Und nefer schtops to shut der door?
Der drummer.
Who dakes me py der handt und say:
"Hans Pfeiffer, how you vas to-day?"
Und goes for peesness righdt avay?
Der drummer.
Who shpreads his zamples in a trice,
Und dells me "look, und see how nice "?
Und says I gets "der bottom price"?
Der drummer.
Who says der tings vas eggstra vine-
"Vrom Sharmany, ubon der Rhine"-
Und sheats me den dimes oudt of nine?
Der drummer.
Who dells how sheap der goots vas bought,
Mooch less as vot I gould imbort,
But lets dem go, as he vas "short"?
Who varrants all der goots to suit
Der gustomers ubon his route,
Und ven dey gomes dey vas no goot?
Who gomes arount ven I been oudt,
Drinks oup mine bier, and eats mine kraut,
|