Слике страница
PDF
ePub

And long have I wanted the hand that might save, My tempest-bowed form from a snow-covered grave.

Thou art come!-thou art come!-ay, I know thee now,

By the silent step, and the thoughtful brow,

By the calm, sweet smile on the lip, which tells
Of a soul that in peace and purity dwells,

By the tenderness glassed in the depths of thine eye,
I know thou wilt not pass the last Violet by.

LINES TO A BELLE.

FOR THE ORCHIS.

0. W. HOLMES.

YES, lady! I can ne'er forget
That once in other years we met;
Thy memory may perchance recall
A festal eve a rose-wreathed hall,
Its taper's blaze - its mirror's glance -
Its melting song its ringing dance-
Why in thy dream of virgin joy,
Shouldst thou recall a pallid boy?

Thine eye had other forms to seek -
Why rest upon his bashful cheek?

[ocr errors]

With other tones thy heart was stirred -
Why waste on him a gentle word?

We parted, lady! all night long

Thine ear to thrill with dance and song;
And I to weep, that I was born

A thing thou scarce would deign to scorn.

And, lady, now that years have past,

My barque has reached the shore at last;
The gales that filled her ocean wing
Have chilled and shrunk thy hasty spring;
And eye to eye, and brow to brow,
I stand before thy presence now;

Thy lip is smoothed, thy voice is sweet,
Thy warm hand proffered when we meet.

Nay, lady! 't is not now for me
To droop the lid, or bend the knee;
I seek thee, oh! thou dost not shun,
I speak — thou listenest like a nun;
I ask thy smile-thy lip uncurls,
Too liberal of its flashing pearls:
Thy tears thy lashes sink again,
My Hebe turns to Magdalen!

Oh, changing youth! that evening hour Looked down on ours, the bud, the flower;

One faded in its virgin soil,

And one was nursed in tears and toil;
Thy leaves were opening one by one,
While mine were opening to the sun;

Which now can meet the cold, the storm,
With freshest leaf and hardiest form?

Ay, lady, that once haughty glance
Still wanders vainly through the dance;
And asks in vain from others' pride,
The charity thine own denied ;
And as thy ripened life could learn
To smile and praise, that used to spurn,
So thy last offering on the shrine
Shall be this flattering lay of mine.

A CLUMP OF DAISIES.

RICHARD DANA.

YE daisies gay,

This fresh spring day,

Close gathered here together,

To play in the light,

To sleep all night,

To abide through the sullen weather.

Ye creatures bland,

A simple band,

Ye free ones linked in pleasure,

And linked when your forms

Stoop low in the storms,

And the rain comes down without measure.

When wild clouds fly

Athwart the sky,

And ghostly shadows glancing,

Are darkening the gleam

Of the hurrying stream,

And your close, bright heads gayly dancing.

Though dull awhile,

Again ye smile,

For, see, the warm sun breaking,
The streams going glad,

There's nothing sad,

And the small bird his song is waking.

The dew-drop sip

With dainty lip,

The sun is low descended,

And Moon, softly fall

On troop true and small,

Sky and earth in one kindly blended.

And Morning, spread

Their jewelled bed

With lights in the east sky springing,

And Brook, breathe around

Thy low murmured sound,

May they move, ye birds, to your singing,

For in thy play,

I hear them say,

Here, man, thy wisdom borrow,

In heart be a child,

In word, true and mild,

Hold by faith, come joy, or come sorrow.

INVOCATION TO A WREATH OF TRANSATLANTIC

FLOWERS.

MRS. M. BALMANNO.

YE flowers that o'er the dark dread sea,

Like faded mourners come,

By your past beauty, tell to me

A tale of mine own home.

What of my Father, hardy leaf

Of Albion's bulwark tree?

[ocr errors]

He lives-unharmed by age or grief,

His emblem I to thee;

His step is firm, his eye is bright,
His accents clear and strong

As when, thy childhood to delight,
He raised the joyous song.

What of my Mother, lovely rose,

Speak for my tears are nigh?

Look on the stream that placid flows,

And the unclouded sky:

For these in heaven's own language show
Her spirit unto thine:

« ПретходнаНастави »