6

POETRY OF LIFE.

And how my first, my virgin love, was turned to bitter gall,

And being wreck'd, God knows, I sometimes doubted

all!

Memory then will turn a page, fill'd with far gentler

thoughts,

And then I live my youth again, and share in youthful sports.

Like demons each dark deed appears, each an avenging sword;

And every kind and gentle act seems like an angel's word :

Anguish keeps me waking oft; when I repent I

weep,

Then mercy creeps into my soul, and the spent brain can sleep.

POETRY OF LIFE.

The poetry of earth and skies
Is changeful day and night;
The gradual changes of the year
Proclaim both power and might.

The poetry of love and faith,
Each sings a deathless song:

The poetry of gentle words,
Effacing every wrong;

THE ROBIN'S NEST.

The poetry of noble deeds
That scarcely see the light,
But shine in silence like the stars
In the purple dome of night;

The poetry of charity,

When mercy gently brings
A living draught to dying lips,
From heaven's all-bounteous springs ;

The poetry of life and death,

Each warms and chills the heart :

Death conquers life-life conquers death— O, life, thou victor art!

THE ROBIN'S NEST.

Sing, sing me again thy sweet matin song,
Thy voice is so pleasant and cheery !
I've suffer'd and struggl'd with pain so long.
That my spirit is well nigh dreary.

The tones of thy voice, whispering soft,
Seem to say to my heart, Be cheerful!
Thy heavenward flight bids me look aloft—
But mine eyes are brimming, and tearful.

I see thee perching on leafy elms;

I hear thy faint, tremulous singing; Thy song of love my spirit o'erwhelms

Like thee, to this world I am clinging!

8

SORROW.

Build thou thy nest! I, too, have a nest ;-
Like thee, I've a mate who will render
Every kind office that love can suggest―
Who is noble, and faithful, and tender.

Bring forth thy young, O, sweetest of birds!
Thou wilt be a kind-hearted mother:
Beautiful deeds are better than words—
Ye will rear them to love each other.

Bulge out thy breast; oh! keep warm thy nest,
Thy patience will soon be rewarded:
With infant tones thine ear will be blest,
And thy faith in heaven recorded.

SORROW.

Chide not, these are delicious tears,
That fall so thick and fast:
The floodgates of my soul are rent-
Gush thro' mine eyes at last.

I

weep,

and now the scorching pain
That dried their source before,
Yields to the healing stream, and I,
Thy child, can smile once more.

Yes, I can raise my head, and gaze
On yon blue sky above;

And feel content, since thou art left
To soothe my heart with love.

SORROW.

On thy true bosom let me lie!

My all on earth thou art,

Since heaven has taken back its own—
The earth-star of my heart.

The badge of widowhood thou'st worn,
Thro' long and weary years:
The bloom of health is wash'd away
From thy sweet face, by tears.

Dear Mother! never until now
Was understood thy worth:
The patient courage of thy grief—
With none to cheer thy hearth.

Oft have I mark'd thy gentle form
Grow shadowy and thin:

But knew not, when the smile was kind,
The heart was dark within.

But now, this life-grief weighs me down,
E'en to the very earth ;

I sympathize and love thee more,
And venerate thy worth.

Oh, were it not for thee, methinks
I'd lay me down and die,
Without a tear, without a pang—
Ah! e'en without a sigh.

Then let me, Mother, let me weep
Long, passionate, and long :
The sooner I shall gain repose,

And once again be strong.

9

10

A WASPISH TONGUE.

Oh, never can I feel again

Such pleasure, or such pain:

My world is darken'd-for love's sun
Can never rise again.

O, Mother! I am sick at heart—
I feel a weakness here,

Low in my breast, as tho' the life
Departed, tear by tear.

There seems a pall o'er nature hung,
Of dull and chilling hue,

As tho' the clouds could not give way
And let the sunshine through.

And thus thro' gloom my soul looks out,
Forgetful of the light;

For all creation seems to wear

The sombre hue of night.

Soon I will teach my lips to smile,

And bid this aching cease;

For time may heal, and heaven can pour
Into the bosom peace.

A WASPISH TONGUE.

As sharp as a spear, as keen as a dart,
My weapon of warfare is ;

I can make the wisest both writhe and smart
If my wings only by them whiz.