Then change and adverse fortune, all
That binds and keeps sweet Love in thrall. Oh, surely, surely, it were best
To be just for one moment bless'd; Just gaze upon one worship'd eye, Just know yourself beloved-and die!
THERE is a sweetness in woman's decay, When the light of beauty is fading away, When the bright enchantment of youth is gone, And the tint that glow'd, and the eye that shone, And darted around its glance of power,
And the lip that vied with the sweetest flower, That ever in Pæstum's garden blew,
Or ever was steep'd in fragrant dew, When all that was bright and fair is fled, But the loveliness lingering round the dead.
O there is a sweetness in beauty's close, Like the perfume scenting the wither'd rose ; For a nameless charm around her plays,
And her eyes are kindled with hallow'd rays, And a veil of spotless purity
Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly dye, Like a cloud whereon the queen of night Has pour'd her softest tint of light; And there is a blending of white and blue, Where the purple blood is melting through
The snow of her pale and tender cheek; And there are tones, that sweetly speak Of a spirit that longs for a purer day, And is ready to wing her flight away.
In the flush of youth and the spring of feeling, When life, like a sunny stream, is stealing Its silent steps through a flowery path, And all the endearments that pleasure hath Are pour'd from her full, o'erflowing horn, When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn, In her lightness of heart, to the cheery song The maiden may trip in the dance along, And think of the passing moment, that lies, Like a fairy dream, in her dazzled eyes, And yield to the present, that charms around With all that is lovely in sight and sound, Where a thousand pleasing phantoms flit, With the voice of mirth, and the burst of wit, And the music that steals to the bosom's core, And the heart in its fulness flowing o'er With a few big drops, that are soon repress'd, For short is the stay of grief in her breast; In this enliven'd and gladsome hour The spirit may burn with a brighter power; But dearer the calm and quiet day,
When the Heaven-sick soul is stealing away.
And when her sun is low declining, And life wears out with no repining, And the whisper that tells of early death, Is soft as the west wind's balmy breath,
When it comes at the hour of still repose, To sleep in the breast of the wooing rose; And the lip, that swell'd with a living glow, Is pale as a curl of new-fallen snow;
And her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair, But the hectic spot that flushes there, When the tide of life, from its secret dwelling, In a sudden gush, is deeply swelling,
And giving a tinge to her icy lips, Like the crimson rose's brightest tips, As richly red, and as transient too, As the clouds, in autumn's sky of blue, That seem like a host of glory met To honour the sun at his golden set: O! then, when the spirit is taking wing, How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling, As if she would blend her soul with his In a deep and long imprinted kiss ; So fondly the panting camel flies, Where the glassy vapour cheats his eyes, And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest, And the infant shrinks to its mother's breast. And though her dying voice be mute, Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute, And though the glow from her cheek be fled, And her pale lips cold as the marble dead, Her eye still beams unwonted fires With a woman's love and a saint's desires, And her last fond lingering look is given To the love she leaves, and then to Heaven, As if she would bear that love away To a purer world and a brighter day,
O THINK it not strange that my soul is shaken By every note of thy simple song;
These tones like a summoning spell awaken The shades of feelings that slumber'd long : There's a hawthorn tree near a low-roof'd dwelling, A meadow green and a river clear,
A bird that its summer-eve tale is telling, And a form unforgotten,-they all are here.
They are here, with dark recollections laden, From a sylvan scene o'er the weary sea; They speak of the time when I left that maiden By the spreading boughs of the hawthorn tree. We parted in wrath ;-to her low-roof'd dwelling She turn'd with a step which betray'd her pain; She knew not the love that was fast dispelling The gloom of his pride who was hers in vain.
We met no more ;-and her faith was plighted To one who could not her value know; The curse which still clings to affections blighted Tinctured her life-cup with deepest woe.
And these are the thoughts that thy tones awaken- The shades of feelings which slumber'd long; Then think it not strange that my soul is shaken By every note of thy simple song.
AN INDIAN AT THE BURYING-PLACE OF HIS FATHERS.
It is the spot I came to seek,—
My fathers ancient burying-place, Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, Withdrew our wasted race.
It is the spot,-I know it well- Of which our old traditions tell.
For here the upland bank sends out A ridge toward the river side; I know the shaggy hills about,
The meadows smooth and wide;
The plains, that, toward the southern sky, Fenced east and west by mountains lie.
The sheep are on the slopes around, The cattle in the meadows feed, And labourers turn the crumbling ground Or drop the yellow seed,
And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, Whirl the bright chariot on its way.
Methinks it were a nobler sight
To see these vales in woods array'd, Their summits in the golden light, Their trunks in grateful shade, And herds of deer, that bounding go O'er rills and prostrate trees below.
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