Thy fair hands folded with a queenly grace; Thine eyelid gently drooping o'er an eye Whose chastened light bespeaks the soul within; Lips full of sweetness; maiden modesty, That awes the bosoms it hath deigned to win. There stand for aye; defying Time or Care To make thee seem less beautiful than now; Years cannot thin that darkly-flowing hair, Nor grief indent thy pure and polished brow. Whilst unto her from whom those lines had birth, TO CAROLINE BOWLES. NOW MRS. SOUTHEY. I KNOW thee only in thy page Of simplest truth, by taste refined;— Not seldom, do I love to trace The features of thy mind! Pure as the calm, sequestered stream, That winds its way through flowers and fern; TO CAROLINE BOWLES. Now gliding here, now wandering there, So do thy strains, serene and sweet, Well from their calm, untroubled shrine; What though I ne'er have clasped thy hand, The "Broken Bridge" to pass. And mark thy devious footsteps threading To make the living wise. Or by the "open casement sitting," With "autumn's latest flowers" before thee; Drinking thy "Birdie's" merry notes, And when gray Twilight weaves her web, 53 Some low, sweet dirge, of softest power Oh! much I love to steal away From garish strains, that mock my heart; To steep my soul in lays like thine, And pause, o'er each wildly-witching line, Till my tears, unbidden, start. For thou hast ever been to me A gentle monitor and friend;And I have gathered from thy song, Thoughts full of balm for grief and wrong, That solace while they mend. Hence, have I sought in simple phrase, Adieu! We ne'er may meet on earth, THE NAMELESS TOAST. 55 A WITHERED ROSE. IN A VOLUME OF UNPUBLISHED POEMS, BY MISS G. F. ROSS. NAY, do not touch that faded flower, Albeit both scent and hue have flown, Some gentle heart may joy to own: There let it lie, 'mid records sweet, Of "young affections run to waste!" Those cherished leaves had soon been shed; But thus embalmed, will seem to live, Till MEMORY's self be dead! THE NAMELESS TOAST. HEALTH to ONE whose cherished name, Jocund friends forbear to blame, 'Tis not incense offered to her, That may best beseem her worth; In my heart of hearts I'll think it ;- And to HER I LOVE I'll drink it! THE RETURN FROM INDIA. "But when returned the youth? The youth no more But forty years were past, and then there came CRABBE. THE haunts of my boyhood are gleaming around me, The same summer landscape beside me is smiling; |