As delicate form as thine, my love,
And beauty like thine have the angels above;
Yet man cannot see them, though often they come,
On visits to earth, from their native home;
Thou ne'er wilt behold them, but if thou wouldst know
The houses in which (when they wander below)
The angels are fondest of passing their hours,
I'll tell thee, fair Lady, they dwell in the flowers!
Each flower, as it blossoms, expands to a tent,
For the house of a visiting angel meant;
From his flight o'er the earth he may there find repose,
Till again to the vast tent of heaven he goes.
And the angel his dwelling-place keeps in repair,
As every good man of his mansion takes care;
All around he adorns it, and carpets it well,
And much he 's delighted within it to dwell.
True sunshine of gold, from the orb of day,
He borrows, his roof with the beams to inlay;
All the hues of each season to aid him he calls,
And with them he tinges his chamber walls;
His bread he bakes from the flower's fine meal,
So mingled that hunger he never may feel;
He brews from the dew-drop a draught fresh and
And every thing does which a housekeeper should.
And greatly the flowers, as they open, rejoice
That they are the home of the angel's choice;
But, O, when to heaven the angel ascends,
The flower falls asunder-the stalk sadly bends!
If thou, my dear Lady, in truth art inclined
The spirits of heaven beside thee to find,
Make Nature thy study, companion and lover,
And, trust me, the angels around thee will hover.
A flower do but place near thy window glass,
And through it no image of evil can pass.
Abroad must thou go on thy white bosom wear
A nosegay, and doubt not an angel is there.
Forget not to water, at break of the day,
The lilies, and thou shalt be fairer than they.
Place a rose near thy bed, nightly sentry to keep,
And angels shall rock thee on roses to sleep.
No vision of terror approaches the bed,
When his watch the angel around it has spread,
And whatever bright fancy thy guardian to thee
Permits to come in, very good it shall be.
When thus thou art kept by a heavenly spell,
Shouldst thou, now and then, dream that I love thee
right well,
Be sure that with fervor and truth I adore thee,
Or an angel had ne'er set mine image before thee.
L. Bancroft.—(Translated from the German.)
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.
Heaped in the hollow of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the young fair flowers, that lately sprung and stood,
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lonely beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie: but the cold November rain
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the wild-rose and the orchis died, amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade and glen.
And now,
when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flowers, whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the streams no more.
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side:
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
And the faint Passion Flower, the sad and holy,
How many hallowed thoughts are blent with thee!
How bright the promise thou hast brought to me,
In my heart's dimmest hour.
A shadow of the past!
A token, a memorial thou art,
Bearing a spirit's tone unto my heart,
That through this life will last.
Strange and heart-lifting flower!
Records of Passion on thy leaves I trace,
Stamped with the seal of God in beauty-grace,
And mystery of his power.
Emblem of hope and love,
Uplifted in the sunshine of his smile,
May I, like thee, free from earth-stain and guile, Glow wavingly above.
On my o'er-wearied breast,
A sense of holiness, sweet flower, thou 'st cast,
A yearning wish, that life's brief joy' were past,
For here we may not rest!'
Thy flowers for me unfold!
(Like shadowed waters beautiful they are,) For them my lips have hymn-my heart a prayer, To this dim world untold!
Thou hast waked in my breast
A Faith-a Hope-to which I firmly cling,
A Prayer when my freed spirit takes its wing,
Like thee, flower, to be blest!
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