I SAW her as she once did seem-
A form that haunts the poet's dream-
A ray from high, a moment felt,
With power to gladden and to melt,-
A white cloud wandering in the sky
So filled with heavenly light, the eye
Forgets that from our own dark earth
That thing of glory had its birth.
Sweet sister! even so didst thou
Appear, and so I see thee now-
Thy calm eyes, and thy soft light hair,
Thy cheek so pure, and pale, and fair,—
That when my soul thus dwells on thee,
I almost doubt if thou couldst be
(So heavenly bright, so meekly mild)
A fading flower, an earthly child.
Again I saw her-and though years
Had passed that filled my eyes with tears,
I knew that form where womanhood
Her summer bloom had gently strewed;
And on her fair arm one did lean
With love confiding and serene,
On whose gray hairs she fixed her eyes
In playful and yet pensive guise:
And as he folded to his breast
His darling child, and praised and blessed,
For very joy the old man wept-
Oh! what an icy chillness crept
Throughout my veins, when that fair scene
I knew was but what might have been-
The blasted hope, the withered bloom,
That sleeps within her early tomb.
TEARS on thy bridal morning! Tears, my love!
It ought not thus to be. Why, my full heart
Is like the gladsome, long-imprisoned bird,
Cleaving its way through the blue liquid arch
With liberty and song. Those dropping pearls
Waste but thy bosom's wealth. 'Twere well to keep
Such treasures for those long arrears which grief
Demands from the brief summer of our time.
I'll turn magician, dearest, and compute
What moves thy spirit thus. Remembered joys
Clustering so thickly round thy parents' hearth,
Put on bright robes at parting, and, perchance,
A mother's sympathy, or the fond clasp
Of thy young sister's snowy arms, do bind
Thine innocent soul in durance. Oh! my love!
Cast thy heart's gold into the furnace-flame,
And, if it come not thence refined and pure,
I'll be a bankrupt to thy hope, and heaven
Shall shut its gate on me. Come, sweetest, come !
The holy vow shall tremble on thy lip,
And at God's blessed altar shalt thou kneel,
So meek and beautiful, that men will deem
Some angel there doth pray. Thou shalt then be
The turtle of my green and fragrant bower,
Trilling soft lays; and I will touch thy heart
With such strong warmth of deathless tenderness,
That all thy pictures of remembered joy
Shall be as faded things. So be at rest,
My soul's beloved! and let thy rose-bud lip
Smile, as 'twas wont, in eloquent delight.
FATHER, whither art thou gone?
To the mountain's topmost stone?
In the darkness of the mine
Does thy prison spirit pine?
Dost thou still thy quiver fling
By the forest's shadowy spring?
Does the rushing buffalo
Hear the clanging of thy bow?
Dost thou haunt the gory ground
Where the shaft thy bosom found-
Where thy sons beheld thee die,
With a Charib warrior's eye-
Where thy sons had blood for blood,
Raven's food for raven's food,
Scalp for scalp, and bone for bone,
Till our high revenge was done?
Spirit! whither art thou gone?
To the regions of the noon;
To the valleys of the rose;
To the fountains of repose;
Where the silence sweet is stirred,
But by murmurs of the bird,-
But by echoes of the deep,
Heaving in its golden sleep,-
But by twilight melodies,
Falling from the dewy skies?
Spirit! whither art thou gone?
To the mystic northern zone;
Where the Night's lone majesty
Sits enthroned on earth and sky;
Where, upon th' eternal snow
Twice ten thousand splendours glow,
Rushing from the height of heaven:
Now, like armies, battle-riven,
When the purple streams are fed,
With the freightage of the dead;
When the fight has showered the plain,
With a broad and gory rain;
When, upon the mountain's side,
Stands the remnant of their pride,
With the shattered bow and plume,
Like the spectres round a tomb?
Or the fiery element
Is in sudden beauty blent,
As at some enchanter's call,
Till ascends a glorious hall,
Lit with richer hues than stream
From the sunset's amber gleam;
When upon the dazzled sight
Rush the dwellers of the light,
Stately, silent, splendid, cold,
Seeming council high to hold
On some great celestial war:
While the central polar star,
High above the airy camp,
Hangs its pale, eclipsing lamp,
Till the thronging pomps are past,
Swifter than the tempest's blast;
And o'er earth and sky afar
Burns the undiminished star.
Spirit! whither art thou gone?
Is the thunder-cloud thy throne?
List we not thy voice of fear,
When the whirlwind rushes near?
Is it thou that bidd'st us shake,
When the tempest rides the lake;
When the lightning's blinding glare
Lays the ancient mountains bare?
Are not thine the cries that roll
Terror on the Charib's soul?
Now we see thee in the cloud;
Now thy voice is thunder-loud;
Now thou'rt in the lightning's fire:
Come'st thou for us, king and sire?
ON THE PICTURE OF A YOUNG GIRL.
A BEAUTIFUL and laughing thing,
Just in her first apparelling
Of girlish loveliness: blue eyes,
Such blue as in the violet dwells,
And rose-bud lips of sweets, such sweets
The bee hoards in his fragrant cells.
'Tis not a blush upon her cheek-
Oh blushes but of love can speak;
That brow is all too free from care
For Love to be a dweller there.
Alas, that Love should ever fling
One shadow from his radiant wing!
But that fair cheek knows not a cloud,
And health and hope are in its dyes.
She has been over hill and dale,
Chasing the summer butterflies.
Yet there is malice in her smile,
As if she felt her woman's power,
And had a gift of prophecy,
To look upon that coming hour
When, feared by some, yet loved by all,
Young Beauty holds her festival.
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