BORN of the sunlight and the dew,
That met amongst the flowers,
That on the river margin grew
Beneath the willow bowers;
Her earliest pillow was a wreath
Of violets newly blown,
And the meek incense of their breath
At once became her own.
Her cradle-hymn the river sung,
In that same liquid tone
With which it gave, when Earth was young,
Praise to the Living One.
The breeze that lay upon its breast
Responded with a sigh;
And there the ring-dove built her nest
And sung her lullaby.
The only nurse she ever knew
Was Nature, free and wild :
Such was her birth, and so she grew
A moody, wayward child,
Who loved to climb the rocky steep,
To ford the mountain-stream,
To lie beside the sounding deep,
And weave the magic dream.
She loved the path with shadows dim,
Beneath the dark-leaved trees,
Where Nature's winged poets sing
Their sweetest melodies;
To dance amongst the pensile stems
Where blossoms bright and sweet
Threw diamonds from their diadems
Upon her fairy feet.
She loved to watch the day-star float
Upon the aërial sea,
Till Morning sunk his pearly boat
In floods of radiancy;
To see the angel of the storm
Upon his wind-winged car,
With dark clouds wrapped around his form,
Come shouting from afar;
And pouring treasures rich and free,
The pure, refreshing rain,
Till every weed and forest-tree
Could boast its diamond chain:
Then rising, with the hymn of praise,
That swelled from hill and dale,
Display the rainbow, sign of peace,
Upon its misty veil.
She loved the waves' deep utterings
And gazed with phrensied eye
When Night shook lightning from his wings,
And winds went sobbing by.
Full oft I chid the wayward child,
Her wanderings to restrain;
And sought her airy limbs to bind
With Caution's worldly chain.
I bade her stay within my cot,
And ply the housewife's art:
She heard me, but she heeded not-
Oh, who can bind the heart!
I told her she had none to guide
Her inexperienced feet
To where, through Tempé's valley, glide
Castalia's waters sweet;
No son of Fame, to take her hand
And lead her blushing forth,
Proclaiming to the laurelled band
A youthful sister's worth;
That there were none to help her climb
The steep and toilsome way,
To where, above the mists of Time,
Shines Genius' living ray;
Where, wreathed with never-fading flowers,
The harp immortal lies,
Filling the souls that reach those bowers
With heavenly melodies.
I warned her of the cruel foes
That throng that rugged path,
Where many a thorn of misery grows,
And tempests wreak their wrath.
I told her of the serpents dread,
With malice-pointed fangs,
Of yellow-blossomed weeds that shed
Derision's maddening pangs;
And of the broken, mouldering lyres
Thrown carelessly aside,
Telling the winds, with shivering wires,
How noble spirits died!
I said, her sandals were not meet
Such journey to essay-
(There should be gold beneath the feet
That tempt Fame's toilsome way :)
But while I spoke, her burning eye
Was flashing in the light
That shone upon that mountaln high,
Insufferably bright.
While streaming from the Eternal Lyre,
Like distant echoes came
A strain that wrapped her soul in fire,
And thrilled her trembling frame.
She sprang away, that wayward child—
"The harp! the harp!" she cried;
And still she climbs and warbles wild
Along the mountain-side.
THOU 'RT like my heart, thou shivering string,
Of wild and plaintive tone;
Thrilled by the slightest zephyr's wing,
That over thee is thrown;
Replying with melodious wail
To every passing sigh,
And pouring to the fitful gale
Wild bursts of harmony.
Still by the tempest's torturing power
Thy loftiest notes are rung,
And in the stormy midnight hour
Thy holiest hymns are sung.
Thou'rt like my heart, thou trembling string,
That lovest the gentle breeze
Yet yieldest to the tempest-king
Thy loftiest melodies.
BIRD of the twilight hour!
My soul goes forth to mingle with thy hymn, Which floats like slumber round each closing flower, And weaves sweet visions through the forest dim. Where Day's sweet warblers rest,
Each gently rocking on the waving spray, Or hovering the dear fledglings in the nest Without one care-pang for the coming day. Oh, holy bird, and sweet
Angel of this dark forest, whose rich notes Gush like a fountain in the still retreat,
O'er which a world of mirrored beauty floats: My spirit drinks the stream,
Till human cares and passions fade away; And all my soul is wrapped in one sweet dream Of blended love, and peace, and melody. Sweet bird! that wakest alone
The moonlight echoes of the flowery dells, When every other winged lute is flown,
And insects sleeping all in nodding bells; I bow my aching head,
And wait the unction of thy voice of love: I feel it o'er my weary spirit shed,
Like dew from balmy flowers that bloom above. Oh! when the loves of earth
Are silent birds, at close of life's long day, May some pure seraphim of heavenly birth Bear on its holy hymn my soul away!
Он, show me a place like the wild-wood home,
Where the air is fragrant and free,
And the first pure breathings of morning come
In a gush of melody.
She lifts the soft fringe from her dark-blue eye
With a radiant smile of love,
And the diamonds that o'er her bosom lie
Are bright as the gems above;
Where Noon lies down in the breezy shade
Of the glorious forest bowers,
And the beautiful birds from the sunny glades
Sit nodding amongst the flowers,
While the holy child of the mountain-spring
Steals past with a murmured song,
And the honey-bees sleep in the bells that swing
Its garlanded banks along;
Where Day steals away with a young bride's blush,
To the soft green couch of Night,
And the Moon throws o'er with a holy hush
Her curtain of gossamer light;
And the seraph that sings in the hemlock dell,
Oh, sweetest of birds is she,
Fills the dewy breeze with a trancing swell
Of melody rich and free.
There are sumptuous mansions with marble wails,
Surmounted by glittering towers,
Where fountains play in the perfumed halls
Amongst exotic flowers:
They are suitable homes for the haughty in mind,
Yet a wild-wood home for me,
[wind,
Where the pure bright streams, and the mountain-
And the bounding heart, are free!
ISABELLA.
FROM "OCEAN MELODIES."
In what fair grotto of the deep-green sea
Where rich festoons of sea-flowers darkly wave,
From trees of brilliant coral, that enwreathe
Their priceless branches through the marble cave;
Where rings for evermore the solemn knell
Of tinkling waters in the tuneful shell;
Where pensive sea-maids come in groups to weep,
Dost thou, my precious Isabella, sleep?
Thou beautiful enchantment! thou wert like
A delicately wrought transparency,
Through which all angel-forms of tenderness
Shone in the light of maiden purity;
Thy cheek was Love's pure altar, where he laid
With playful hand his roses pale and red,
While bathing in thine eyes of liquid blue,
By full-fringed curtains half concealed from view.
Spring has no blossom fairer than thy form;
Winter no snow-wreath purer than thy mind;
The dewdrop trembling to the morning beam
Is like thy smile, pure, transient, heaven-refined:
But ever o'er thy soul a shadow lay,
Still more apparent in the sunniest day;
And ever when to bliss thy heart beat high,
The swell subsided in a plaintive sigh.
When I would speak of bliss, thou wouldst reply,
Hush! for I feel that all our hopes are vain;
Some spirit whispers that I soon must die,
And every thrill of hope is mixed with pain."
At length thy drooping form did prove too well
That there was poison in life's failing well;
And then we sought youth's freshness to renew
Beneath a sky of softer sun and dew.
We journeyed with thee many a mournful day,
Till thou wert weary of the fruitless toil,
And prayed that we would take our homeward way
That thou mightst slumber in thy native soil.
I knelt and clasped thee in a wild embrace,
Concealing in thy robes my anguished face;
Yet still thy snowy shoulder felt my tears,
And still thine Eolian voice was in mine ears.
I felt thy presence-and the veil of life
Was still between the coffic-scene and me;
And Hope and Skill maintained their anxious strife,
Contending strongly with stern Destiny.
But when I saw thee dead, and felt the chill
Of thy white hand, so nerveless and so still,
When as my tears fell on thy lovely face-
There was no voice, no smile, no consciousness!
And when I saw thy form-so fair, so pure,
So dear, so precious-cast into the sea,
O God of mercy! how did I endure
The torture of that fearful agony?
Oh, peerless sleeper! down in the deep sea
My heart is in that billowy world with thee;
And still my spirit lingers on the wave
That rolls between my bosom and thy grave.
SUNSET IN THE FOREST.
COME now unto the forest, and enjoy
The loveliness of Nature. Look abroad
And note the tender beauty and repose
Of the magnificent in earth and sky.
See what a radiant smile of golden light
O'erspreads the face of heaven; while the west
Burns like a living ruby in the ring
Of the deep green horizon. Now the shades
Are deepening round the feet of the tall trees,
Bending the head of the pale blossoms down
Upon their mother's bosom, where the breeze
Comes with a low, sweet hymn and balmy kiss,
To lull them to repose. Look now, and see
How every mountain, with its leafy plume,
Or rocky helm, with crest of giant pine,
Is veiled with floating amber, and gives back
The loving smile of the departing sun,
And nods a calm adieu. Hark! from the dell
Where sombre hemlocks sigh unto the streams,
Which with its everlasting harmony
Returns each tender whisper, what a gush
Of liquid melody, like soft, rich tones
Of flute and viol, mingling in sweet strains
Of love and rapture, float away toward heaven!
"T is the Edoleo, from her sweet place
Singing to Nature's God the perfect hymn
Of Nature's innocence. Does it not seem
That Earth is listening to that evening song?—
There's such a hush on mountain, plain, and streams.
Seems not the Sun to linger in his bower
On yonder leafy summit, pouring forth
His glowing adoration unto God,
Blent with that evening hymn, while every flower
Bows gracefully, and mingles with the strain
Its balmy breathing? Have you looked on aught
In all the panoply and bustling pride
Of the dense city with its worldly throng,
So soothing, so delicious to the soul,
So like the ante-chamber of high heaven,
As this old forest, with the emerald crown
Which it has worn for ages, glittering
With the bright halo of departing day,
While from its bosom living seraphim
Are hymning gratitude and love to God?
THE LAST PALE FLOWERS.
THE last pale flowers are drooping on the stems, The last sere leaves fall fluttering from the tree, The latest groups of Summer's flying gems
Are hymning forth a parting melody. The wings are heavy-winged and linger by, Whispering to every pale and sighing leaf; The sunlight falls all dim and tremblingly, Like love's fond farewell through the mist of grief. There is a dreamy presence everywhere, As if of spirits passing to and fro; We almost hear their voices in the air,
And feel their balmy pinions touch the brow. We feel as if a breath might put aside
The shadowy curtains of the spirit-land, Revealing all the loved and glorified
That Death has taken from Affection's band.
We call their names, and listen for the sound
Of their sweet voices' tender melodies;
We look almost expectantly around
For those dear faces with the loving eyes.
We feel them near us, and spread out the scroll
Of hearts whose feelings they were wont to share,
That they may read the constancy of soul
And all the high, pure motives written there. And then we weep, as if our cheek were pressed To Friendship's holy, unsuspecting heart, Which understands our own. Oh, vision blest! Alas, that such illusions should depart!
I oft have prayed that Death may come to me
In such a spiritual, autumnal day;
For surely it would be no agony
With all the beautiful to pass away.
COME to the woods in June-
'Tis happiness to rove
When Nature's lyres are all in tune,
And life all full of love......
While from the dewy dells,
And every wildwood bower,
A thousand little feathered bells
Ring out the matin hour.
Come when the sun is high,
And earth all full in bloom,
When every passing summer sigh
Is languid with perfume;
When by the mountain-brook
The watchful red-deer lies,
And spotted fawns in mossy nook
Have closed their wild, bright eyes;
While from the giant tree,
And fairy of the sod,
A dreamy wind-harp melody
Speaks to the soul of God-
Whose beauteous gifts of love
The passing hours unfold,
Till e'en the sombre hemlock-boughs
Are tipped with fringe of gold.
Come when the sun is set,
And see along the west
Heaven's glory streaming through the gate
By which he passed to rest;
While brooklets, as they flow
Beneath the cool, sweet bowers, Sing fairy legends soft and low
To groups of listening flowers; And creeping, formless shades
Make distance strange and dim,
And with the daylight softly fades
The wild-bird's evening hymn.
Come when the woods are dark,
And winds go fluttering by,
While here and there a phantom bark
Floats in the deep blue sky;
While gleaming far away
Beyond the aerial flood,
Lies in its starry majesty
The city of our God.
JANE TAYLOE LOMAX, a daughter of the late Colonel Lomax of the United States army, was a native of Virginia, and was connected with several of the most distinguished families of that state. She was educated in different parts of the country, as the exigencies of the military service led to changes of residence by her father, and her large opportunities were improved by a genial intercourse with various society, and a minute and loving observation of nature. Her affections, however, always centred in the "Old Dominion," and nearly all her productions appeared in the Southern Literary Messen
TO THE PEAKS OF OTTER. FAIR are the sunset hues, thy dark brow blessing, Oh mountain, with their gift of golden rays; And the few floating clouds, thy crest caressing, Seem guardian angels to my raptured gaze: I have looked on thee through the saddest tears That ever human sorrow taught to flow, And thou wilt come, in life's recalling years, Linked with the memory of my deepest wo. Yet well I love thee, in thy silent mystery, Thy purple shadows and thy glowing light— Thou art to me a most poetic history
Of stillest beauty and of stormiest might:
I owe thee, oh, sublime and solemn mountain,
For many hours of vision and of thought,
For pleasant draughts from fancy's gushing fountain,
For bright illusions by thy presence brought.
And more I thank thee, for the deeper learning
That soothes my spirit as I look on thee,
For thou hast laid upon my soul's wild yearning
The holy spell of thy tranquillity:
I shall recall thee with a long regretting,
And often pine to see thy brow, in vain,
While Thought, returning, fond and unforgetting,
Will trace thy form in glory-tints again.
And thou, in thine experience, all material,
Wilt never know how worshipped thou hast been;
No glimpses of the life that is ethereal
Shadow thy face, eternally serene!
Thou hast not felt the impulse of resistance-
Thy lot has linked thee with the earth alone:
Thou art no traveller to a new existence,
Thou hast no future to be lost or won.
The past for thee contains no bitter fountain-
Thou hast no onward mission to fulfil :
ger, which was edited by a personal friend, at Richmond. She excelled most in the essay, and there are few better illustrations of womanly feeling and intelligence than may be found in her numerous compositions of this kind, which were written in the four or five years of her literary life. Her poems, simple, graceful, and earnest, are reflections of a character eminently truthful, refined, and pleasing. She was married, in 1843, to F. A.Worthington, M. D., of Ohio, and she died, lamented by a wide circle of literary and personal friends, in 1847. No collection of her works has been published.
And I would learn from thee, oh silent mountain,
All things enduring, to be tranquil still!
And now, with that fond reverence of feeling
We owe whatever wakes our loftiest thought,
I can but offer thee, in faint revealing,
These idle thanks for all that thou hast brought.
TO ONE WHO WILL UNDERSTAND THEM.
I HAVE been reading, tearfully and sadly,
The lines we read together long ago,
When our experience glided on so gladly,
We loved to linger o'er poetic wo.
We both have changed: our souls at last are finding
Their destiny-in silence to endure;
And the strong ties, our best affections binding,
Are not the dreamlike ones our hearts once wore.
We live no longer in a world elysian,
With life's deep sorrowing still a thing to test;
And we have laid aside—a vanished vision-
The hope once wildly treasured as our best.
Yet though the tie that then our thoughts united
Lies severed now, a bright but broken chain-
Though other love hath lavishly requited
That early one, so passionate and vain—
Still, as I read the lines we read together,
Now hallowed by our parting's bitter tears,
As mournfully my spirit questions, Whither
Have gone the sweet illusions of those years!
I close the book, such vain remembrance bringing
Of all that now 't were wiser to forget:
Say, are your thoughts, like mine, still idly clinging
To those old times of rapture and regret?
Ir shineth on the quiet graves
Where weary ones have gone, It watcheth with angelic gaze Where the dead are left alone; And not a sound of busy life
To the still graveyard comes, But peacefully the sleepers lie Down in their silent homes.
All silently and solemnly
It throweth shadows round,
And every gravestone hath a trace
In darkness on the ground:
It looketh on the tiny mound
Where a little child is laid,
And it lighteth up the marble pile
Which human pride hath made.
It falleth with unaltered ray
On the simple and the stern,
And it showeth with a solemn light
The sorrows we must learn;
It telleth of divided ties
On which its beam hath shone,
It whispereth of heavy hearts
Which "brokenly live on."
It gleameth where devoted ones
Are sleeping side by side,
It looketh where the maiden rests
Who in her beauty died.
There is no grave in all the earth
That moonlight hath not seen;
It gazeth cold and passionless
Where agony hath been.
Yet it is well that changeless ray
A deeper thought should throw,
When mortal love pours forth the tide
Of unavailing wo;
It teacheth us no shade of grief
Can touch the starry sky,
That all our sorrow liveth here-
The glory is on high!
Ir is a place where tender thought
Its voiceless vigil keepeth;
It is a place where kneeling love,
Mid all its hope, still weepeth:
The vanished light of all a life
That tiny spot encloseth,
Where, followed by a thousand dreams,
The little one reposeth.
It is a place where thankfulness
A tearful tribute giveth:
That one so pure hath left a world
Where so much sorrow liveth-
Where trial, to the heavy heart,
Its constant cross presenteth,
And every hour some trace retains
For which the soul repenteth.
It is a place for Hope to rise,
While other brightness waneth,
And from the darkness of the grave
To learn the gift it gaineth-
From Him who wept, as on the earth
Undying love still weepeth-
From Him who spoke the blessed words, "She is not dead, but sleepeth."
HAVE pity on them! for their life
Is full of grief and care:
You do not know one half the woes
The very poor must bear;
You do not see the silent tears
By many a mother shed,
As childhood offers up the prayer,
"Give us our daily bread."
And sick at heart, she turns away
From the small face, wan with pain, And feels that prayer has long been said By those young lips in vain. You do not see the pallid cheeks
Of those whose years are few, But who are old in all the griefs The poor must struggle through. Their lot is made of misery
More hopeless day by day,
And through the long cold winter nights
Nor light nor fire have they;
But little children, shivering, crouch
Around the cheerless hearth,
Their young hearts weary with the want
That drags the soul to earth.
Oh, when with faint and languid voice
The poor implore your aid,
It matters not how, step by step,
Their misery was made;
It matters not, if shame had left
Its shadow on their brow-
It is enough for you to see
That they are suffering now.
Deal gently with these wretched ones,
Whatever wrought their wo,
For the poor have much to tempt and test
That you can never know:
Then judge them not, for hard indeed
Is their dark lot of care;
Let Heaven condemn, but human hearts
With human faults should bear.
And when within your happy homes
You hear the voice of mirth,
When smiling faces brighten round
The warm and cheerful hearth,
Let charitable thoughts go forth
For the sad and homeless one,
And your own lot more blest will be,
For every kind deed done.
Now is the time the very poor
Most often meet your gaze—
Have mercy on them, in these cold
And melancholy days.
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