I WALK IN DREAMS OF POETRY.

I WALK in dreams of poetry;
They compass me around;
I hear a low and startling voice
In every passing sound;
I meet in every gleaming star,
On which at eve I gaze,
A deep and glorious eye, to fill
My soul with burning rays.

I walk in dreams of poetry;

The very air I breathe

Is filled with visions wild and free,
That round my spirit wreathe;
A shade, a sigh, a floating cloud,
A low and whispered tone-
These have a language to my brain,
A language deep and lone.

I walk in dreams of poetry,
And in my spirit bow
Unto a lone and distant shrine,

That none around me know.
From every heath and hill I bring

A garland rich and rare,

Of flowery thought and murmuring sigh,
To wreathe mine altar fair.

I walk in dreams of poetry:
Strange spells are on me shed;
I have a world within my soul
Where no one else may tread-
A deep and wide-spread universe,
Where spirit-sound and sight
Mine inward vision ever greet

With fair and radiant light.
My footsteps tread the earth below,
While soars my soul to heaven:
Small is my portion here-yet there
Bright realms to me are given.
I clasp my kindred's greeting hands,
Walk calmly by their side,
And yet I feel between us stands
A barrier deep and wide.

I watch their deep and household joy
Around the evening hearth,
When the children stand beside each knee
With laugh and shout of mirth.
But oh! I feel unto my soul

A deeper joy is brought

To rush, with eagle wings and strong,
Up in a heaven of thought.

I watch them in their sorrowing hours,
When, with their spirits tossed,

I hear them wail with bitter cries

Their earthly prospects crossed;
I feel that I have sorrows wild
In my heart buried deep-
Immortal griefs, that none may share
With me-nor eyes can weep.
And strange it is: I can not say
If it is wo or weal,

That thus unto my heart can flow

Fountains so few may feel; The gift that can my spirit raise The cold, dark earth above,

Has flung a bar between my soul

And many a heart I love.

Yet I walk in dreams of poetry,

And would not change that path,
Though on it from a darkened sky
Were poured a tempest's wrath.
Its flowers are mine, its deathless blooms,
I know not yet the thorn;

I dream not of the evening glooms
In this my radiant morn.

Oh! still in dreams of poetry

Let me for ever tread,
With earth a temple, where divine,
Bright oracles are shed:
They soften down the earthly ills

From which they can not save;
They make a romance of our life;
They glorify the grave.

REGRET.

No voice hath breathed upon mine ear
Thy name since last we met;
No sound disturbed the silence drear,
Where sleep entombed from year to year
Thy memory, my regret.

It was not just, it was not meet,

For one so loved as I,

To coldly hear thy parting feet,
To lose for aye thine accents sweet,
Nor feel a wish to die.

Oh, no! such heartless calm was not
The doom deserved by thee;
Thou whose devotedness was bought
By years of gloom, an alien's lot,
A grave beyond the sea.

I deemed not then that time at last
Should link with tears thy name;
And from the ashes of the past,
That Sorrow, with its bitter blast,
Should wake the avenging flame.

I deemed not then that when the grave
Had made thee long its own,
My soul with yearnings deep should crave
The truth, the fervent love that gave
Thy heart its passionate tone.

And yield to olden memories

The boon it once denied,

When, with calm brow and tearless eyes, I saw thy faded energies,

I mocked thy broken pride.

All this is past; thou art at rest,
And now the strife is mine:
In turn I bear the weary breast,
The restless heart, the brain oppressed,
That in those years were thine.
And all too late, the consciousness
Of thy perfections rare,
Thy deep, thy fervent tenderness,
Thy true, thy strong devotedness,
Have waked me to despair.

SONG.

I NEVER knew how dear thou wert,
Till I was on the silent sea;
And then my lone and musing heart

Sent back its passionate thoughts to thee.
When the wind slept on ocean's breast,
And the moon smiled above the deep,
I longed thus o'er thy spirit's rest

A vigil like yon moon to keep.
When the gales rose, and, tempest-tossed,
Our struggling ship was sore beset,
Our topsails rent, our bearing lost,

And fear in every spirit met-
Oh! then, amid the midnight storm,

Peace on my soul thy memory shed:
The floating image of thy form

Made strong my heart amid its dread.

Yes! on the dark and troubled sea,

I strove my spirit's depths to know,
And found its deep, deep love for thee,
Fathomless as the gulfs below.
The waters bore me on my way--

Yet, oh! more swift than rushing streams, To thee flew back, from day to day,

My clinging love-my burning dreams.

THE BIRD OF WASHINGTON. SUGGESTED BY AN INCIDENT IN AUDUBON.

ABOVE that dark, romantic stream,

Gray rocks and gloomy forests tower,
And o'er its sullen floods the dream
Of Lethe seems to lower;
Low, shadowed by its frowning steeps,
The deep and turbid river sweeps.
It sweeps along through many a cleft
And chasm in the mountains gray,
Which in forgotten years were reft
To give its waters way;
And far above, in martial lines,
Like warriors, stand the pluméd pines.
Erect and firm they lift on high

Their pointed tops and funeral spires,
And seem to pierce the sunset sky,

And bask amid its fires;

And when the mountain-winds are loud,
Their branches swell the anthem proud.
Few steps have dared those rugged ways-
The precipice is steep and stern;
And those who on its ramparts gaze

From the drear aspect turn,
With little heart to tempt the path
Bared by the storm and lightning's wrath.
But those who love the awful might
Of Nature's dreariest solitude,
May find on that repulsive height
A scene to match their mood;
And from its summit look abroad
On the primeval works of God.
There, in that loneliness profound,

The soul puts forth a stronger wing,

And soars, from worldly chains unbound,

A proud, triumphant thing,

To claim its kindred with the sky,

And feel its latent deity.

"T was there that, at the set of sun,

A traveller watched an eagle's flightNow lost amid the vapors dun

That ushered in the night, Now wheeling through the vault of space, In wild intricacies of grace.

And as declined the crimson gleam

Behind the mountain's purple crest,
He saw him sink, with sudden scream,
Upon his rocky nest;

Then, clambering up the rugged way,
The traveller sought his kingly prey.

Through bush and brake, o'er loosened rock,
That, sliding from his footsteps slow,
Went plunging with a sudden shock
Into the wave below;

O'er fallen tree, and serpents' brood,
He sought the eagle's solitude.
Emerging from the coppice dark

That crowned the frowning precipice,
He stood in silent awe to mark

The fathomless abyss

Which yawned beneath him deep and stern,
And barred him from the eagle's cairn.

A deer, half maddened by the chase,
Had once in safety leaped across :
Such was the legend of the place-

Yet difficult it was

For those who heard to comprehend
How fear itself such strength could lend.
And thus divided from his prey,

The traveller watched that mountain king, As, gazing on the dying day,

He sat with folded wing,

And looked the fable of the Greek-
The bird with thunder in his beak.
So calm, so full of quiet might

He seemed upon his craggy throne;
In his dark eye so much of light,

Of mind, of meaning shone,
That for a moment hand and heart
Refused to do their deadly part.
Exulting creature! thee no more
The sunlight summoned from thy rest,
On wild and warring wing to soar,

With tempest on thy crest;
No more the glorious day's decline
Brought calm repose to heart of thine.
Whelmed in the life-stream of thy breast,
Thine eaglets perished in their lair,
And thou, upon thy crag-perched nest,
In impotent despair,

In wild, in sick, in deadly strife,
Didst yield thy glorious mountain life!
Then falling from thine eyry lone,

Where oft with proud, unquailing eye,
Thou didst survey the noonday sun,

THE DESERTED HOUSE.
ROUND that house, deserted lying,
Wearily the winds are sighing
Evermore with sound undying

Through the empty window-pane;
As if with its wails distressing
It could call each earthly blessing
From the sods above them pressing,
Back to live and breathe again.
There the cuckoo sits complaining;
All night long her voice is straining,
And the empoisoned oak-vine training,
Hangs its tendrils on the wall.
Once within those chambers dreaming,
Gentle looks of love were gleaming,
Gentle tones with deep love teeming
Did unto each other call.

Far above the roof-tree failing,
See the hoary vulture sailing;
Marketh she the serpent trailing

Underneath the threshold-stone.
Heaven's bright messengers resembling,
Ringdoves here of old were trembling,
As round some fair hand assembling,
They were fed by her alone.
Through the chamber-windows prying,
Softly on the dark floor lying,
See the ghostly moonlight, flying

Through the untrodden gloom.
Seems it not to thee sweet faces,
Shadowy forms of vanished graces,
Stealing, flitting to their places,

In that long-forsaken room?
Where the darkened stairway windeth,
There her brood the eagle mindeth,
And with chains Arachné bindeth

Balustrade to balustrade.

Once so lightly upward bounding
Fairy steps were heard resounding,
While sweet laughter wild, astounding,
Echoes through the mansion made.
Round the oaken tables spreading,
Through the hall the guests were treading,
Where the festal lamps were shedding
Light upon the ruby wine:

Now swift through the doorway shrunken,

Creeping o'er the threshold sunken,
With the dew and starlight drunken,

Reptile insects seem to twine.

In the parlor, long forsaken,
Once the lute was wont to waken;
And with locks all lightly shaken,

Maids and matrons joined in mirth.
Gentle accents here were swelling,
Hallowed voices often telling
Heaven alone was Virtue's dwelling:
All these beings rest in earth.
Mid these garden flowerets pining,
'Neath the starlight dimly shining,
Where the deadly vine is twining,
Once were glorious bowers.
Once were gladsome children playing,
O'er the grass plots lightly straying,
With their golden ringlets swaying

'Neath their crowns of flowers.
By yon gnarled oak's curious twisting,
Here was once a lover's trysting,
Fondly to each other listing,

While they told their plighting vows.
Often when the lightning streaketh,
And the wind its branches seeketh,
Then that olden oak-tree speaketh,

And sweet voices fill the boughs.
Could we bring again the glory
To this mansion gray and hoary,
Flinging light on every story,

Yet it would be desolate.

Yet (they say) 'tis doomed hereafter;
Forms shall gleam from wall and rafter,
Full of silent tears and laughter,

Mingling with a human fate.
Some indeed have said that, creeping,
Nightly from the window peeping,
Lightly from the casement leaping,

They a ghostly maid have seen.
On the broken gate she swingeth,
And her wanlike hands she wringeth,
And with garments white she wingeth
O'er the grassy plain so green.
To the dark oak-tree she cometh,
Round its trunk she wildly roameth,
Shuddering, as the dark stream foameth;

There she roves till break of day.
Hers they say was love illicit,
Yet from out her murdered spirit
This sad mansion did inherit
A curse never done away!
Therefore, in the balance weighing,
Underneath the rods decaying,
With their white hands clasped as praying,
Sleep the owners of the spot;
While this home of the departed,
Making sad the lightest-hearted,
Standeth still, a house deserted-
By the world, save me, forgot.

THIS clever young poet was born at Pindar's Vale, an estate near Wolfert's Roost, the seat of Mr. Irving, on the Hudson. Her father, who had been engaged in commerce, failing in some important speculations, went to New Orleans to retrieve his fortunes, and died there; and Miss Pindar was soon after deprived of all near kindred by the decease of her brothers. Her poems have been pub

THE SPIRIT MOTHER.

ART thou near me, spirit mother,

When, in the twilight hour,
A holy hush pervades my heart
With a mysterious power:
While eyes of dreamy tenderness
Seem gazing into mine,

And stir the fountains of my soul-
Sweet mother, are they thine?

Is thine the blessed influence

That o'er my being flings

A sense of rest, as though 't were wrapped Within an angel's wings?

A deep, abiding trustfulness,

That seems an earnest given
Of future happiness and peace

To those who dwell in heaven!
And ofttimes when my footsteps stray
In error's shining track,
There comes a soft, restraining voice,
That seems to call me back;
I hear it not with outward ears,
But with a power divine

Its whisper thrills my inmost soul:
Sweet mother, is it thine?

It well may be, for know we not
That beings all unseen
Are ever hovering o'er our paths,

The earth and sky between?
They're with us in our daily walks,
And tireless vigils keep,

To weave those happy fantasies
That bless our hours of sleep!
Oh, could we feel that spirit-eyes
For ever on us gaze,
And watch each idle thought that threads

The heart's bewildering maze, Would we not guard each careless word,

All sinful feelings quell,

Lest we should grieve the cherished ones We loved on earth so well?

THE LADY LEONORE. OUT upon the waters foaming,

O'er the deep, dark sea,

A maiden through the twilight gloaming
Gazeth earnestly:

Mighty waves, tempestuous dashing,
Burst upon the shore;

Recks she not their angry lashing,
Heeds she not the tempest crashing,
Lady Leonore!

She was Beauty's fairest daughter,
Glorious in her pride;
Noble suitors oft had sought her,
Countless hearts had sighed;
Vainly the impassioned lover

Burning words did pour:
Bright and cold as stars above her,
Failed all tearful sighs to move her,
Cruel Leonore !

One there was, of noble bearing,
Lowly in his birth—
Worthy he of all comparing

With the great of earth;
Dared he own Love's sacred feeling,
The humble troubadour?

O'er his harp-strings wildly stealing,
Every strain his soul revealing,
Worshipped Leonore.

Loved she him?-what soft commotion
Stirred within her breast,
Wakening each fond emotion

With a sweet unrest.

Pride all tender ties doth sever

And they met no more.
Could she wed a minstrel ?-never!
Left he then his home for ever-
Haughty Leonore !

Now his image sadly keeping

Shrined within her heart,
Dimmed her eyes with ceaseless weeping,
Smiles for aye depart:
Love with fond resistless yearning

Bids her him restore;
While the beacon-light is burning,
Waiteth she his glad returning,
Tender Leonore !

Wildly now the tempest rushing
On its fearful path,
Every fated object crushing

In its furious wrath.

List!—that shriek of wo despairing,

Rising mid the roar;

To her heart what anguish bearing, Where she stands the storm-king daring,

Faithful Leonore !

Soon the early dawn is breaking,
Glorious and serene,

And the sun, in splendor waking,
Smiles upon the scene.
A maiden clasps her lifeless lover

On the wreck-strewn shore: Moaning surges break above herBut for her all storms are over, Hapless Leonore !

BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR.

WITH slow and solemn tread,

Through aisles where warrior-figures grim
Stand forth in shadowy gloom,

While loudly peals the funeral hymn,
And censors waft perfume,

Bring they the kingly dead.

They bear him to his rest,
Around whose lofty deeds is cast
The panoply of fame;
Who gave his war-cry to the blast,

And left a conqueror's mighty name
His nation's proud bequest.
Around his royal bier

The chieftains stand, in reverence bowed,
Amid a hush profound;

When from the vast assembled crowd
A solemn voice, with warning sound,
Rung on each startled ear.

As ye would pray your sins forgiven,
Lay not the tyrant's ashes here
Upon my father's hearth!"

Mute stood those warriors bold,
Each swarthy cheek grew red with shame,
That ne'er with fear had paled;
And for his dust, before whose name
The bravest hearts in terror quailed,
They bought a grave with gold.
Oh, Victory, veil thy brow!
What are thy pageants of an hour-
Thy wreath, when stained with crime!
Oh, fame, ambition, haughty power!
Ye bubbles on the stream of time,
Where are your glories now?

LAURALIE.

LIGHTER than the sunbeam's ray,
Dawning on the sea,

Graceful as a moonlight fay,

Was she who won all hearts awayLauralie!

Tresses bright of golden hair,

Flowing wild and free,

Down her cheek beyond compare,
Nestling in her bosom fair-
Lauralie!

By the heaven within her eyes,
Plainly might you see,

She had stolen their glorious dyes
From the laughing summer skies—
Lauralie!

Less beautiful than good and kind,
Pure as snow was she;

All gentle thoughts dwelt in her mind,
By innocence and truth refined-

Lauralie!

A tall knight came, with bearing bold, And tender vows breathed he;

Alas! a tale too often told,

He won her heart, his love waned cold-
Lauralie!

He brought a fair and haughty bride
From o'er the sea;

And as he feasted at her side,
A maiden sought his feet and died-
Lauralie!

Now doth the broken-hearted sleep
Beneath the linden tree;
Above the sod the wild vines creep,
And maidens seek the spot to weep:
Lauralie!

But he the false one!-knows not rest,
Dishonored now is he;

His faithless bride has left his breast:
Oh, well are all thy wrongs redressed,
Lauralie!

A maniac wild, he smiles no more,
But wanders by the sea,
And mutters, mid the tempest's roar,
The name he traces on the shore-

Lauralie!