Ay, in their world of light
Immortal voices catch a mother's prayer,
And while I kneel, some waiting seraph bright,
Swift on expanded wing, the boon may bear,
And, soft as falling dewdrops, kindly shed
Heaven's peace o'er thy young head.
I MET thee in the Isle of Dreams,
Beloved of my soul-
I met thee on the silver sands,
Where Lethean rivers roll;
And by the flashing water-falls,
Thy spirit whispered unto mine
The vows it may not keep.....
I met thee in the Isle of Dreams
1 No fairer land may bloom
Among the island-stars that crest
The midnight's heavy gloom:
The lilies blossomed in our path,
Wild roses on the spray,
And young birds from the wilderness
Sang each a dreamy lay.
Our steps fell lightly as we pressed
The green, enchanted ground,
For love was swelling in our hearts,
And in the air around:
All, all was sunshine, bliss, and light,
Beloved of my soul,
When in the Isle of Dreams we met,
Where Lethean rivers roll.
Then tread again the sounding shores
That echo in my dreams,
And walk beneath the rosy sky
That through my vision gleams;
O meet me, meet me yet once more,
Beloved of my soul,
Within the lovely Isle of Dreams,
Where Lethean rivers rol!!
LOVE's flowery fetters wearing,
And pleas'd their burden bearing,
I ask not to be free;
For, ah! to doating lovers
Their very chain discovers
More joys than liberty.
Tho' charms of form or feature
Must fade in course of nature,
The heart retains its bloom;
And, like the rose when dying,
In dusty atoms flying,
Strikes on the wind perfume.
"De tout ce qui t'aimait, n'est il plus rien qui t'aime?"
MIGHTY ones, Love and Death!
Ye are the strong in this world of ours,
Ye meet at the banquets, ye dwell midst the flowers,
Which hath the conqueror's wreath?
Thou art the victor, Love;
Thou art the fearless, the crown'd, the free,
The strength of the battle is given to thee,
The spirit from above!
Thou hast look'd on Death and smiled!
Thou hast borne up the red-like and fragile form
Through the waves of the fight, through the rush of the sto
Or field, and flood, and wild!
No! thou art the victor, Death!
Thou comest, and where is that which spoke
From the depth of the eye, when the spirit woke ?
-Gone with the fleeting breath!
Thou comest, and what is left
Of all that loved us, to say if aught
Yet loves yet answers the burning thought
Of the spirit lone and reft?
Silence is where thou art!
Silently there must kindred meet,
No smile to cheer, and no voice to grect,
No bounding of heart to heart!
Boast not thy victory, Death!
It is but as the clouds o'er the sunbeam's power,
It is but as the winters o'er leaf and flower,
That slumber the snow beneath..
It is but as a tyrant's reign
O'er the voice and the lip which he bids be still :But the fiery thought and the lofty will
Are not for him to chain!
They shall soar his might above!
And thus with the root whence affection springs, Tho' buried, it is not of mortal things-
Thou art the victor, Love!
AH! not the Love, that should have bless'd.
So young, so innocent a breast:
Not the pure, open, prosperous Love,
That, pledg'd on earth and seal'd above,
Grows in the world's approving eyes,
In friendship's smile and home's caress,,
Collecting all the heart's sweet ties
Into one knot of happiness!
No, HINDA, no-thy fatal flame
ls nurs'd in silence, sorrow, shame-
In thy soul's darkness buried deep,
It lies like some ill-gotten treasure,-
A passion, without hope or pleasure,.
Some idol without shrine or name,
O'er which its pale-eyed votaries keep
Unholy watch, while others sleep!
WOMAN'S LOVE..
O, THE voice of woman's love!
What a bosom-stirring word!
Was a sweeter ever utter'd,
Was a dearer ever heard,
Than woman's love?"
How it melts upon the ear!
How it nourishes the heart;
Cold, ah! cold must his appear
That has never shared a part
Of woman's love.
'Tis pleasure to the mourner,
'Tis freedom to the thrall;
The pilgrimage of many,
And the resting-place of all
Is woman's love.
'Tis the gem of beauty's birth;
It competes with joys above;
What were angels upon earth,
If without woman's love-
Sweet woman's love?
LOVE UNCHERISHED-DIES.
LOVE cannot bear rude passion's blast;
Neglect pales all its fires;
When once its brilliancy is past,
It struggles, but it cannot last;
It flickers and expires.
And who that radiant light can blame
If quickly it depart?
So delicate, so pure a flame,
Which from ethereal regions came,
Must live in kindred heart.
Is it a crime in yon sweet flower,
The child of lovelier skies,
Because exposed in killing hour
To blighting winds, to tempest's power,
It sickens, fades, and dies?
Ah! had it grown beneath the ray
Of genial native sun,
Whose beams had cherish'd it by day,
And Zephyrs fann'd it as they play,
Its life had not been done.
ye selected, sacred few,
Whose bosoms are Love's shrine, Preserve a flame, so bright, so true, Glowing with each celestial hue,
And fed from source divine!
WHAT though the name is old and oft repeated,
What though a thousand beings bear it now,
And true hearts oft the gentle word have greeted-
What though 'tis hallow'd by a poet's vow?
We ever love the rose, and yet its blooming
Is a familiar rapture to the eye;
And yon bright star we hail, although its looming
Age after age has fit the northern sky.
As starry beams o'er troubled billows stealing,
As garden odours to the desert blown,
In bosoms faint a gladsome hope revealing,
Like patriot music or affection's tone-
Thus, thus, for aye the name of MARY spoken
By lips or text, with magic-like controul,
The course of present thought has quickly broken
And stirr'd the fountains of my inmost soul.
The sweetest tales of human weal or sorrow,
The fairest trophies of the limner's fame,
To my fond fancy, MARY, seem to borrow
Celestial halos from thy gentle name:
The Grecian artist gleam'd from many faces,
And in a perfect whole the parts combined,
So have I counted o'er dear woman's graces,
To form the MARY of my ardent mind.
And marvel not I thus call my ideal-
We inly paint as we would have things be
The fanciful springs ever from the real,
As APHRODITE rose from out the sea.
Who smiled upon me kindly day by day,
In a far land where I was sad and lone?
Whose presence now is my delight away?
Both angels must the same bless'd title own.
What spirits round my weary way are flying,
What fortunes on my future life await,
Like the mysterious hymns the winds are sighing,
Are all unknown-in trust I bide my fate;
But if one blesssing I might crave from Heaven,
"Twould be that MARY should my being cheer,
Hang o'er me when the chord of life is riven,
Be my dear household word, and my last accent here.
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