To think that, whenever my song or my name
Shall recur to their ear, they'll recall me the same
I have been to them now, young, unthoughtful, and blest,
Ere hope had deceiv'd me or sorrow deprest.
But, Douglas! while thus I recall to my mind
The elect of the land we shall soon leave behind,
I can read in the weather-wise glance of thine eye,
As it follows the rack flitting over the sky,
That the faint coming breeze will be fair for our flight,
And shall steal us away, ere the falling of night.
Dear Douglas thou knowest, with thee by my side,
With thy friendship to soothe me, thy courage to guide,
There is not a bleak isle in those summerless seas,
Where the day comes in darkness, or shines but to freeze
Not a tract of the line, not a barbarous shore,
That I could not with patience, with pleasure explore!
Oh think then how gladly I follow thee now,
When Hope smooths the billowy path of our prow,
And each prosperous sigh of the west-springing wind
Takes me nearer the home where my heart is enshrin'd,
Where the smile of a father shall meet me again,
And the tears of a mother turn bliss into pain;
Where the kind voice of sisters shall steal to my heart,
And ask it, in sighs, how we ever could part ?-
But see the bent top-sails are ready to swell— To the boat-I am with thee-Columbia, farewell!
As Love, one summer eve, was straying,
Who should he see, at that soft hour,
But young Minerva, gravely playing
Her flute within an olive bow'r.
I need not say, 'tis Love's opinion
That, grave or merry, good or ill,
The sex all bow to his dominion,
As woman will be woman still.
Though seldom yet the boy hath giv'n
To learned dames his smiles or sighs,
So handsome Pallas look'd that ev'n,
Love quite forgot the maid was wise.
Besides, a youth of his discerning
Knew well that, by a shady rill,
At sunset hour, whate'er her learning,
A woman will be woman still
Her flute he prais'd in terms extatic,-
Wishing it dumb, nor car'd how soon;
For Wisdom's notes, howe'er chromatic,
To Love seem always out of tune.
But long as he found face to flatter,
The nymph found breath to shake and trill; As, weak or wise-it doesn't matter
Woman, at heart, is woman still.
Love chang'd his plan, with warmth exclaiming
"How rosy was her lip's soft dye!"
And much that flute, the flatt'rer, blaming,
For twisting lips so sweet awry.
The nymph look'd down, beheld her features
Reflected in the passing rill,
And started, shock'd-for, ah, ye creatures!
Ev'n when divine, you're women still.
Quick from the lips it made so odious,
That graceless flute the Goddess took,
And, while yet fill'd with breath melodious,
Flung it into the glassy brook;
Where, as its vocal life was fleeting
Adown the current, faint and shrill,
"Twas heard in plaintive tone repeating,
Up and march the timbrel's sound
Wakes thy slumb'ring camp around;
Fleet thy hour of rest hath gone,
Armed sleeper, up, and on!
Long and weary is our way
O'er the burning sands to-day;
But to pilgrim's homeward feet
Ev'n the desert's path is sweet.
When we lie at dead of night,
Looking up to heaven's light,
Hearing but the watchman's tone
Faintly chaunting "God is one,"
Oh what thoughts then o'er us come
Of our distant village home,
Where that chaunt, when ev'ning sets,
Sounds from all the minarets.
Cheer thee-soon shall signal lights,
Kindling o'er the Red Sea heights,
Kindling quick from man to man,
Hail our coming caravan:
Think what bliss that hour will be!
Looks of home again to see,
And our names again to hear
Murmur'd out by voices dear.
As once a Grecian maiden wove
Her garland mid the summer bow'rs
There stood a youth, with eyes of love,
To watch her while she wreath'd the flow'rs.
The youth was skill'd in Painting's art,
But ne'er had studied woman's brow,
Nor knew what magic hues the heart
Can shed o'er Nature's charms, till now.
Blest be Love, to whom we owe
All that's fair and bright below.
His hand had pictur'd many a rose,
And sketch'd the rays that light the brook;
But what were these, or what were those,
To woman's blush, to woman's look?
'Oh, if such magic pow'r there be,
This, this," he cried, "is all my prayer, To paint that living light I see,
And fix the soul that sparkles there."
His prayer, as soon as breath'd, was heard;
His pallet, touch'd by Love, grew warm,
And Painting saw her hues transferr'd
From lifeless flowr's to woman's form.
Still as from tint to tint he stole,
The fair design shone out the more,
And there was now a life, a soul,
Where only colours glow'd before.
Then first carnations learn'd to speak,
And lilies into life were brought;
While, mantling on the maiden's cheek,
Young roses kindled into thought.
Then hyacinths their darkest dyes
Upon the locks of Beauty threw ;
And violets, transform'd to eyes,
Inshrin'd a soul within their blue.
Blest be Love, to whom we owe
All that's fair and bright below.
Song was cold and Painting dim
Till Song and Painting learn'd from him.
WEEPING for thee, my love, through the long day,
Lonely and wearily life wears away.
Weeping for thee, my love, through the long night~
No rest in darkness, no joy in light!
Nought felt but Memory, whose dreary tread
Sounds through this ruin'd heart, where all lies deadWakening the echoes of joy long fled:
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