When summer days draw to a close,
And hushed all flowerets in repose,
And peacefully the streamlet flows-
I'll think of thee!
HUSH, MY HEART!
HUSH, my heart, thy bitter wailings!
Let thy murmurs all be stilled!
Tears at least are unavailing,
Since the fate you've met was willed; See it, read it in each action,
And O, ponder o'er it well!
This great truth, unmixed with fiction,
Hollow hearts with coquettes dweli.
Yet, my heart, I'll not upbraid thee,
If thy murmurs still should flow
Against one who did betray thee,
While she claimed thee for her beau:
For there is a tender sadness
In the heart when tears do flow,
That will heal its wounds in gladness,
And give triumph o'er the foe.
TO THE BEAUTIFUL UNKNOWN.
Thou art lovely as the ocean
Flowing o'er the coral shoals, When the breeze with gentle motion Its transparent water rolls
In gentle swelling billows
To some odour breathing isle,
Which on its bosom pillows
As on beauty sits a smile.
I liken thee to nature
In summer's gorgeous hueThy cheeks its blooming feature, Thine eyes its heaven's blueThy voice like to a warbling bird, To a fragrant orange grove,Now like the nightingale 'tis heard, Now plaintive like the dove.
If features be an index
To the throbbings of the heart,
Then purest art thou of thy sex,
"Young Peri of the Crest!"
Thy rank in life I do not know,
Or have I heard thy name;
Or do I care, or high, or low,
To me thou art the same.
Thou art very, very beautiful,
The ideal longed to see;
Would that my soul were dutiful
To its Maker as to thee.
For as we knelt before the shrine
My heart essayed to pray,
Yet one remembered glance of thine
Drove thoughts of heaven away..
O, would that I had met thee
Ere life had lost its charm!"
But now I must forget thee,
I would not work thee harm.
And like a stream all calm above,
When torrents rush beneath,
My bosom passion-tossed by love,,
Must show as calm as death.
DEAR maid, whose tones and looks impart
A healing balsam to this wounded heart,
O, to this doting, anxious heart incline,
And choose me for thy life-long Valentine!
Slow are the hours I pass away from thee,
But in thy presence, hours and evenings flee;
O fondly then, consent to ease this heart,
And name the day when we no more shall part!
Thy absence is the cause of all my woe -
Thy presence is to me a heaven below;,
Then, dearest, from this hour my heart incline,
And be my loving, constant Valentine!
WHEN others, long-loved ones, are crowding around thec,
And eyes borrow lustre they knew not before,-
When friends, with love-fetters, have tenderly bound thee,-
thought, and I ask no more!
There are some times, when the heart groweth low in its beating;
There are moments when all of us turn to the past;
There are hopes that each day grow more certainly fleeting,-
And the wreck of each looks like the wreck of the last!
Should ever such gloom let down over thy heaven,
And memory offer her jewels to thee,-
Among them thou'lt find, at a single glance even,
The gleam of a thought ever cherished by me..
THE BROKEN-HEARTED.
THE spring is here, with buds of flowers-
Joy leads with mirth the dancing hours;.
But ah, within my heart a spring.
Its cheerful smiles can ever bring!
deep-burning love is here,
That crisps and withers all that's fair:
A love that burns with no return,
Till life's frail lamp shall cease to burn,
'Tis in my dreams alone I'm blest;
Then dwells his vision in my breast:
To tear the idol form away.
But, hush! Oh darling, darling pride,
Come, fix thy dwelling by my side;
Be thou my friend-if I must die,
Love's victim-let not man know why!"
anguish deep soon comes the day,
AND thou art one, crowned with the fadeless wreath
Begets no tumult wave-gentle and kind-
Lovely in feature-lovelier far in mind:
being whose wildest breath
Thy friendship, riches, and thy heart's controi,
An amulet, deep, sparkling in the soul.
A word well chosen, and a thought sublime,
Thou hast for all who meet thee on thy way-
A look to strengthen, and a word to say
Some weary ones along the sands of time.
So wing thee on thy mission, gentle one,
Remembering oft that thou art not alone,
Until thy soul, which from the sky was given,
Shall melt away into the bliss of heaven.
FORGIVE thee? yes! though many a fault were thine,
Still should they all be laid upon the shrine
Where dark oblivion treasures every debt,
And softly whispers, here thou may'st forget.
Forget! O, as truly hope for heaven,
So truly shalt thou ever be forgiven;
And though the past be tinctured with regret,
Yet from my inmost soul I would forget.
LONE, by her casement sits a maiden,
It is a lovely autumn eve,
The snowy shoulder, lately laden
With cumbrances 'tis glad to leave,
Is but half hid by jetty tresses,
Which, fettered in the day, must grieve
To give again those soft caresses,
To feel again that bosom heave.
The pallid cheek can speak of scorn,
The drooping eyelid tell of love-
Both say, alas, that never morrow
As bright as yesterday may prove!
Ah, hopes she would have gladly cherished,
As cherishes her young the dove,
Had almost on their birth-night perished,
Ere scarce their fragile forms could move!
Her languid eye to heaven she raiset,
A brilliant star with fervour beams
On her, who with like fervour, gazeth,
As if she there beholds the gleams
Of joy, that o'er her spirit ever
Had passed in blissful, early dreams.:
She knows, ah, bitter truth, that never
In life can love be what it seems!
Her white arms to the star extending,
She strives to clasp it to her breast,
As if the heavenly star were bending,
To bear her to the regions blest-
As if by earthly love forsaken,
And wearied of the heart's unrest,
To that embrace she would be taken,
And star-like sink adown the west.
Again the lovely eyelid droopeth,
Falleth again the fragile arm,
A radiant angel o'er her stoopeth,
The throbbing heart is almost calm-
The deep, sore wounds of falsehood's burning
Will now, at length, receive their balm,
Can fill her bosom with alarm.
To lead her on from earthly cares,
are o'er her winging,
Angelic voices round are singing,
Their beautiful unearthly airs;
Angelic hands of flowers are twining,
A rosy stairway to the stars,
And heaven itself afar is shining,
To yield the joys that earth debars.
How softly, lowly, sweetly, slowly,
the circling seraph-band;
Wanderers from the spirit-land! dying, dying," speak those holy,
dying," breathes the maiden faintly,
And faintly
Which seems
That may
moves her snow-white hand,
almost a pinion saintly,
e'en upon earth expand.
As if a moment to recall her,
The wind breathes o'er the sighing trees; Can aught that's earthly still enthrall her, Who has heard angel-tones like these?
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