Poems

Or to the firry woods, that shed
Their spicy odours to the sun,
Goest thou with meditative tread,
Thinking of all things that are done
Beneath the sky?—a great, big thought,
Of which I know you’re very fond.
For me, my mind is solely wrought
To this one wish:—O! in a pond
Would I were over head and ears!
(Of a cold ducking I’ve no fears)
Or any where, where I am not;
For, bless the heat! it is too hot!

AN APOLOGY

Blame not my tears, love: to you has been given
The brightest, best gift, God to mortals allows;
The sunlight of hope on your heart shines from Heaven,
And shines from your heart, on this life and its woes.

Blame not my tears, love: on you her best treasure
Kind nature has lavish’d, oh, long be it yours!
For how barren soe’er be the path you now measure,
The future still woos you with hands full of flowers.

Oh, ne’er be that gift, love, withdrawn from thy keeping!
The jewel of life, its strong spirit, its wings;
If thou ever must weep, may it shine through thy weeping,
As the sun his warm rays through a spring shower flings.

But blame not my tears, love: to me ’twas denied;
And when fate to my lips gave this life’s mingled cup,
She had filled to the brim, from the dark bitter tide,
And forgotten to pour in the only sweet drop.

WRITTEN AFTER SPENDING A DAY AT WEST POINT

Were they but dreams?  Upon the darkening world
Evening comes down, the wings of fire are furled,
On which the day soared to the sunny west:
The moon sits calmly, like a soul at rest,
Looking upon the never-resting earth;
All things in heaven wait on the solemn birth
Of night, but where has fled the happy dream
That at this hour, last night, our life did seem?
Where are the mountains with their tangled hair,
The leafy hollow, and the rocky stair?
Where are the shadows of the solemn hills,
And the fresh music of the summer rills?
Where are the wood-paths, winding, long and steep,
And the great, glorious river, broad and deep,
And the thick copses, where soft breezes meet,
And the wild torrent’s snowy, leaping feet,
The rustling, rocking boughs, the running streams,—
Where are they all? gone, gone! were they but dreams?
And where, oh where are the light footsteps gone,
That from the mountain-side came dancing down?
The voices full of mirth, the loving eyes,
The happy hearts, the human paradise,
The youth, the love, the life that revelled here,—
Are they too gone?—Upon Time’s shadowy bier,
The pale, cold hours of joys now past, are laid,
Perhaps, not soon from memory’s gaze to fade,
But never to be reckoned o’er again,
In all life’s future store of bliss and pain.
From the bright eyes the sunshine may depart,
Youth flies—love dies—and from the joyous heart
Hope’s gushing fountain ebbs too soon away,
Nor spares one drop for that disastrous day,
When from the barren waste of after life,
The weariness, the worldliness, the strife,
The soul looks o’er the desert of its way
To the green gardens of its early day:
The paradise, for which we vainly mourn,
The heaven, to which our ling’ring eyes still turn,
To which our footsteps never shall return.

SONG

Pass thy hand through my hair, lore;
One little year ago,
In a curtain bright and rare, love,
It fell golden o’er my brow.
But the gold has passed away, love,
And the drooping curls are thin,
And cold threads of wintry gray, love,
Glitter their folds within:
How should this be, in one short year?
It is not age—can it be care?

Fasten thine eyes on mine, love;
One little year ago,
Midsummer’s sunny shine, love,
Had not a warmer glow.
But the light is there no more, love,
Save in melancholy gleams,
Like wan moonlight wand’ring o’er, love,
Dim lands in troubled dreams:
How should this be, in one short year?
It is not age—can it be care?