Lays Of Ancient Virginia, And Other Poems Part 14

Awake in me the thrill of joy, Or bow my soul in grief; And makes me strive to make thee blest, Or yield thy pangs relief.

Yes, Mary, I will love but thee, Of all thy lovely race; Our hearts shall find in life one home, In death one resting place.

And, if I linger now afar, 'Tis fortune's hard decree-- Oh! were the dove's swift pinions mine, How would I fly to thee.

Those charms, with memory's feeble light On me would cease to beam; Their rays, with present, perfect warmth, Upon my heart would gleam.

Thus, by thy side, so sweetly near, How blest to pa.s.s my life; To press thy gentle hand in mine, And call thee my sweet wife.

If Adam lost his happiness, Bewailed with ceaseless sighs, With thee, my Eve, I scarce could wish Another Paradise.

THOUGH THOU WAST Pa.s.sING FAIR.

Though thou wast pa.s.sing fair, And wondrous beauty crown'd thee, And Fancy's robe most rare, Forever brightly bound thee:

I could not teach my heart, To bow in love before thee, Nor bid the death depart, Which now hangs darkly o'er thee.

I know a hectic flush On thy sweet cheek is burning, That thou dost stilly hush Thy wrung heart's deepest yearning.

I know that in thy breast, A serpent closely lurking, Forbids thee e'er to rest, Thy utter ruin working.

When, in the chilly ground, Thy lovely form lies sleeping, Where vi'lets spring around, And purest dews are weeping:

Thy sinless soul ascending Above this dreary sod, Shall feel its being blending In deathless love with G.o.d.

THE LADY'S SOLILOQUY.

Ah! now I am beloved by him, And sweet it is, to think, That life no more will be so dim, To make my spirit sink.

Ah! now I am beloved by him; The secret I will keep; In silence to the mantling brim, I'll quaff this cup so deep.

Beloved by him! beloved by him!

How dear the tender thought!

My eyes in happy tears do swim, My heart with bliss is fraught.

Beloved by him--that n.o.ble youth!

With proud yet gentle mien, Who speaks the guileless words of truth, And yet is not so "green."

Beloved by him--ah! I shall own A husband very soon; And he shall kneel before my throne, With many a costly boon,

The plate, the gold, the proud array Of horses, charioteers;-- And when comes round the paying day, I'll kiss him in arrears!

LOVE WITHOUT HOPE.

I cannot cease to love thee, Coldest fair!

Though pleading cannot move thee, And I despair.

Thy beauty was diviner, Than the summer moon, And thou didst outshine her, At her noon.

Thy brow was like the silver On the star-lit sea; Thy bright eyes did bewilder All, as me.

Thy motions were the motions Of a charmed bird, As, poised o'er dream-world oceans, His sweet voice is heard.

Thou wast queenlier far Than the queenliest flower, More glorious than a star In a fairy bower.

But it can not move thee, My mad prayer!

Though I must ever love thee, Coldest fair!

TO MARY.

Dear Mary, if my heart has hushed awhile, Its loving voice within my breast--yet there, Thine image was enshrined the dearest thing, Which now remains to me in this sad world.

Thou bad'st me sing a song of thee, and said'st, That I should make thee to my dreamy thought, Whoe'er I would, and I will make thee be, A fair and gentle friend--a lovely one-- Ah yes, the nearest, tenderest of all friends.

Sweet Mary, dost thou read my thought?

Who will be all in all to me on earth, Sheathing my soul against the edge of pain, Even till I seem to dwell in paradise, With thee my Eve, and we may need no fall.

See, fairy spring hath walked upon the hills, Where her foot-prints are green and flowers appear; The turtle coos within our pleasant land.

Oh! now I throb to be by thy sweet side, To sun me in the sweet spring of that smile Which warms the beauties of my mind to birth.

Thus, Mary, when afar from thee, amid The unloving and unloved I muse of thee, And sing and love thee still, and cannot wish The thought of thee a moment from my soul.

Thou art the friend whom I would ever have Dwell by my soul in absence and when nigh.

Thou art the friend whom I would have be still, The loved and guardian angel of my path, Amid the mazes of a treacherous world.

Thou art the friend, with whom in smiling peace I fain would walk, to the not dreadful tomb.

And now, adieu, sweet Mary! I must cease My strain; but, as a wind-strain sleeps Upon a bed of roses; so the echo Of this my strain, will find its rest with thee.

WRITTEN IN AN ALb.u.m.

As stainless thought my hand should write, Upon this page of spotless white; Nor would I that thy falling tear Should blot the wish recorded here.

Oh, like the rose which opens here, The earliest of the vernal year, May Mary's bloom enchant the day, And bless the Minstrel's votive lay.

But when the envious, Boreal wind, Shall leave his Northern cave behind, And seek to sieze thy beauteous bloom To deck his dark and dreary tomb: