Lays Of Ancient Virginia, And Other Poems Part 15

May some kind angel swiftly fly, And leave the region of the sky, Transplant thee to a clime where ne'er Sad winter mars the blooming year.

THE DEAD EAGLE.

No more through the regions of glorious day, Shall thy wings waft thee proudly--oh proudly away-- No more shall thy scream thrill the spirit that heard, And saw thee, high mounting, O proud, mighty bird: For thy form lies with beasts on the filth of the plain, And it never shall soar from its slumber again.

How strong was thy wing, and how fierce was thine eye-- Which vanquished the storm--and the sun throned on high-- How far was thy flight mid thy path through the blue, As thou sankest away from our wandering view;-- But thy form rottens now with the beasts of the plain, And it never shall soar from its slumber again.

We will mourn, we will mourn for thee, proud bird of heaven, Whose loftiest walks to thy footsteps were given; For thy form rots with beasts on the reed-sighing plain, And it never shall soar from that slumber again.

LAMENT.

My soul is sad--oh! dark to-night, 'Tis wrapt in midnight's gloom; Wild minstrel! seize thy harp and sing, As o'er the victor tomb.

For thoughts, more beautiful than dreams, Within my soul have died, As fade away the glorious tints From heaven, at even-tide.

Wild minstrel! seize thy harp, I pray, And let a dirge arise In frantic woe--then faintly die Amid the nightwind's sighs.

The saddest--deepest--wildest strain Should wail such visions o'er; Within the mournful Past entombed, To be awaked no more.

OH, LOVE! THE DEW LIES ON THE FLOWER.

Oh, love! the dew lies on the flower, And the stars gleam on the sea; It is the charm'd, the silent hour, When I should roam with thee.

The day dies out within the West, The shadows gather near; And now sweet fancies fill my breast, And thou art strangely dear.

Behold! as yonder heavenly moon, Breaks through the dark-blue sky, And through night's deepest, stillest noon, That brightness will supply-- Thy smile thus sheds its heavenly light Athwart life's deepest gloom,-- Thus brightly gilds the spirit's night Its gentle beams illume.

RED ROSE.

Sweet rose! ere Ellen gathered thee From off thy parent stem, With hope to rival her sweet cheek, Thou wast a floral gem.

But when I think her snow-white hands, Did pluck thee, rose! for me, The brightest gems of earth or sky, Are naught compared with thee.

How fondly even for hours I gaze Upon thy charms so rare, Thy tint of richest, purest red, Thy fragrant petals fair.

Sweet rose! my Ellen's pledge of love, Thou fairest thing of earth, Save darling Ellen's angel self,-- Words cannot speak thy worth.

To token faintly to her soul, How prized by me thou art, My trembling hand has placed thee here Beside my throbbing heart.

ELLEN.

Ellen, my heart is not yet thine, And still I can but sigh, Whene'er I view thy semblance shine In Memory's mirror nigh.

Thy brow so soft--thy cheek so fair-- Thy looks so sweetly mild-- Thy angel air--thy angel smile, My spirit have beguiled.

Ellen, my heart is not yet thine, But oft my fancy dreams-- When evening's peaceful shades decline Along our mountain streams.

Yes! oft my tranced fancy sees, Mid evening's deepening shade, Thy airy form--and, in the breeze, Thy voice I hear, sweet maid!

Oh! Ellen! may yon heavens smile, On thee, their beauteous birth, And with the loveliest joys beguile Thy path amid the earth.

THE SABBATH WORSHIPPER.

'Twas Sabbath morn. A holy light Hung o'er the hill and wood, O'er wooded stream, and lofty height, And mighty solitude.

All Nature lay in bright repose, And from her silent lips arose, In mystic accents through the air, The voice of worship, praise, and prayer.

I gazed into the bright, blue sky, Then bent my eyes to view, The earth which lay so sweetly by In robes of summer hue; I dreamed that blessed ones might deign, To leave their radiant seats again, Nor weep to yield their home in heaven, For the bright ones that Earth had given.

On morn, so holy, pure, and bright-- I looked on one most fair, Whose braided hair was dark as night, And wrought with maiden care-- Forth issue from her father's door, Walking with sweet mien evermore, As if blest spirits led her there, And she beheld their forms in air.

Hark! how it thrills the holy air-- The choir's high song of praise, Which many voices mingling there In sweetest concert, raise, And oh! how warmly, fervently Those words of prayer ascend the sky, And joined with that loud strain of praise Blend with the song that Seraphs raise.

And sits that lovely lady there, Uniting in the strain?

And does she bend her form so fair, When silence comes again?

Yes! she was there, and lovelier there, Than she this hour could be elsewhere; Though few beneath yon heavenly sky Might with her erring beauty vie.

TO ----.

As some gay flow'ret brightly rears, Its head beside the pilgrim's way, And charms away his flowing tears, And glads him, with its blessed ray-- Sweet Mary--"Angel without wing,"

Heaven gave thee man's rough path to cheer-- To bid the mourner smile and sing, "At last, Earth is not wholly drear."

WHERE IS OUR BROTHER?