The Poetical Works of Mrs. Leprohon Part 17

No, not of crowned heads thought she then, of hall or gilded dome, But of fair Greece, that cla.s.sic land, her loved, her early home.

She yearns to see again its skies, proud temples, woodland flowers, Less bright, but dearer far, than those that bloom in harem bowers.

She glanced upon the jewels rich that gemmed her shining hair, And wreathed her sculptured, snowy arms, her neck and brow so fair.

Their l.u.s.tre softened not the pangs that filled that lonely hour, More happy was she when her braids were decked with simple flower.

But, Azof, did not thought of him some pa.s.sing joy impart; Did not the memory of his love bring gladness to her heart?

Alas, that long and heavy sigh, the glitt'ring tear that fell From 'neath her dark and drooping lids, told more than words could tell.

Awhile she weeps, and then a change steals o'er her mournful dream, Her gloomy thoughts are chased away, and all things brighter seem, A timid and yet blissful smile lights up her beauteous brow, Her soft cheek crimsons, but, oh' not of Azof thinks she now.

Perchance of some gallant Greek she knew in life's young hour, Some childish love as guileless as her love for bird or flower, But which, looked back on through the mist of absence or of time, Seemed sad and sweet as are the words--of some old childish rhyme.

Could he, her royal lover, now but look into her heart, And read its depths, how sharp the pang that knowledge would impart, But no, secure in certain bliss, he deems her all his own, And prides himself that girlish heart loves him and him alone.

The sadness which might have awaked suspicion or mistrust, Was of the spells she swayed him by, the dearest and the first,-- He deemed it but the token of a timid gentle heart, That ever kept from needless show or noisy mirth apart.

He knew not that the voice which now sang but some mournful lay Breathed once the soul of joyousness, was gayest of the gay, That the soft laugh whose magic power his very heart strings stirred, Though now so rare, in girlhood's home had oftentimes been heard!

Th' averted head, the timid look the half unwilling ear, With which she met his vows of love, he deemed but girlish fear, Nor ever dreamed that she whom all considered as thrice blessed, Whose life was like a summer day loved, honored and caressed;

Who held, a captive to her charms, a most accomplished knight And monarch brave that ever yet had bowed to woman's might Was but a poor and joyless slave, compelled to wear a smile And act a part for which she loathed her wretched self the while.

But, like some fair exotic brought unto a foreign strand, She lost her bloom and pined to see once more her native land, And only when from earthly scenes death summoned her to part A blissful smile played round her lips, and peace was in her heart.

LYRICAL POEMS.

THE EMIGRANT'S ADDRESS TO AMERICA.

All hail to thee, n.o.ble and generous Land!

With thy prairies boundless and wide, Thy mountains that tower like sentinels grand, Thy lakes and thy rivers of pride!

Thy forests that hide in their dim haunted shades New flowers of loveliness rare-- Thy fairy like dells and thy bright golden glades, Thy warm skies as Italy's fair.

Here Plenty has lovingly smiled on the soil, And 'neath her sweet, merciful reign The brave and long suff'ring children of toil Need labor no longer in vain.

I ask of thee shelter from lawless harm, Food--raiment--and promise thee now, In return, the toil of a stalwart arm, And the sweat of an honest brow.

But think not, I pray, that this heart is bereft Of fond recollections of home; That I e'er can forget the dear land I have left In the new one to which I have come.

Oh no! far away in my own sunny isle Is a spot my affection worth, And though dear are the scenes that around me now smile, More dear is the place of my birth!

There hedges of hawthorn scent the sweet air, And, thick as the stars of the night, The daisy and primrose, with flow'rets as fair, Gem that soil of soft verdurous light.

And there points the spire of my own village church, That long has braved time's iron power, With its bright glitt'ring cross and ivy wreathed porch-- Sure refuge in sorrow's dark hour!

Whilst memory lasts think not e'er from this breast Can pa.s.s the fond thoughts of my home: No! I ne'er can forget the land I have left In the new one to which I have come!

FAR WEST EMIGRANT.

I.

Mine eye is weary of the plains Of verdure vast and wide That stretch around me--lovely, calm, From morn till even-tide; And I recall with aching heart My childhood's village home; Its cottage roofs and garden plots, Its brooks of silver foam.

II.

True glowing verdure smiles around, And this rich virgin soil Gives stores of wealth in quick return For hours of careless toil; But oh! the reaper's joyous song Ne'er mounts to Heaven's dome, For unknown is the mirth and joy Of the merry "Harvest Home."

III.

The solemn trackless woods are fair, And bright their summer dress; But their still hush--their whisprings vague, My heart seem to oppress; And 'neath their shadow could I sit, And think the livelong day On my country's fields and hedges green, Gemmed with sweet hawthorn spray.

IV.

The graceful vines and strange bright flow'rs, I meet in every spot, I'd give up for a daisy meek, A blue forget-me-not; And from the brilliant birds I turn, Warbling the trees among; I know them not--and breathe a sigh For lark or linnet's song.

V.

But useless now those vain regrets!

My course must finish here; In dreams alone I now can see Again my home so dear, Or those fond loving friends who clung Weeping unto my breast; And bade "G.o.d speed me" when I left, To seek the far, far West.

A WELCOME TO THE MONTH OF MARY.

Oh! gladly do we welcome thee, Fair pleasant month of May; Month which we've eager longed to see, Through many a wintry day: And now with countless budding flowers, With sunshine bright and clear-- To gild the quickly fleeting hours-- At length, sweet month, thou'rt here!

But, yet, we do not welcome thee Because thy genial breath Hath power our sleeping land to free From winter's clasp of death; Nor yet because fair flowers are springing Beneath thy genial ray; And thousand happy birds are singing All welcome to thee, May!

No, higher, n.o.bler cause have we These bright days to rejoice-- 'Twas G.o.d ordained that thou should'st be The loved month of our choice: It is because thou hast been given To honor her alone, The ever gentle Queen of Heaven-- The mother of G.o.d's son.