And the youth's glance told the wish chimed well with that brave
ardent heart.
"Now, brother, thou'lt have none to share thy sports till I
return,--
Say, what shall be the glitt'ring prize that I afar must earn?"
"The world," said the laughing boy, "on heroes poor looks cold,
If thou art wise as well as brave, return with store of gold."
"Perchance thou'rt right!" and now he turned to his sister young
and fair,
Braiding with skill a glossy tress of his own raven hair.
"'Tis now thy turn, sweet sister mine, breathe thy heart's wish
to me,
If I've the power, 'twill be fulfilled, ere I return to thee."
The maiden blushed and whispring low, "I prize not wealth or
pride,
But, brother, to thy future home bring back a gentle bride."
The merry smile her words had raised fled, as with falt'ring
voice,
He asked of her, the best beloved, "Mother, what is _thy_
choice?"
"My son! my son!" she softly said, "hear my wish ere we part--
Return as now thou goest forth, with true and guileless heart!"
* * * * *
The years sped on with rapid flight, and to his home once more
The soldier came: he walked not with the buoyant step of yore;
The eagle eye was sunken, dim, the curls of glossy hair
Fell careless round an aching brow, once free from shade of care.
His soiled and shattered crest he laid low at his father's feet,
And sadly said, "'Tis all I have--is it an off'ring meet?
In battle's front I madly fought, till dead on dead were heaped,
Want, weariness and pain I've borne, and yet no fame I've reaped.
"Brother, thou told'st me to return with treasures like a king;
This hacked and dinted sword and shield is all the wealth I
bring.
Sister, I wooed a lady bright with eyes like thine, and hair,--
I woke from wild and dazzling dreams to find her false as fair!
"Now, mother, unto thee I turn! say, say, wilt though repine
If I tell thee that those cherished hopes have all proved vain
but thine?
Though folly may have swayed awhile this heart since last we
met--
Still, mother, at thy feet, I swear, 'tis true and stainless yet!
"No aim has ever ruled it that thou might'st not calmly see--
Nor hope nor thought, dear mother, that I'd shrink to bare to
thee!"
"Bless thee, mine own one, for those words! thrice dearer art
thou now
Than if thine hands were filled with gems, and laurels twined
thy brow!
"And dearer is thy still fond smile, tho' dimmed its brightness
be,
Than that of fairest bride to glad our home with witching glee!"
With all a mother's yearning love, she strained him to her heart,
And in that fond embrace he felt her's was "the better part."
THE SOLDIER'S DEATH.
The day was o'er, and in their tent the weaned victors met,
In wine and social gaiety the carnage to forget.
The merry laugh and sparkling jest, the pleasant tale were
there--
Each heart was free and gladsome then, each brow devoid of care.
Yet one was absent from the board who ever was the first
In every joyous, festive scene, in every mirthful burst;
He also was the first to dare each perilous command,
To rush on danger--yet was he the youngest of the band.
Upon the battle-field he lay a damp and fearful grave;
His right hand grasped the cherished flag--the flag he died to
save;
While the cold stars shone calmly down on heaps of fallen dead,
And their pale light a halo cast round that fair sleeper's head.
Say, was there none o'er that young chief to shed one single
tear,
To sorrow o'er the end of his untimely stopt career?
Yes, but alas! the boundless sea its foam and crested wave,
Lay then between those beings dear and his cold, cheerless grave.
With all a mother's doting love a mother yearned for him,
And watching for his quick return, a sister's eye grew dim,
And, dearer still, a gentle girl, his fair affianced bride,--
And yet, with all these loving ones, unfriended, had he died.
No woman's low, sweet voice was near one soothing word to say
Or gentle hand from his cold brow to wipe the damps away;
But yet why should we grieve for him, that hero gallant, brave?
His was a soldier's glorious death, a soldier's glorious grave!
THE HUNTER AND HIS DYING STEED.
"Wo worth the chase. Wo worth the day,
That cost thy life, my gallant grey!"--Scott
The Hunter stooped o'er his dying steed
With sad dejected mien,
And softly stroked its glossy neck,
Lustrous as silken sheen;
With iron will and nerve of steel,
And pale lips tight compressed,
He kept the tears from eyes that long
Were strange to such a guest.
Thou'rt dying now, my faithful one,
Alas! 'tis easy known--
Thy neck would arch beneath my touch,
Thou'dst brighten at my tone;
But turn not thus thy restless eyes
Upon my saddened brow,
Nor look with such imploring gaze--
I cannot help thee now.
No more we'll bound o'er dew gemmed sward
At break of summer morn,
Or follow on, through forests green,
The hunter's merry horn;
No more we'll brave the rapid stream,
Nor battle with the tide,
Nor cross the slipp'ry mountain path,
As we were wont to ride.
Oh! we have travelled many miles,
And dangers have we braved;
And more than once thy matchless speed
Thy master's life hath saved;
And many nights the forest sward
Has been the couch we've pressed,
Where, pillowed on thy glossy neck,
Most sweet has been my rest.
How often, too, I we shared with thee
The hunter's scanty fare.
To see thee suffer want or pain,
Mute friend I could not bear;
And now, thou best in agony,
As if thy heart would burst,
And I, what can I do for thee,
Save slake thy burning thirst?
That parting sob, that failing glance--
The pains of death are past!
Thy glazing eyes still turned on me
With love unto the last!
Well may my tears o'er thy cold form,
My steed, flow fast and free,
For, oh! I have had many friends,
Yet none so true as thee!
THE WOOD FAIRY'S WELL.
"Thou hast been to the forest, thou sorrowing maiden,
Where Summer reigns Queen in her fairest array,
Where the green earth with sunshine and fragrance is laden,
And birds make sweet music throughout the long day.
Each step thou hast taken has been over flowers,
Of forms full of beauty--of perfumes most rare,
Why comest thou home, then, with footsteps so weary,
No smiles on thy lip, and no buds in thy hair?"
"Ah! my walk through the wild-wood has been full of sadness,
My thoughts were with him who there oft used to rove,
That stranger with bright eyes and smiles full of gladness
Who first taught my young heart the power of love.
He had promised to come to me ere the bright summer
With roses and sunshine had decked hill and lea.
I, simple and trusting, believed in that promise,
But summer has come, and, alas! where is he?"
"Yes, simple and trusting--ah! child, the old story!
Say, when will thy sex learn that man can forget?
Thy lover was highborn, and thou art but lowly,
Ere this he's forgotten that ever you met;
But, methought, as I watch'd thee to-day slowly treading
With step full of sadness yon green shady dell,
Thou didst pause by the brink of its bright crystal treasure,
Say, what didst thou see in our Wood Fairy's Well?"
"No sparkles of promise for me gemmed its surface,
I saw that the rose from my cheek had nigh fled,
That the eyes whose light he never weaned of praising,
Are dimmed by the tears that I for him have shed;
And I felt as I gazed that it would be far better,
E'en though I might grieve to my heart's inmost core,
That he should forget than, returning to seek me,
Should find me thus changed, and then love me no more."
"What! love thee no more!--say, to love thee forever!
See, true to my vows, I am here by thy side,
Quick to bear thee away to a fair home of splendor,
To reign there its mistress, my own gentle bride!"
Oh! moment of bliss to that girl heart, grief laden,
The lover so mourned for, no ingrate had grown,
Despite absence and change he stood there by the maiden,
With faith still unshaken and true as her own.
THE WREATH OF FOREST FLOWERS.
In a fair and sunny forest glade
O'erarched with chesnuts old,
Through which the radiant sunbeams made
A network of bright gold,
A girl smiled softly to herself,
And dreamed the hours away;
Lulled by the sound of the murmuring brook
With the summer winds at play.
Jewels gleamed not in the tresses fair
That fell in shining showers,
Naught decked that brow of beauty rare
But a wreath of forest flowers;
And the violet wore no deeper blue
Than her own soft downcast eye,
Whilst her bright cheek with the rose's hue
In loveliness well might vie.
But she was too fair to bloom unknown
By forest or valley side,
And long ere two sunny years had flown,
The girl was a wealthy bride--
Removed to so high and proud a sphere
That she well at times might deem
The humble home of her childhood dear
A fleeting, changeful dream.
No more her foot sought the grassy glade
At the break of summer day;
No more neath the chesnut spreading shade
In reverie sweet she lay;
But in abodes of wealth and pride,
With serious, stately mien,
That envy's rancorous tongue defied,
She now alone was seen.
But was she happier? Who might know?
Wealth, fortune, on her smiled;
Yet there were some who whispered low
That she, fates favored child,
Oft pressed her brow with a weary hand,
In gay and festive hours,
And fain would change her jewell'd band
For a wreath of forest flowers.
THE VILLAGE GIRL AND HER HIGH BORN SUITOR.
"O maiden, peerless, come dwell with me,
And bright shall I render thy destiny:
Thou shalt leave thy cot by the green hillside,
To dwell in a palace home of pride,
Where crowding menials, with lowly mien,
Shall attend each wish of their lovely queen."
"Ah! stranger my cot by the green hillside
Hath more charms for me than thy halls of pride;
If the roof be lowly, the moss rose there
Rich fragrance sheds on the summer air;
And the birds and insects, with joyous song,
Are more welcome far than a menial throng."
"Child, tell me not so! too fair art thou,
With thy starry eyes and thy queenlike brow,
To dwell in this spot, sequestered and lone,
Thy marvelous beauty to all unknown;
And that form, which might grace a throne, arrayed
In the lowly garb of a peasant maid."
"Nay, a few short days since didst thou not say
That I in my rustic kirtle gray
In thine eyes looked lovelier fairer far
Than robed in rich state as court ladies are;
And the wreath of violets in my hair
Pleased thee more than diamond or ruby rare."
"Beloved! if thus coldly thou turn'st aside
From the tempting lures of wealth and pride,
Sure thy woman's heart must some pity own
For one who breathes for thy self alone,
And who would brave suffering, grief and toil
To win from thy rose lips one shy, sweet smile."
"Ah! enough of this--thy love may be true,
But I have tried friends who love me too;
And in proud homes governed by fashion's voice,
Thou would'st learn to blush for thy lowly choice.
Go, seek thee a noble, a high born bride,
And leave me my cot by the green hillside!"
THE LADY OF RATHMORE HALL.
Throughout the country for many a mile
There is not a nobler, statelier pile
Than ivy crowned Rathmore Hall;
And the giant oaks that shadow the wold,
Though hollowed by time, are not as old
As its Norman turrets tall.
Let us follow that stream of sunset red,
Crimsoning the portal overhead,
Stealing through curtaining lace,
Where sits in a spacious and lofty room
Full of gems of art--exotics in bloom--
The Lady of the place.
If Rathmore Hall is with praises named,
Not less is its queen-like mistress famed
For wondrous beauty and grace;
And as she reclines there, calmly now,
The sunset flush on her ivory brow,
We marvel at form and face.
Wondrously perfect, peerlessly fair,
Are the mouth and the eyes and luxuriant hair,
As lily she's graceful and fall;
Not florid full is that lady fair
But pale and high-bred, with just the air
That is suited to Rathmore Hall.
Health, youth, and loveliness on her smile,
Her abode that noble and ancient pile,
She, surely, must happy be--
(With each wish fulfilled that wealth can fulfil,
For as if by magic is wrought her will)
A moment wait--we shall see!
At length she moves and heavily sighs,
While wearily rest her violet eyes
On her jewels richly wrought;
Shuddering, she turns away her gaze
From flashing diamond and ruby's blaze,
As she whispers, "Too dearly bought!"
Then, slowly rising, the casement nears,
And looking abroad through a mist of tears
Sighs: "Yes, I have earned it all:
Crushed a manly heart that too truly loved,
False to my. vows and to honor proved,
To be Lady of Rathmore Hall.
"What are now its broad rich acres to me,
Stretching out as far as my gaze can see?
With loathing I turn from the scene;
My womanhood wasting in wild regret
O'er a past that I would, but cannot, forget;
O'er a life that might have been!
"Oh! for the humble, dear home of my youth,
Its loving warm hearts, its unsullied truth,
Its freedom from fashion's thrall.
And the blameless hopes--the bliss that was mine
Ere awoke in my heart a wish to shine
As Lady of Rathmore Hall!"
She stops, for, lo! in the chamber still,
Loud barking of hounds and harsh accents fill
The quiet and dreamy air;
Swearing at menials--with lowering brow,
Earl Rathmore, entering her presence now,
Turns on her an angry stare.
A shudder runs through her--what does it tell?
A look in her eyes that not there should dwell--
She hates him--his wedded wife!
Surely angels grieve in their bliss above
To see, where there should be perfect love,
Disunion--unholy strife.
With an oath he mutters "Still moping, eh!
From hour to hour and day to-day;
Not for this from thy lowly state--
Enticed by the beauty I'm weary of now,
And smiles that have fled from thy sullen brow--
I made thee a Rathmore's mate."
With no word from her lips she to him replies,
But the shadow deepens within her eyes,
And she smiles in cold disdain;
Yet her snowy eyelids haughty droop,
And the calm, that disdains to his will to stoop,
Mask an aching heart and brain.
With a muttered curse, in still harsher tone,
He passes out, and thus leaves her alone
In her rich and gilded gloom
Ah, no wretched wife through the whole broad land
Is as weary of life as that lady grand
As she sits in that splendid room.
If a daughter's soft arms should ever twine,
Lady Rathmore, round that white neck of thine,
Teach her not to barter all
The guileless love of her innocent youth,
Her premised vows and maidenly truth,
For another Rathmore Hall.
THE SHEPHERDESS OF THE ARNO.
'Tis no wild and wond'rous legend, but a simple pious tale
Of a gentle shepherd maiden, dwelling in Italian vale,
Near where Arno's glittering waters like the sunbeams flash and
play
As they mirror back the vineyards through which they take their
way.
She was in the rosy dawning of girlhood fair and bright,
And, like morning's smiles and blushes, was she lovely to the
sight;
Soft cheeks like sea-shells tinted and radiant hazel eyes;
But on changing earthly lover were not lavished smiles or sighs.
Still, that gentle heart was swelling with a love unbounded,
true,
Such as worldly breast, earth harden'd, passion-wearied, never
knew;
And each day she sought the chapel of Our Lady in the dell,
There to seek an hour's communing with the Friend she loved so
well.
Often, too, she brought a garland of wild flowers, fragrant,
fair,
Which she culled whilst onward leading her flock with patient
care;
The diamond dew-drops clinging to every petal sweet,--
For the mystic Rose of Heaven was it not a tribute meet?
The white statue of the Virgin boasted neither crown nor gem;
On its head she placed her chaplet instead of diadem,
Murm'ring, "O, my gentle Mother, would that it were in my power
To give Thee pearl or diamond instead of simple flower!"
But for earth she was too winsome, that fair child of faith and
love,
One of those whom God culls early for His gardens bright above;
And the hand of sickness touched her till she faded day by day,
And to Our Lady's chapel she came no more to pray.
One evening, in the valley, after journeying many a mile,
Two pious men in holy garb lay down to rest a while,
And in sleep to both a vision of most wond'rous beauty came,
Such as only visit souls which burn with heav'nly love's pure
flame.
Amid clouds of golden brightness they saw to earth float down
A band of fair young virgins, wearing each a glittering crown;
And surpassing them in beauty, as the day outshines the night,
Was high Heaven's regal Mistress--Our Lady, fair and bright.
Then the pious brothers knew at once that she was on her way
To see a dying maiden, and her love through life repay;
And when, from slumber waking, they told their vision true,
They said: "Let us go visit this child of Mary, too!"
High instinct lent by Heaven guided on their feet aright,
And in silence grave they journeyed till a cottage came in sight;
'Neath its humble porch they entered, with bow'd and reverent
head,
And found themselves in presence of the peaceful, holy dead.
Oh! most fair the sight! No maiden with bridal wreath on brow
Ever looked one half so lovely as the one they gazed on now;
As a lily, fair and spotless, bright and pure each feature shone,
Bearing impress of that Heaven to which Mary's child had gone.
THE TWO BIRTH NIGHTS.
Bright glittering lights are gleaming in yonder mansion proud,
And within its walls are gathered a gemmed and jewelled crowd;
Robes of airy gauze and satin, diamonds and rubies bright,
Rich festoons of glowing flowers--truly 'tis a wondrous sight.
Time and care and gold were lavished that it might be, every way,
The success of all the season--brilliant fashionable gay.
'Tis the birth night of the heiress of this splendor wealth and
state,
The sole child, the only darling, of a household of the great.
Now the strains of the fast _galop_ on the perfumed air arise,
Rosy cheeks are turning carmine, brighter grow the brightest
eyes,
As the whirling crowds of dancers pass again and yet again--
Girls coquettish, silly women, vapid and unmeaning men.
'Tis a scene to fill the thoughtful with a silent, vague dismay,
And from its unholy magic we are fain to steal away;
Out here in the quiet moonlight we may pause awhile and rest,
Whilst the solemn stars of heaven bring back peace unto our
breast.
Soft! who is the fair young being--she who nightly joins us now,
In a robe of airy lightness, and with jewels on her brow,
Fair as the most fair ideal dreaming poet e'er inspired,
Or as lover, charmed by beauty, ever worshipped and admired.
Strange! what means that look so weary, that long-drawn and
painful sigh;
And that gaze, intense and yearning, fixed upon the starlit sky?
Is she not the child of fortune, fortune's pet and darling
bright,
Yes, the beauteous, courted heiress--heroine of the gala night?
From the crowds of ardent lovers, who would beset her way,
Sickened by their whispered flatt'ries, she has coldly turned
away;
And, as now the thrilling music falls upon her wearied ear,
She cannot resist a shudder, caused by mingled hate and fear.
"This is pleasure, then," she murmurs; _this_ is what the world
calls bliss,
Oh! for objects less unworthy, for a holier life than this!
I am weary of its folly. O, Great Father, grant my boon:
"From its sinful, silken meshes, I pray Thee, free me soon!"
Did He answer? Now another year has passed with rapid flight,--
O'er the crowded, silent city broods the spirit of the night;
In the sick wards of the convent, fever-stricken, gasping, lies,
One with death's damps on his brow, and its film o'er his eyes.
There beside him kneels a _Sister_, in coarse dusky robe and
veil,
And with gentle care she moistens those poor lips so dry and
pale;
Now she whispers hope and courage, now she tells of Heaven
bright--
Thus it is the gentle heiress celebrates her next birth-night.
Not a trace of weary languor rests upon that ivory brow,
No vague sigh of restless yearning e'er escapes her bosom now;
Yet more fair and happy looks she, in that simple garb I ween,
Than when, robed in lace and jewels, she was called a ballroom's
queen.
THE YOUNG GREEK ODALISQUE.
'Mid silken cushions, richly wrought, a young Greek girl
reclined,
And fairer form the harem's walls had ne'er before enshrined;
'Mid all the young and lovely ones who round her clustered there,
With glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, she shone supremely fair.
'Tis true that orbs as dark as hers in melting softness shone,
And lips whose coral hue might vie in brightness with her own;
And forms as light as ever might in Moslem's heaven be found,
So full of beauty's witching grace, were lightly hovering round.
Yet, oh, how paled their brilliant charms before that beauteous
one
Who, 'mid their gay mirth, silent sat, from all apart--alone,
Outshining all, not by the spells of lovely face or form,
But by the soul that shone through all, her peerless, priceless
charm.
But, say, what were the visions sweet that filled that gentle
heart?
Surely to Azof, her liege lord, was given the greatest part,--
To him who prized her smiles beyond the power his sceptre gave,
And, mighty sultan though he was, to her was as a slave.
No, not of crowned heads thought she then, of hall or gilded
dome,
But of fair Greece, that classic 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 lustre 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 passing 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, noble 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.