And wrought-nor, Nina, might it less.

Of loyalty and tenderness

The matchless radiance that lies

Deep in the splendor of your eyes!

TO THE LITTLE LADY ALICE.

No dew distils on Georgia's hills,

Or eke Circassia's valleys,
That leaves a pearl on lily's curl

As pure as Lady Alice!

My lily-pet! my violet !

My little Lady Alice!

As rare as rise through Southern skies
Aurora-boreales!

As rare as rose on Northern snows,
Or heart's-ease in a palace,

Is she, my sprite! my brownie bright!
My little Lady Alice!

The wise old Greek his fate might seek,

And bear his foes no malice;

And so might I, my idol's eye,

If you but bore the chalice,

And drink to thee in three times three,
My little Lady Alice!

My heart's delight! my star of night!

My perfect little chrysolite !

My little Lady Alice!

BROWNIE BElle, of the esquiline.

105

BROWNIE BELLE, OF THE ESQUILINE.

(ON HER RETURN FROM EUROPE.)

WHERE the almond blossoms first,
Where the nectarines are nursed,
Grew with cedar and with pine,

Grew with violet and vine,

With her brows of calm,

With her eyes divine,

With her breath of balm,

And her blush like wine,
Brownie Belle, of the Esquiline.

Grew in grace,

Like the blue Glycine;

Grew in grace,

Like a jessamine;

In stateliness,
Like a Norfolk pine;

With a tender gloom

In her eyes divine,

And an olive bloom

Through her blush like wine;
Grew in grace,—
And I knew the girl,

From her dancing foot

To her floating curl.

Grew in grace,—
And I knew her well,
From the honey-dew
To the nectar-cell;

From the morning mist,

Till the manna fell

On the tents, the lips

Of Israel.

In stateliness, like the star of trees

With the silver lace, from the Indian seas,

When the silver mist

And the stars are met

On her coronet;

On the stately crest of the stateliest

Star-lit Tree-star,

Bright Deodar.

Sweet the air of the Esquiline,

From morning prayer till nuts and wine;
Where the dancing gods of days divine
Might dance on sods embroidered fine
With the richest tints of the ripest wine
Of every land where the sun doth shine.

We'll gather all

Of the bright and sweet;
We'll lay them all

At our Brownie's feet.

We'll gather all for a garland feast,

When the stars recall our star from the East. When she comes, she comes

"SUNBEAM."

With her balm and bloom;
And the tender gloom

Of her eyes shall shine

To crown the lights of the Esquiline.

"SUNBEAM."

(TO MISS E. V. c.)

It was an old philosopher,
And also very wise,
That had a little "prism"

And specs before his eyes;

And he caught a little sunbeam
That he would analyze.

It was a rare philosopher

That labored days and nights,
And split his little sunbeam
Into-seven-lights;

And he blessed his specs and prism
That showed such lovely sights.

And he gathered mighty glory

For doing little more Than a little drop of water

Had often done before;

And his name, 'twas Newton, kindles

'Till the light shall shine no more.

107

Ah! had he caught the sunbeam
Our poet saw one day,

He would have split his prism,
And thrown his specs away;
A dew-drop could have shown him
More colors to the ray.

Our poet keeps no prism
Nor other glasses, yet
His simple optics sundered,
'Twixt pearl and violet,
At least a half a hundred,
And he is counting yet!

TO A LADY OF TEXAS, IN ITALY.

(MRS. WILLIAM MAVERICK.)

A THOUSAND leagues of steam and foam,
To breathe, tho' but an hour, in Rome!
To wake in Florence, or to be
Cradled in Venice by the sea!

Yet sometimes, lady, when thine eyes
Are weary of yon wondrous skies,
With all thy pulses languid grown
To miracles in stain and stone,
Seek thou some sacred fountain dim,
A mirror with its marble rim,
And bend thy "sunbeam" face to see
The fairest thing in Italy!

Yea, lovelier than the sunset seas

Kindled, to guide the Genoese!