Her life was short, but fair,
Unsullied by a blot;

And now she sinks to dreamless rest-
(A dove, who makes the earth her nest);
So, murmur not!

No pangs, nor passionate grief,
Nor anger raging hot,
No ills shall ever harm her more;
She goes unto the silent shore,
Where pain is not.

Weep'st thou that none should mourn
For thee and thy sad lot?

Peace, peace! and know that few e'er grieve
When Death, the tyrant, doth unweave
Life's little knot.

E'en thou scarce wept must fade!
It is the common lot,

To link our hearts to things that fly-
To love without return-and die,
And be forgot!

THE HOME OF THE ABSENTEE.

THE weed mourns on the castle-wall,

The grass lies on the chamber-floor, And on the hearth, and in the hall,

Where merry music danced of yore! And the blood-red wine no longer

Runs (how it used to run!)

And the shadows within, grown stronger,
Look black on the mid-day sun!
All is gone; save a Voice

That never did yet rejoice:

'Tis sweet and low; 'tis sad and lone; And it biddeth us love the thing that's flown.

The gardens feed no fruits nor flowers,
But childless seem, and in decay;
The traitor clock forsakes the hours,
And points to times-oh, far away!
And the steed no longer neigheth,

Nor paws the startled ground;
And the dun hound no longer bayeth;
But death is in all around!

All is gone; save a Voice
That never did yet rejoice:

'Tis sweet and low; 'tis sad and lone;
And it biddeth us love the thing that's flown.

The lord of all the lone domain,

An undeserving master flies,
And leaves the land where he might reign,
For alien hearts and stranger skies:
And the peasant disdains the story,
He loved to recount of yore;

And the name, that was once a glory,
Is heard in the land no more!

All is gone; save a Voice
That never did yet rejoice:

'Tis sweet and low; 'tis sad and lone;
And it biddeth us love the thing that's flown.

PAST TIMES.

OLD Acquaintance, shall the nights You and I once talked together, Be forgot like common thingsLike some dreary night that brings Naught, save foul weather?

We were young, when you and I

Talked of golden things togetherOf love and rhyme, of books and men: Ah! our hearts were buoyant then As the wild-goose feather!

Twenty years have fled, we know,

Bringing care and changing weather; But hath the heart no backward flights, That we again may see those nights, And laugh together?

Jove's eagle, soaring to the sun,

Renews the past year's mouldering feather; Ah, why not you and I, then, soar From age to youth-and dream once more Long nights together?

SONG FOR TWILIGHT.

HIDE me, O twilight air!

Hide me from thought, from care, From all things, foul or fair,

Until to-morrow!

To-night I strive no more;
No more my soul shall soar;
Come, Sleep, and shut the door
'Gainst Pain and Sorrow!

If I must see through dreams,
Be mine Elysian gleams,
Be mine by morning streams
To watch and wander!
So may my spirit cast
(Serpent-like) off the past,
And my free soul at last

Have leave to ponder!

And shouldst thou 'scape control,
Ponder on love, sweet Soul,
On joy-the end-the goal
Of all endeavor!

But if earth's pains will arise,
(As damps will seek the skies),
Then, Night, seal thou mine eyes,
In sleep, for ever!

Sound! Sound the horn! To the hunter good
What's the gully deep or the roaring flood?
Right over he bounds, as the wild-stag bounds,
At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds.
Oh! what delight can a mortal lack,
When he once is firm on his hores's back,
With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong,
And the blast of the horn for his morning song!
Hark, hark! Now, home! and dream till
morn,

Of the bold sweet sound of the hunter's horn!
The horn, the horn!

Oh, the sound of all sounds is the hunter's
horn!

THE LITTLE VOICE.

ONCE there was a little Voice, Merry as the month of May, That did cry, "Rejoice! rejoice!" Now 'tis flown away!

Sweet it was, and very clear,
Chasing every thought of pain :
Summer! shall I ever hear
Such a voice again?

I have pondered all night long,
Listening for as soft a sound:
But so sweet and clear a song
Never have I found!

I would give a mine of gold,
Could I hear that little Voice-
Could I, as in days of old,
At a sound rejoice!

THE HUNTER'S SONG.

RISE! Sleep no more! 'Tis a noble morn;
The dews hang thick on the fringèd thorn,
And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound,
Under the steaming, steaming ground.
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by,
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!
Our horses are ready and steady-So, ho!
I'm gore, like a dart from the Tartar's bow.

ON A MOTHER AND A CHILD SLEEPING

NIGHT gaze, but send no sound!
Fond heart, thy fondness keep!
Nurse Silence, wrap them round!

Breathe low; they sleep, they sleep!

THE MISTLETOE.

No wind! no murmuring showers!
No music, soft and deep!
No thoughts, nor dreams of flowers!
All hence; they sleep, they sleep!
Time's step is all unheard:

Heaven's stars bright silence keep: No breath, no sigh, no word!

All's still; they sleep, they sleep!

O Life! O Night! O Time!

Thus ever round them creep! From pain, from hate, from crime, E'er guard them, gentle Sleep!

DARK-EYED BEAUTY OF THE SOUTH.

DARK-EYED beauty of the South!
Mistress of the rosy mouth!
Doth thy heart desert its duty?
Doth thy blood belie thy beauty?
Art thou false, and art thou cold?
Art thou sworn to wed for gold?

On thy forehead sitteth pride,
Crowned with scorn, and falcon-eyed;
But beneath, methinks, thou twinest
Silken smiles that seem divinest.
Can such smiles be false and cold?
Canst thou-wilt thou wed for gold?

We, who dwell on Northern earth,
Fill the frozen air with mirth-
Soar upon the wings of laughter,
(Though we droop the moment after):
But, through all our regions cold,
None will sell their hearts for gold.

SHE WAS NOT FAIR, NOR FULL OF GRACE.

SHE was not fair, nor full of grace,

Nor crowned with thought or aught beside; Nor wealth had she, of mind or face,

To win our love or raise our pride;
No lover's thought her cheek did touch;
No poet's dream was round her thrown;
And yet we miss her-ah, too much,
Now she hath flown!

We miss her when the morning calls,
As one that mingled in our mirth;
We miss her when the evening falls-
A trifle wanted on the earth!
Some fancy small, or subtile thought,
Is checked ere to its blossom grown;
Some chain is broken that we wrought,
Now she hath flown!

No solid good, nor hope defined,

Is marred now she has sunk in night; And yet the strong immortal Mind

Is stopped in its triumphant flight! Perhaps some grain lost to its sphere Might cast the great Sun from his throne; For all we know is-" She was here," And-" She hath flown!"

WHEN winter nights grow long,

And winds without blow cold,

We sit in a ring round the warm wood-fire,
And listen to stories old!

And we try to look grave (as maids should be),
When the men bring in boughs of the laurel-tree.
O, the Laurel, the evergreen tree !

The Poets have laurels—and why not we?

How pleasant, when night falls down,
And hides the wintry sun,

To see them come in to the blazing fire,
And know that their work is done!
While many bring in, with a laugh or rhyme,
Green branches of holly for Christmas-time!
O the Holly, the bright-green Holly,

It tells (like a tongue) that the times are jolly!
Sometimes-in our grave-house,
Observe, this happeneth not;

But, at times, the evergreen laurel-boughs
And the holly are all forgot!

And then! what then? why, the men laugh low,
And hang up a branch of-the Mistletoe!

Oh, brave is the Laurel! and brave is the

Holly!

But the Mistletoe banisheth melancholy! Ah, nobody knows, nor ever shall know, What is done-under the Mistletoe!

THE NIGHTS.

OH! the Summer Night
Has a smile of light,

And she sits on a sapphire throne;
While the sweet Winds load her
With garlands of odor,

From the bud to the rose o'er-blown!

But the Autumn Night

Has a piercing sight, And a step both strong and free; And a voice for wonder,

Like the wrath of the Thunder, When it shouts to the stormy sea!

And the Winter Night Is all cold and white, And she singeth a song of pain; Till the wild-bee hummeth, And warm Spring cometh, When she dies in a dream of rain!

Oh, the Night, the Night!
'Tis a lovely sight,
Whatever the clime or time;
For sorrow then soareth,
And the lover outpoureth
His soul in a star-bright rhyme.

It bringeth sleep,

To the forests deep,

The forest-bird to its nest;
To Care bright hours,

And dreams of flowers,

And that balm to the weary-rest!

I could sleep a long, long sleep, Mother!
So, seek me a calm cool bed:
You may lay me low, in the virgin snow,
With a moss-bank for my head.

I would lie in the wild wild woods, Mother!
Where naught but the birds are known;
Where nothing is seen, but the branches green,
And flow'rs on the greensward strown.

No lovers there witch the air, Mother!
Nor mock at the holy sky:

One may live and be gay, like a summer day,
And at last, like the Summer--die!

A LOVE-SONG.

GIVE me but thy heart, though cold; I ask no more!

Give to others gems and gold;

But leave me poor.

Give to whom thou wilt thy smiles; Cast o'er others all thy wiles;

But let thy tears flow fast and free, For me, with me!

Giv'st thou but one look, sweet heart!
A word-no more!

It is Music's sweetest part,
When lips run o'er!

'Tis a part I fain would learn,
So pr'ythee, here thy lessons turn,
And teach me, to the close,

All Love's pleasures-all its woes!

LIFE.

WE are born; we laugh; we weep; We love; we droop; we die;

Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep? Why do we live, or die?

Who knows that secret deep?

Alas, not I!

Why doth the violet spring

Unseen by human eye?

Why do the radiant seasons bring
Sweet thoughts that quickly fly?
Why do our fond hearts cling

To things that die?

We toil-through pain and wrong;
We fight and fly;

We love; we lose; and then, ere long,
Stone-dead we lie.

O life is all thy song "Endure and-die ?"

SONG OVER A CHILD.

DREAM, baby, dream! The stars are glowing.

Hear'st thou the stream?
'Tis softly flowing.
All gently glide the Hours:
Above, no tempest lowers:
Below, are fragrant flowers
In silence growing.

Sleep, baby, sleep,

Till dawn to-morrow! Why shouldst thou weep,

Who know'st not sorrow? Too soon come pains and fears; Too soon a cause for tears: So, from thy future years

No sadness borrow!

Dream, baby, dream!
Thine eyelids quiver.
Know'st thou the theme
Of yon soft river?

It saith, "Be calm, be sure,
Unfailing, gentle, pure:
So shall thy life endure,
Like mine, for ever!"

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BRIDAL.

Now, what shady wreath wilt wear, Maiden-maiden?

Bid them bind the veil with care, 'Round the sunshine of thy hair! Let thy brow be free from scorn; Let thine eye have gentle light On the gentle marriage morn; And so-Good-night!

It is now the youth of May,
Maiden-maiden!

Choose thou, then, at blush of day,
Buds and blossoms, not too gay;
And, behind their veiling sweets,
Bashful be, 'midst all their light,
When the tender lover greets :
And so-Good-night!

Soon to-morrow will be here,
Maiden-maiden!

Then-as hopes aye mix with fears,
Mix thou smiles with pearlèd tears;
So shall he who loves thee feel

Thrice his first sweet pure delight, And nearer to thy bosom steal; And so-Good-night!

A DEEP AND A MIGHTY SHADOW.

A DEEP and a mighty shadow

Across my heart is thrown,

Like a cloud on a summer meadow,

Where the thunder-wind hath blown!

The wild-rose, Fancy, dieth,

The sweet bird, Memory, flieth,

And leaveth me alone

Alone with my hopeless Sorrow;

No other mate I know!

I strive to awake To-morrow;

But the dull words will not flow! I pray-but my prayers are driven Aside, by the angry Heaven,

And weigh me down with wo!

I call on the Past, to lend me
Its songs, to soothe my pain:
I bid the dim Future send me

A light from its eyes-in vain!
Naught comes; but a shrill cry starteth
From Hope, as she fast departeth:
"I go, and come not again!"

PERDITA.

THE nest of the dove is rifled;

Alas! alas!

The dream of delight is stifled;
And all that was

Of beauty and hope is broken;
But words will flee,
Though truest were ever spoken:
Alas, for me!

His love was as fragrant ever,

As flowers to bees; His voice like the mournful river; But streams will freeze! Ah! where can I fly, deceived? Ah! where, where rest?

I am sick, like the dove bereaved, And have no nest!

THE WEAVER'S SONG.

WEAVE, brothers, weave!-Swiftly throw
The shuttle athwart the loom,

And show us how brightly your flowers grow,
That have beauty but no perfume!
Come, show us the rose, with a hundred dyes,
The lily, that hath no spot;

The violet, deep as your true-love's eyes,
And the little forget-me-not.

Sing-sing, brothers! weave and sing!
'Tis good both to sing and to weave;
'Tis better to work than live idle;
'Tis better to sing than grieve.

Weave, brothers, weave!-Weave, and bid
The colors of sunset glow!

Let grace in each gliding thread be hid!
Let beauty about ye blow!

Let your skein be long, and your silk be fine,
And your hands both firm and sure,
And time nor chance shall your work untwine;
But all-like a truth-endure.

So-sing, brothers, &c.

Weave, brothers, weave!-Toil is ours;
But toil is the lot of men;

One gathers the fruit, one gathers the flowers,
One soweth the seed again!

There is not a creature, from England's king,

To the peasant that delves the soil,

That knows half the pleasures the seasons bring, If he have not his share of toil!

So-sing, brothers, de.