Verses from the Oldest Poolio | Page 6

warm the wilds with love,

From barest rock to bleakest shore
Where farthest sail unfurls,
That
stars and stripes are streaming o'er,--
God bless our Yankee girls!
L'INCONNUE
Is thy name Mary, maiden fair?
Such should, methinks, its music be;


The sweetest name that mortals bear
Were best befitting thee;

And she to whom it once was given,
Was half of earth and half of
heaven.
I hear thy voice, I see thy smile,
I look upon thy folded hair;
Ah!
while we dream not they beguile,
Our hearts are in the snare;
And
she who chains a wild bird's wing
Must start not if her captive sing.
So, lady, take the leaf that falls,
To all but thee unseen, unknown;

When evening shades thy silent walls,
Then read it all alone;
In
stillness read, in darkness seal,
Forget, despise, but not reveal!
STANZAS
STRANGE! that one lightly whispered tone
Is far, far sweeter unto
me,
Than all the sounds that kiss the earth,
Or breathe along the sea;

But, lady, when thy voice I greet,
Not heavenly music seems so
sweet.
I look upon the fair blue skies,
And naught but empty air I see;
But
when I turn me to thin eyes,
It seemeth unto me
Ten thousand
angels spread their wings
Within those little azure rings.
The lily bath the softest leaf
That ever western breeze bath fanned,

But thou shalt have the tender flower,
So I may take thy hand;
That
little hand to me doth yield
More joy than all the broidered field.
O lady! there be many things
That seem right fair, below, above;

But sure not one among them all
Is half so sweet as love;--
Let us
not pay our vows alone,
But join two altars both in one.
LINES BY A CLERK
OH! I did love her dearly,
And gave her toys and rings,
And I
thought she meant sincerely,
When she took my pretty things.
But

her heart has grown as icy
As a fountain in the fall,
And her love,
that was so spicy,
It did not last at all.
I gave her once a locket,
It was filled with my own hair,
And she
put it in her pocket
With very special care.
But a jeweller has got
it,--
He offered it to me,--
And another that is not it
Around her
neck I see.
For my cooings and my billings
I do not now complain,
But my
dollars and my shillings
Will never come again;
They were earned
with toil and sorrow,
But I never told her that,
And now I have to
borrow,
And want another hat.
Think, think, thou cruel Emma,
When thou shalt hear my woe,
And
know my sad dilemma,
That thou hast made it so.
See, see my
beaver rusty,
Look, look upon this hole,
This coat is dim and dusty;

Oh let it rend thy soul!
Before the gates of fashion
I daily bent my knee,
But I sought the
shrine of passion,
And found my idol,--thee.
Though never love
intenser
Had bowed a soul before it,
Thine eye was on the censer,

And not the hand that bore it.
THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE
DEAREST, a look is but a ray
Reflected in a certain way;
A word,
whatever tone it wear,
Is but a trembling wave of air;
A touch,
obedience to a clause
In nature's pure material laws.
The very flowers that bend and meet,
In sweetening others, grow
more sweet;
The clouds by day, the stars by night,
Inweave their
floating locks of light;
The rainbow, Heaven's own forehead's braid,

Is but the embrace of sun and shade.
Oh! in the hour when I shall feel
Those shadows round my senses

steal,
When gentle eyes are weeping o'er
The clay that feels their
tears no more,
Then let thy spirit with me be,
Or some sweet angel,
likest thee!
How few that love us have we found!
How wide the world that girds
them round
Like mountain streams we meet and part,
Each living in
the other's heart,
Our course unknown, our hope to be
Yet mingled
in the distant sea.
But Ocean coils and heaves in vain,
Bound in the subtle moonbeam's
chain;
And love and hope do but obey
Some cold, capricious
planet's ray,
Which lights and leads the tide it charms
To Death's
dark caves and icy arms.
Alas! one narrow line is drawn,
That links our sunset with our dawn;

In mist and shade life's morning rose,
And clouds are round it at its
close;
But ah! no twilight beam ascends
To whisper where that
evening ends.
THE POET'S LOT
WHAT is a poet's love?--
To write a girl a sonnet,
To get a ring, or
some such thing,
And fustianize upon it.
What is a poet's fame?--
Sad hints about his reason,
And sadder
praise from garreteers,
To be returned in season.
Where go the poet's lines?--
Answer, ye evening tapers!
Ye auburn
locks, ye golden curls,
Speak from your folded papers!
Child of the ploughshare, smile;
Boy of the counter, grieve not,

Though muses round thy trundle-bed
Their broidered tissue weave
not.
The poet's future holds
No civic wreath above him;
Nor slated roof,
nor varnished chaise,
Nor wife nor child to love him.

Maid of the village inn,
Who workest woe on satin,
(The grass in
black, the graves in green,
The epitaph in Latin,)
Trust not to them who say,
In stanzas, they adore thee;
Oh rather
sleep in churchyard clay,
With urn and cherub o'er thee!