SONG OF THE VIOLET.

A humble flower long time I pined Upon the solitary plain, And trembled at the angry wind, And shrunk before the bitter rain.

And oh! 'twas in a blessed hour A pa.s.sing wanderer chanced to see, And, pitying the lonely flower, To stoop and gather me.

I fear no more the tempest rude, On dreary heath no more I pine, But left my cheerless solitude, To deck the breast of Caroline.

Alas our days are brief at best, Nor long I fear will mine endure, Though shelter'd here upon a breast So gentle and so pure.

It draws the fragrance from my leaves, It robs me of my sweetest breath, And every time it falls and heaves, It warns me of my coming death.

But one I know would glad forego All joys of life to be as I; An hour to rest on that sweet breast, And then, contented, die!

FAIRY DAYS.

Beside the old hall-fire--upon my nurse's knee, Of happy fairy days--what tales were told to me!

I thought the world was once--all peopled with princesses, And my heart would beat to hear--their loves and their distresses: And many a quiet night,--in slumber sweet and deep, The pretty fairy people--would visit me in sleep.

I saw them in my dreams--come flying east and west, With wondrous fairy gifts--the newborn babe they bless'd; One has brought a jewel--and one a crown of gold, And one has brought a curse--but she is wrinkled and old.

The gentle queen turns pale--to hear those words of sin, But the king he only laughs--and bids the dance begin.

The babe has grown to be--the fairest of the land, And rides the forest green--a hawk upon her hand, An ambling palfrey white--a golden robe and crown: I've seen her in my dreams--riding up and down: And heard the ogre laugh--as she fell into his snare, At the little tender creature--who wept and tore her hair!

But ever when it seemed--her need was at the sorest, A prince in shining mail--comes prancing through the forest, A waving ostrich-plume--a buckler burnished bright; I've seen him in my dreams--good sooth! a gallant knight.

His lips are coral red--beneath a dark moustache; See how he waves his hand--and how his blue eyes flash!

"Come forth, thou Paynim knight!"--he shouts in accents clear.

The giant and the maid--both tremble his voice to hear.

Saint Mary guard him well!--he draws his falchion keen, The giant and the knight--are fighting on the green.

I see them in my dreams--his blade gives stroke on stroke, The giant pants and reels--and tumbles like an oak!

With what a blushing grace--he falls upon his knee And takes the lady's hand--and whispers, "You are free!"

Ah! happy childish tales--of knight and faerie!

I waken from my dreams--but there's ne'er a knight for me; I waken from my dreams--and wish that I could be A child by the old hall-fire--upon my nurse's knee!

POCAHONTAS.

Wearied arm and broken sword Wage in vain the desperate fight: Round him press a countless horde, He is but a single knight.

Hark! a cry of triumph shrill Through the wilderness resounds, As, with twenty bleeding wounds, Sinks the warrior, fighting still.

Now they heap the fatal pyre, And the torch of death they light: Ah! 'tis hard to die of fire!

Who will shield the captive knight?

Round the stake with fiendish cry Wheel and dance the savage crowd, Cold the victim's mien, and proud.

And his breast is bared to die.

Who will shield the fearless heart?

Who avert the murderous blade?

From the throng, with sudden start, See there springs an Indian maid.

Quick she stands before the knight, "Loose the chain, unbind the ring, I am daughter of the king, And I claim the Indian right!"

Dauntlessly aside she flings Lifted axe and thirsty knife; Fondly to his heart she clings, And her bosom guards his life!

In the woods of Powhattan, Still 'tis told by Indian fires, How a daughter of their sires Saved the captive Englishman.

FROM POCAHONTAS.

Returning from the cruel fight How pale and faint appears my knight!

He sees me anxious at his side; "Why seek, my love, your wounds to hide?

Or deem your English girl afraid To emulate the Indian maid?"

Be mine my husband's grief to cheer In peril to be ever near; Whate'er of ill or woe betide, To bear it clinging at his side; The poisoned stroke of fate to ward, His bosom with my own to guard: Ah! could it spare a pang to his, It could not know a purer bliss!

'Twould gladden as it felt the smart, And thank the hand that flung the dart!

LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY.

WHAT MAKES MY HEART TO THRILL AND GLOW?

THE MAYFAIR LOVE-SONG.

Winter and summer, night and morn, I languish at this table dark; My office window has a corn- er looks into St. James's Park.

I hear the foot-guards' bugle-horn, Their tramp upon parade I mark; I am a gentleman forlorn, I am a Foreign-Office Clerk.

My toils, my pleasures, every one, I find are stale, and dull, and slow; And yesterday, when work was done, I felt myself so sad and low, I could have seized a sentry's gun My wearied brains out out to blow.

What is it makes my blood to run?

What makes my heart to beat and glow?

My notes of hand are burnt, perhaps?

Some one has paid my tailor's bill?

No: every morn the tailor raps; My I O U's are extant still.

I still am prey of debt and dun; My elder brother's stout and well.