It grows in Italy, Spain, and the Levant.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

TO ISABEL

A Beautiful Little Girl.

Fair as some sea-child, in her coral bower, Decked with the rare, rich treasures of the deep; Mild as the spirit of the dream whose power Bears back the infant's soul to heaven, in sleep Brightens the hues of summer's first-born flower Pure as the tears repentant mourners weep O'er deeds to which the siren, Sin, beguiled,-- Art thou, sweet, smiling, bright-eyed cherub child.

Thy presence is a spell of holiness, From which unhallowed thoughts shrink blushing back,-- Thy smile is a warm light that shines to bless, As beams the beacon o'er the wanderer's track,-- Thy voice is music, at whose sounds Distress Unbinds her writhing victim from the rack Of misery, and charmed by what she hears, Forgets her woes, and smiles upon her tears.

And when I look upon thee, bearing now The promise of such loveliness, I ask If time will blight, that promise; if thy brow, So sunny now, will learn to wear the mask Of hollow smiles, or cold deceit, whilst thou Art learning in thy soul the bitter task Time teaches to all bosoms, when the glow Of hope is o'er--but this I may not know.

My path will not be near to thine through life,-- Kind ones will guard and fondly shelter thee; Me bitterness awaits, and care and strife, And all that sorrow has of agony; My future, as my past was, will be rife With heartaches, and the pangs that "pa.s.s not by;"

Each hour shall give thee some new pleasure; years, Long years can bring me only toil 'and tears.

'Tis meet that it should be so,--I have made A wreck of my own happiness, and cast Across my heart, in youth, the dull, deep shade That wrinkled age flings over all at last But let it go,--I have too long delayed The remedy, and what is past is past;-- And could I live those vanished moments o'er, My heart would wander as it strayed before.

I know not how it is,--my heart is stern, And little giv'n to thoughts of tenderness; Yet looking on thy young brow it will yearn, And in my bosom's innermost recess, Thoughts that have slumbered long awake and burn With a wild strength which nothing can repress!

Be still, worn heart, be still; does not the cold And heavy clay--clod mingle with her mould?

Yes, 'tis that in thy soft check's tender bloom, Thy black eyes' brightness, in each graceful move, I trace the lineaments of one to whom My soul was wedded in an early love,-- 'Twas in my boyhood; but the insatiate tomb Claimed her fair form, and for the realms above Her spirit fled the earth; oh! how I wept That mine should in its bondage still be kept.

I mind the hour I stood beside the clay I had so loved in life--it still was fair, Surpa.s.sing fair, in death; and as she lay With the thick tresses of her long dark hair Gathered above the brow whence feeling's ray Had fled, because death's shadow darkened there, Her more than earthly beauty made her seem The incarnation of some pure bright dream.

I stood and gazed: the pale grave sheet was wound About the form from which life's spark was fled, For ever fled,--wet eyes were weeping round, And voices full of sorrow mourned the dead; I could not weep; a sadness more profound Than that from which those heart-drops, tears, are shed, Was in my soul,--for then the icy spell Of desolation freezing o'er me fell.

And from that hour I have been alone, Alone when crowds were round me. May thy fate Be coloured with a brighter hue, and strown With flowers where mine is thorns;--where mine is hate, And strife, and bitter discord, may thine own Be love, and hope, and peace--for these create The sunshine of existence; may their light Beam ever round thee, warm, and glad, and bright.

THE LOCK OF HAIR.

It is in sooth a lovely tress, Still curled in many a ring, As glossy as the plumes that dress The raven's jetty wing.

And the broad and soul-illumined brow, Above whose arch it grew, Was like the stainless mountain snow, In its purity of hue.

I mind the time 'twas given to me, The night, the hour, the spot; And the eye that pleaded silently, "Forget the giver not."

Oh! myriads of stars, on high, Were smiling sweetly fair, But none was lovely as the eye That shone beside me there!

Above our heads an ancient oak Its strong, wide arms held out, And from its roots a fountain broke, With a tiny laughing shout; And the fairy people of the wild Were bending to their rest, As trustingly as sleeps the child Upon its mother's breast.

Soft, silvery cloudlets, pure and white, Along the sky were hung, As if the spirits of the night Their mantles there had flung; And then the night-breeze pensively Sighed from its unseen throne, And far o'er field, and flower, and tree, A hallowed light came down.

But in our b.r.e.a.s.t.s was springing up A something lovelier far, Than field, or tree, or flow'ret's cup, Or sun, or moon, or star!

We heeded not the fountain near, Its song of gladness singing, For in our hearts a fount more dear, And pure, and sweet, was springing.

And she was one whom fortune's smile Had gladdened from her birth, Yet her high spirit knew no guile, No blot nor stain of earth; And I was but a friendless boy, And yet her heart was mine; I knew it, and the thought was joy, A joy all, all divine!

From out a braided ma.s.s she took This single lock of jet, And gave it with that pleading look Which, said, "Do not forget."

Forget! as soon the waves that roll The ocean's caves above, May tell their secrets, as the soul Forget its earliest love.

It has been with me now for years, Long years of care and strife, And shall be with me till time wears Away my web of life.

And when death's keen, resistless dart, Shall bid its sorrows cease, This tress shall rest upon my heart, Its talisman of peace.

"'Twas little she thought that I stood breathless by her side listening to the song she sang as she sat by the sea's edge, pondering so deeply, upon me too perhaps, that the white foam glimmered on her brow unheeded."

Onagh, The Pale Child of the Brehon King.

She stood beside the wide wild sea, The winds howled hoa.r.s.e and high, And dark clouds, drifting drearily, Swept o'er the starless sky.

Her breast was white as mountain snow, Her locks hung loose and free, The foam that glimmered on her brow, Was scarce so pale as she.

She sang a mournful song of love, Of trusting love betrayed; Ah, why did he who won her, prove So faithless to the maid?

"Why pines my heart so wearily, Why heaves my aching breast, And why is sleep so far from me, When others are at rest?

"Thou, truant wanderer o'er the deep, The cause of all my cares; For thee at night I wake and weep, When none may mark my tears.

"I seek the festive hall no more, Its mirth no more I crave; My heart is lonely as the sh.o.r.e, And restless as the wave.

"My soul has struggled to forget Its sleepless, fatal flame; I know thy vows were false, and yet My love is still the same.

"Still o'er the dream I nursed too well, My bursting heart will yearn; For ever with me must it dwell,-- Oh, wanderer, return!"

A white sail fluttered in the wind, A light bark skimmed the sea,-- It came like hope across the mind, As swift and silently.

The sh.e.l.l-strewn beach that edged the main, A manly footstep pressed; The wanderer had returned again,-- The maiden's heart was blessed!

THE DESERTED.

"Come, sit thee by my side once more, 'Tis long since thus we' met; And though our dream of love is o'er, Its sweetness lingers yet.

Its transient day has long been past, Its flame has ceased to burn,-- But Memory holds its spirit fast, Safe in her sacred urn.

"I will not chide thy wanderings, Nor ask why thou couldst flee A heart whose deep affection's springs Poured forth such love for thee!

We may not curb the restless mind, Nor teach the wayward heart To love against its will, nor bind It with the chains of art.

"I would but tell thee how, in tears And bitterness, my soul Has yearned with dreams, through long, long, years, Which it could not control.

And how the thought that clingeth to, And twineth round the past, For ever in my heart shall glow, And be save one my last.