"'TIS AN OLD TALE AND OFTEN TOLD."

Are they indeed the bitterest tears we shed, Those we let fall over the silent dead?

Can our thoughts image forth no darker doom, Than that which wraps us in the peaceful tomb?

Whom have ye laid beneath that mossy grave, Round which the slender, sunny, gra.s.s-blades wave?

Who are ye calling back to tread again This weary walk of life? towards whom, in vain, Are your fond eyes and yearning hearts upraised; The young, the loved, the honoured, and the praised?

Come hither;--look upon the faded cheek Of that still woman, who with eyelids meek Veils her most mournful eyes;--upon her brow Sometimes the sensitive blood will faintly glow, When reckless hands her heart-wounds roughly tear, But patience oftener sits palely there.

Beauty has left her--hope and joy have long Fled from her heart, yet she is young, is _young_; Has many years, as human tongues would tell, Upon the face of this blank earth to dwell.

Looks she not sad? 'tis but a tale of old, Told o'er and o'er, and ever to be told, The hourly story of our every day, Which when men hear, they sigh and turn away; A tale too trite almost to find an ear, A woe too common to deserve a tear.

She is the daughter of a distant land;-- Her kindred are far off;--her maiden hand, Sought for by many, was obtained by one Who owned a different birthland from her own.

But what reck'd she of that? as low she knelt Breathing her marriage vows, her fond heart felt, "For thee, I give up country, home, and friends; Thy love for each, for all, shall make amends;"

And was she loved?--perishing by her side The children of her bosom drooped and died; The bitter life they drew from her cold breast Flicker'd and failed; she laid them down to rest, Two pale young blossoms in their early sleep, And weeping said, "They have not lived to weep."

And weeps she yet? no, to her weary eyes The bliss of tears, her frozen heart denies; Complaint, or sigh, breathes not upon her lips, Her life is one dark, fatal, deep eclipse.

Lead _her_ to the green grave where ye have laid The creature that ye mourn;--let it be said, "Here love, and youth, and beauty, are at rest!"

She only sadly murmurs, "Blest!--most blest!"

And turns from gazing, lest her misery Should make her sin, and pray to Heaven to die.

FRAGMENT.

From an epistle written when the thermometer stood at 98 degrees in the shade.

Oh! for the temperate airs that blow Upon that darling of the sea, Where neither sunshine, rain, nor snow, For three days hold supremacy; But ever-varying skies contend The blessings of all climes to lend, To make that tiny, wave-rocked isle, In never-fading beauty smile.

England, oh England! for the breeze That slowly stirs thy forest-trees!

Thy ferny brooks, thy mossy fountains, Thy beechen woods, thy heathery mountains, Thy lawny uplands, where the shadow Of many a giant oak is sleeping; The tangled copse, the sunny meadow, Through which the summer rills run weeping.

Oh, land of flowers! while sinking here Beneath the dog-star of the West, The music of the waves I hear That cradle thee upon their breast.

Fresh o'er thy rippling corn-fields fly The wild-winged breezes of the sea, While from thy smiling, summer sky, The ripening sun looks tenderly.

And thou--to whom through all this heat My parboiled thoughts will fondly turn, Oh! in what "shady blest retreat"

Art thou ensconced, while here I burn?

Across the lawn, in the deep glade, Where hand in hand we oft have strayed, Or communed sweetly, side by side, Hear'st thou the chiming ocean tide, As gently on the pebbly beach It lays its head, then ebbs away, Or round the rocks, with nearer reach, Throws up a cloud of silvery spray?

Or to the firry woods, that shed Their spicy odours to the sun, Goest thou with meditative tread, Thinking of all things that are done Beneath the sky?--a great, big thought, Of which I know you're very fond.

For me, my mind is solely wrought To this one wish:--O! in a pond Would I were over head and ears!

(Of a _cold_ ducking I've no fears) Or any where, where I am not; For, bless the heat! it is too hot!

AN APOLOGY.

Blame not my tears, love: to you has been given The brightest, best gift, G.o.d to mortals allows; The sunlight of hope on your heart shines from Heaven, And shines from your heart, on this life and its woes.

Blame not my tears, love: on you her best treasure Kind nature has lavish'd, oh, long be it yours!

For how barren soe'er be the path you now measure, The future still woos you with hands full of flowers.

Oh, ne'er be that gift, love, withdrawn from thy keeping!

The jewel of life, its strong spirit, its wings; If thou ever must weep, may it shine through thy weeping, As the sun his warm rays through a spring shower flings.

But blame not my tears, love: to me 'twas denied; And when fate to my lips gave this life's mingled cup, She had filled to the brim, from the dark bitter tide, And forgotten to pour in the only sweet drop.

WRITTEN AFTER SPENDING A DAY AT WEST POINT.

Were they but dreams? Upon the darkening world Evening comes down, the wings of fire are furled, On which the day soared to the sunny west: The moon sits calmly, like a soul at rest, Looking upon the never-resting earth; All things in heaven wait on the solemn birth Of night, but where has fled the happy dream That at this hour, last night, our life did seem?

Where are the mountains with their tangled hair, The leafy hollow, and the rocky stair?

Where are the shadows of the solemn hills, And the fresh music of the summer rills?

Where are the wood-paths, winding, long and steep, And the great, glorious river, broad and deep, And the thick copses, where soft breezes meet, And the wild torrent's snowy, leaping feet, The rustling, rocking boughs, the running streams,-- Where are they all? gone, gone! were they but dreams?

And where, oh where are the light footsteps gone, That from the mountain-side came dancing down?

The voices full of mirth, the loving eyes, The happy hearts, the human paradise, The youth, the love, the life that revelled here,-- Are they too gone?--Upon Time's shadowy bier, The pale, cold hours of joys now past, are laid, Perhaps, not soon from memory's gaze to fade, But never to be reckoned o'er again, In all life's future store of bliss and pain.

From the bright eyes the sunshine may depart, Youth flies--love dies--and from the joyous heart Hope's gushing fountain ebbs too soon away, Nor spares one drop for that disastrous day, When from the barren waste of after life, The weariness, the worldliness, the strife, The soul looks o'er the desert of its way To the green gardens of its early day: The paradise, for which we vainly mourn, The heaven, to which our ling'ring eyes still turn, To which our footsteps never shall return.

SONG.

Pa.s.s thy hand through my hair, lore; One little year ago, In a curtain bright and rare, love, It fell golden o'er my brow.

But the gold has pa.s.sed away, love, And the drooping curls are thin, And cold threads of wintry gray, love, Glitter their folds within: How should this be, in one short year?

It is not age--can it be care?

Fasten thine eyes on mine, love; One little year ago, Midsummer's sunny shine, love, Had not a warmer glow.

But the light is there no more, love, Save in melancholy gleams, Like wan moonlight wand'ring o'er, love, Dim lands in troubled dreams: How should this be, in one short year?

It is not age--can it be care?

Lay thy cheek to my cheek, love, One little year ago It was ripe, and round, and sleek, love, As the autumn peaches grow.

But the rosy hue has fled, love, Save a flush that goes and comes, Like a flow'r born from the dead, love, And blooming over tombs: How should this be, in one short year?

It is not age--can it be care?

TO MRS. DULANEY.

What was thine errand here?

Thy beauty was more exquisite than aught That from this marred earth Takes its imperfect birth; It was a radiant, heavenly beauty, caught From some far higher sphere, And though an angel now, thou still must bear The lovely semblance that thou here didst wear.

What was thine errand here?

Thy gentle thoughts, and holy, humble mind, With earthly creatures coa.r.s.e, Held not discourse, But with fine spirits, of some purer kind, Dwelt in communion dear; And sure they speak to thee that language now, Which thou wert wont to speak to us below.