With all a mother's doting love a mother yearned for him, And watching for his quick return, a sister's eye grew dim, And, dearer still, a gentle girl, his fair affianced bride,-- And yet, with all these loving ones, unfriended, had he died.

No woman's low, sweet voice was near one soothing word to say Or gentle hand from his cold brow to wipe the damps away; But yet why should we grieve for him, that hero gallant, brave?

His was a soldier's glorious death, a soldier's glorious grave!

THE HUNTER AND HIS DYING STEED.

"Wo worth the chase. Wo worth the day, That cost thy life, my gallant grey!"--Scott

The Hunter stooped o'er his dying steed With sad dejected mien, And softly stroked its glossy neck, l.u.s.trous as silken sheen; With iron will and nerve of steel, And pale lips tight compressed, He kept the tears from eyes that long Were strange to such a guest.

Thou'rt dying now, my faithful one, Alas! 'tis easy known-- Thy neck would arch beneath my touch, Thou'dst brighten at my tone; But turn not thus thy restless eyes Upon my saddened brow, Nor look with such imploring gaze-- I cannot help thee now.

No more we'll bound o'er dew gemmed sward At break of summer morn, Or follow on, through forests green, The hunter's merry horn; No more we'll brave the rapid stream, Nor battle with the tide, Nor cross the slipp'ry mountain path, As we were wont to ride.

Oh! we have travelled many miles, And dangers have we braved; And more than once thy matchless speed Thy master's life hath saved; And many nights the forest sward Has been the couch we've pressed, Where, pillowed on thy glossy neck, Most sweet has been my rest.

How often, too, I we shared with thee The hunter's scanty fare.

To see thee suffer want or pain, Mute friend I could not bear; And now, thou best in agony, As if thy heart would burst, And I, what can I do for thee, Save slake thy burning thirst?

That parting sob, that failing glance-- The pains of death are past!

Thy glazing eyes still turned on me With love unto the last!

Well may my tears o'er thy cold form, My steed, flow fast and free, For, oh! I have had many friends, Yet none so true as thee!

THE WOOD FAIRY'S WELL.

"Thou hast been to the forest, thou sorrowing maiden, Where Summer reigns Queen in her fairest array, Where the green earth with sunshine and fragrance is laden, And birds make sweet music throughout the long day.

Each step thou hast taken has been over flowers, Of forms full of beauty--of perfumes most rare, Why comest thou home, then, with footsteps so weary, No smiles on thy lip, and no buds in thy hair?"

"Ah! my walk through the wild-wood has been full of sadness, My thoughts were with him who there oft used to rove, That stranger with bright eyes and smiles full of gladness Who first taught my young heart the power of love.

He had promised to come to me ere the bright summer With roses and sunshine had decked hill and lea.

I, simple and trusting, believed in that promise, But summer has come, and, alas! where is he?"

"Yes, simple and trusting--ah! child, the old story!

Say, when will thy s.e.x learn that man can forget?

Thy lover was highborn, and thou art but lowly, Ere this he's forgotten that ever you met; But, methought, as I watch'd thee to-day slowly treading With step full of sadness yon green shady dell, Thou didst pause by the brink of its bright crystal treasure, Say, what didst thou see in our Wood Fairy's Well?"

"No sparkles of promise for me gemmed its surface, I saw that the rose from my cheek had nigh fled, That the eyes whose light he never weaned of praising, Are dimmed by the tears that I for him have shed; And I felt as I gazed that it would be far better, E'en though I might grieve to my heart's inmost core, That he should forget than, returning to seek me, Should find me thus changed, and then love me no more."

"What! love thee no more!--say, to love thee forever!

See, true to my vows, I am here by thy side, Quick to bear thee away to a fair home of splendor, To reign there its mistress, my own gentle bride!"

Oh! moment of bliss to that girl heart, grief laden, The lover so mourned for, no ingrate had grown, Despite absence and change he stood there by the maiden, With faith still unshaken and true as her own.

THE WREATH OF FOREST FLOWERS.

In a fair and sunny forest glade O'erarched with chesnuts old, Through which the radiant sunbeams made A network of bright gold, A girl smiled softly to herself, And dreamed the hours away; Lulled by the sound of the murmuring brook With the summer winds at play.

Jewels gleamed not in the tresses fair That fell in shining showers, Naught decked that brow of beauty rare But a wreath of forest flowers; And the violet wore no deeper blue Than her own soft downcast eye, Whilst her bright cheek with the rose's hue In loveliness well might vie.

But she was too fair to bloom unknown By forest or valley side, And long ere two sunny years had flown, The girl was a wealthy bride-- Removed to so high and proud a sphere That she well at times might deem The humble home of her childhood dear A fleeting, changeful dream.

No more her foot sought the gra.s.sy glade At the break of summer day; No more neath the chesnut spreading shade In reverie sweet she lay; But in abodes of wealth and pride, With serious, stately mien, That envy's rancorous tongue defied, She now alone was seen.

But was she happier? Who might know?

Wealth, fortune, on her smiled; Yet there were some who whispered low That she, fates favored child, Oft pressed her brow with a weary hand, In gay and festive hours, And fain would change her jewell'd band For a wreath of forest flowers.

THE VILLAGE GIRL AND HER HIGH BORN SUITOR.

"O maiden, peerless, come dwell with me, And bright shall I render thy destiny: Thou shalt leave thy cot by the green hillside, To dwell in a palace home of pride, Where crowding menials, with lowly mien, Shall attend each wish of their lovely queen."

"Ah! stranger my cot by the green hillside Hath more charms for me than thy halls of pride; If the roof be lowly, the moss rose there Rich fragrance sheds on the summer air; And the birds and insects, with joyous song, Are more welcome far than a menial throng."

"Child, tell me not so! too fair art thou, With thy starry eyes and thy queenlike brow, To dwell in this spot, sequestered and lone, Thy marvelous beauty to all unknown; And that form, which might grace a throne, arrayed In the lowly garb of a peasant maid."

"Nay, a few short days since didst thou not say That I in my rustic kirtle gray In thine eyes looked lovelier fairer far Than robed in rich state as court ladies are; And the wreath of violets in my hair Pleased thee more than diamond or ruby rare."

"Beloved! if thus coldly thou turn'st aside From the tempting lures of wealth and pride, Sure thy woman's heart must some pity own For one who breathes for thy self alone, And who would brave suffering, grief and toil To win from thy rose lips one shy, sweet smile."

"Ah! enough of this--thy love may be true, But I have tried friends who love me too; And in proud homes governed by fashion's voice, Thou would'st learn to blush for thy lowly choice.

Go, seek thee a n.o.ble, a high born bride, And leave me my cot by the green hillside!"

THE LADY OF RATHMORE HALL.

Throughout the country for many a mile There is not a n.o.bler, statelier pile Than ivy crowned Rathmore Hall; And the giant oaks that shadow the wold, Though hollowed by time, are not as old As its Norman turrets tall.

Let us follow that stream of sunset red, Crimsoning the portal overhead, Stealing through curtaining lace, Where sits in a s.p.a.cious and lofty room Full of gems of art--exotics in bloom-- The Lady of the place.

If Rathmore Hall is with praises named, Not less is its queen-like mistress famed For wondrous beauty and grace; And as she reclines there, calmly now, The sunset flush on her ivory brow, We marvel at form and face.

Wondrously perfect, peerlessly fair, Are the mouth and the eyes and luxuriant hair, As lily she's graceful and fall; Not florid full is that lady fair But pale and high-bred, with just the air That is suited to Rathmore Hall.