AN EVENING THOUGHT. WRITTEN AT SEA.

Ir sometimes in the dark-blue eye,
Or in the deep-red wine,

Or soothed by gentlest melody,

Still warms this heart of mine, Yet something colder in the blood,

And calmer in the brain,

Have whisper'd that my youth's bright flood Ebbs, not to flow again.

If by Helvetia's azure lake,

Or Arno's yellow stream,

Each star of memory could awake,

As in my first young dream,

I know that when mine eye shall greet
The hill-sides bleak and bare,

That gird my home, it will not meet
My childhood's sunsets there.

O, when love's first, sweet, stolen kiss
Burn'd on my boyish brow,
Was that young forehead worn as this?

Was that flush'd cheek as now?
Where that wild pulse and throbbing heart
Like these, which vainly strive,
In thankless strains of soulless art,
To dream themselves alive?

Alas! the morning dew is gone,
Gone ere the full of day;

Life's iron fetter still is on,

Its wreaths all torn away;

Happy if still some casual hour

Can warm the fading shrine,

Too soon to chill beyond the power
Of love, or song, or wine!

LA GRISETTE.

AH, CLEMENCE! when I saw thee last
Trip down the Rue de Seine,

And turning, when thy form had pass'd,
I said, "We meet again,"-

I dream'd not in that idle glance
Thy latest image came,

And only left to memory's trance

A shadow and a name.

The few strange words my lips had taught

Thy timid voice to speak;

Their gentler sighs, which often brought
Fresh roses to thy cheek;
The trailing of thy long, loose hair

Bent o'er my couch of pain,

All, all return'd, more sweet, more fair;
O, had we met again!

I walk'd where saint and virgin keep
The vigil lights of Heaven,

I knew that thou hadst woes to weep,
And sins to be forgiven;

I watch'd where GENEVIEVE was laid,
I knelt by MARY'S shrine,

Beside me low, soft voices pray'd;

Alas! but where was thine?

And when the morning sun was bright,
When wind and wave were calm,
And flamed, in thousand-tinted light,

The rose of Notre Dame,

I wander'd through the haunts of men,
From Boulevard to Quai,
Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne,
The Pantheon's shadow lay.

In vain, in vain; we meet no more,
Nor dream what fates befall;
And long upon the stranger's shore
My voice on thee may call,
When years have clothed the line in moss
That tells thy name and days,

And wither'd, on thy simple cross,
The wreaths of Pere-la-Chaise!

THE TREADMILL SONG.

THE stars are rolling in the sky,

The earth rolls on below,
And we can feel the rattling wheel
Revolving as we go.

Then tread away, my gallant boys,

And make the axle fly;

Why should not wheels go round about
Like planets in the sky?

Wake up, wake up, my duck-legg'd man,
And stir your solid pegs;

Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend,

And shake your spider-legs;

What though you're awkward at the trade? There's time enough to learn,—

So lean upon the rail, my lad,

And take another turn.

They've built us up a noble wall,
To keep the vulgar out;
We've nothing in the world to do,
But just to walk about;
So faster, now, you middle men,
And try to beat the ends:-
It's pleasant work to ramble round
Among one's honest friends.

Here, tread upon the long man's toes,
He sha'n't be lazy here;

And punch the little fellow's ribs,
And tweak that lubber's ear;
He's lost them both; don't pull his hair,
Because he wears a scratch,

But poke him in the farther eye,
That isn't in the patch.

Hark! fellows, there's the supper-bell,
And so our work is done;
It's pretty sport,-suppose we take
A round or two for fun!

If ever they should turn me out,
When I have better grown,
Now, hang me, but I mean to have
A treadmill of my own!

Circular-stained windows are called roses.

DEPARTED DAYS.

YES, dear, departed, cherish'd days,
Could Memory's hand restore
Your morning light, your evening rays,
From Time's gray urn once more,-
Then might this restless heart be still,

This straining eye might close,
And Hope her fainting pinions fold,

While the fair phantoms rose. But, like a child in ocean's arms,

We strive against the stream, Each moment farther from the shore,

Where life's young fountains gleamEach moment fainter wave the fields,

And wilder rolls the sea;

The mist grows dark-the sun goes downDay breaks-and where are we?

THE DILEMMA.

Now, by the bless'd Paphian queen,
Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen;
By every name I cut on bark
Before my morning-star grew dark;
By Hymen's torch, by Cupid's dart,
By all that thrills the beating heart;
The bright, black eye, the melting blue,—
I cannot choose between the two.

I had a vision in my dreams;
I saw a row of twenty beams;
From every beam a rope was hung,
In every rope a lover swung.
I ask'd the hue of every eye
That bade each luckless lover die;
Ten livid lips said, heavenly blue,
And ten accused the darker hue.

I ask'd a matron, which she deem'd
With fairest light of beauty beam'd;
She answer'd, some thought both were fair-
Give her blue eyes and golden hair.
I might have liked her judgment well,
But as she spoke, she rung the bell,
And all her girls, nor small nor few,
Came marching in-their eyes were blue.

I ask'd a maiden; back she flung
The locks that round her forehead hung,
And turn'd her eye, a glorious one,
Bright as a diamond in the sun,
On me, until, beneath its rays,
I felt as if my hair would blaze;
She liked all eyes but eyes of green;
She look'd at me; what could she mean?
Ah! many lids Love lurks between,
Nor heeds the colouring of his screen;
And when his random arrows fly,
The victim falls, but knows not why.
Gaze not upon his shield of jet,
The shaft upon the string is set;
Look not beneath his azure veil,
Though every limb were cased in mail.

Well, both might make a martyr break
The chain that bound him to the stake,
And both, with but a single ray,
Can melt our very hearts away;
And both, when balanced, hardly seem
To stir the scales, or rock the beam;
But that is dearest, all the while,

That wears for us the sweetest smile.

THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY.

THE Sun stepp'd down from his golden throne,
And lay in the silent sea,

And the Lily had folded her satin leaves,
For a sleepy thing was she;
What is the Lily dreaming of?

Why crisp the waters blue?

See, see, she is lifting her varnish'd lid!

Her white leaves are glistening through!

The Rose is cooling his burning cheek
In the lap of the breathless tide;
The Lily hath sisters fresh and fair,

That would lie by the Rose's side;
He would love her better than all the rest,
And he would be fond and true;
But the Lily unfolded her weary lids,
And look'd at the sky so blue.

Remember, remember, thou silly one,

How fast will thy summer glide, And wilt thou wither a virgin pale,

Or flourish a blooming bride? "O, the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold, And he lives on earth," said she; "But the Star is fair and he lives in the air, And he shall my bridegroom be."

But what if the stormy cloud should come,
And ruffle the silver sea?

Would he turn his eye from the distant sky,
To smile on a thing like thee?

O, no! fair Lily, he will not send

One ray from his far-off throne; The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow, And thou wilt be left alone.

There is not a leaf on the mountain-top,

Nor a drop of evening dew,

Nor a golden sand on the sparkling shore,
Nor a pearl in the waters blue,
That he has not cheer'd with his fickle smile,
And warm'd with his faithless beam,-
And will he be true to a pallid flower,

That floats on the quiet stream?
Alas, for the Lily! she would not heed,
But turn'd to the skies afar,

And bared her breast to the trembling ray
That shot from the rising star;
The cloud came over the darken'd sky,
And over the waters wide;

She look'd in vain through the beating rain,
And sank in the stormy tide.

THE MUSIC-GRINDERS.

THERE are three ways in which men take
One's money from his purse,

And very hard it is to tell

Which of the three is worse;
But all of them are bad enough
To make a body curse.
You're riding out some pleasant day,
And counting up your gains;
A fellow jumps from out a bush

And takes your horse's reins,
Another hints some words about

A bullet in your brains.

It's hard to meet such pressing friends
In such a lonely spot;

It's very hard to lose your cash,
But harder to be shot;

And so you take your wallet out,
Though you would rather not.

Perhaps you're going out to dine,-
Some filthy creature begs
You'll hear about the cannon-ball
That carried off his pegs,
And says it is a dreadful thing

For men to lose their legs.

He tells you of his starving wife,

His children to be fed, Poor, little, lovely innocents,

All clamorous for bread,And so you kindly help to put

A bachelor to bed.

You're sitting on your window-seat
Beneath a cloudless moon;

You hear a sound, that seems to wear
The semblance of a tune,

As if a broken fife should strive
To drown a crack'd bassoon.

And nearer, nearer still, the tide

Of music seems to come,

There's something like a human voice,

And something like a drum;

You sit, in speechless agony,

Until your ear is numb.

Poor "Home, sweet home" should seem to be

A very dismal place;

Your "Auld acquaintance," all at once,

Is alter'd in the face;

Their discords sting through BURNS and MOORE,
Like hedgehogs dress'd in lace.

You think they are crusaders, sent
From some infernal clime,
To pluck the eyes of Sentiment,

And dock the tail of Rhyme,
To crack the voice of Melody,

And break the legs of Time.
But, hark! the air again is still,
The music all is ground,
And silence, like a poultice, comes
To heal the blows of sound;

It cannot be,-it is,-it is,-
A hat is going round!

No! Pay the dentist when he leaves
A fracture in your jaw,

And pay the owner of the bear,

That stunn'd you with his paw, And buy the lobster, that has had Your knuckles in his claw;

But if you are a portly man,

Put on your fiercest frown, And talk about a constable

To turn them out of town; Then close your sentence with an oath, And shut the window down!

And if you are a slender man,

Not big enough for that,
Or, if you cannot make a speech,
Because you are a flat,

Go very quietly and drop
A button in the hat!

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.

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.
O! 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!

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!

THE LAST READER.

I SOMETIMES sit beneath a tree,

And read my own sweet songs;
Though naught they may to others be,
Each humble line prolongs

A tone that might have pass'd away,
But for that scarce-remember'd lay.

I keep them like a lock or leaf,

That some dear girl has given;
Frail record of an hour, as brief

As sunset clouds in heaven,
But spreading purple twilight still
High over memory's shadow'd hill.
They lie upon my pathway bleak,

Those flowers that once ran wild,
As on a father's care-worn cheek

The ringlets of his child;
The golden mingling with the gray,
And stealing half its snows away.
What care I though the dust is spread
Around these yellow leaves,

Or o'er them his sarcastic thread

Oblivion's insect weaves; Though weeds are tangled on the stream, It still reflects my morning's beam. And therefore love I such as smile On these neglected songs, Nor deem that flattery's needless wile My opening bosom wrongs; For who would trample, at my side, A few pale buds, my garden's pride?

It may be that my scanty ore

Long years have wash'd away,
And where were golden sands before,
Is naught but common clay;
Still something sparkles in the sun,
For Memory to look back upon.
And when my name no more is heard,
My lyre no more is known,

OLD IRONSIDES.*

Ar, tear her tatter'd ensign down!

Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see

That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle-shout,

And burst the cannon's roar; The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,

Where knelt the vanquish'd foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquer'd knee; The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea!

O, better that her shatter'd hulk

Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,-
The lightning and the gale!

STANZAS.

STRANGE! that one lightly-whisper'd 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 thine eyes,
It seemeth unto me

Ten thousand angels spread their wings
Within those little azure rings.

The lily hath the softest leaf

That ever western breeze hath fann'd, 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 broider'd 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.

Written when it was proposed to break up the frigate Constitution, as unfit for service.

THE STEAMBOAT.

SEE how yon flaming herald treads
The ridged and rolling waves,

As, crashing o'er their crested heads,
She bows her surly slaves!
With foam before and fire behind,
She rends the clinging sea,
That flies before the roaring wind,
Beneath her hissing lee.

The morning spray, like sea-born flowers,
With heap'd and glistening bells,
Falls round her fast in ringing showers,
With every wave that swells;
And, flaming o'er the midnight deep,
In lurid fringes thrown,

The living gems of ocean sweep
Along her flashing zone.

With clashing wheel, and lifting keel,
And smoking torch on high,
When winds are loud, and billows reel,
She thunders foaming by!

When seas are silent and serene,

With even beam she glides,

The sunshine glimmering through the green
That skirts her gleaming sides.
Now, like a wild nymph, far apart
She veils her shadowy form,
The beating of her restless heart

Still sounding through the storm;
Now answers, like a courtly dame,
The reddening surges o'er,
With flying scarf of spangled flame,
The Pharos of the shore.

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep,

Who trims his narrow'd sail; To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep Her broad breast to the gale; And many a foresail, scoop'd and strain'd, Shall break from yard and stay, Before this smoky wreath has stain'd

The rising mist of day.

Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud, I see yon quivering mast;

The black throat of the hunted cloud

Is panting forth the blast!

An hour, and, whirl'd like winnowing chaff,
The giant surge shall fling
His tresses o'er yon pennon-staff,

White as the sea-bird's wing!

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep;
Nor wind nor wave shall tire
Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap
With floods of living fire;
Sleep on-and when the morning light
Streams o'er the shining bay,

O, think of those for whom the night

Shall never wake in day!