« PreviousContinue »
And what if court or castle vaunt
Its children loftier born?.
Who heeds the silken tassel's flaunt
They ask not for the dainty toil
Of ribboned knights and earls,
The daughters of the virgin soil,
By every hill whose stately pines
The home where some fair being shines,
Where farthest sail unfurls,
That stars and stripes are streaming o'er, — God bless our Yankee girls!
Ан Clemence! when I saw thee last
I dreamed not in that idle glance
And only left to memory's trance
A shadow and a name.
The few strange words my lips had taught
Their gentler signs, which often brought
Bent o'er my couch of pain,
All, all returned, more sweet, more fair;
O had we met again!
I walked where saint and virgin keep
I knew that thou hadst woes to weep,
I watched where Genevieve was laid,
And when the morning sun was bright,
I wandered through the haunts of men,
Till, frowning o'er Saint Etienne,
In vain, in vain; we meet no more,
And long upon the stranger's shore
That tells thy name and days,
And withered, on thy simple cross,
The wreaths of Père-la-Chaise !
AN EVENING THOUGHT.
WRITTEN AT SEA.
If sometimes in the dark blue eye,
Still warms this heart of mine,
Yet something colder in the blood,
And calmer in the brain,
Have whispered 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,
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
Was that young forehead worn as this?
Were 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,
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