Part 4 (1/2)

To an Umbrella.

Thou art the belonging blest Of the maid I love the best: Gardened in some tropic grove, Nurtured by the powers above, Was thy wood so rich and rare For her hand so small and fair; Deftly carved by cunning craft For her hold thy finished haft; And thy silken folds so soft, Where the gentle breezes waft Fragrance from the cl.u.s.tered vines, Where the sun so warmly s.h.i.+nes, Where the skies of purest hue Bend above in deepest blue, There so soft and fine were wove, Woven only for my love.

But it is not that thy haft Carved is by cunning craft Of a wood so rich and rare, That thy folds are soft and fair, Vying only with her hair; Not for this that I addrest Thee in song, and called thee blest But what thou for her hast done: Shaded from the scorching sun On the burning summer day 'Neath thy silken canopy; Sheltered from the falling rain, Lest her hallowed cheek it stain; s.h.i.+elded from the stormy blast, As it hurried wildly past.

Surely thou art blest for such.-- Oh! that I might do as much!

E'en the fair Orb.

to ------.

E'en the fair orb on which I gaze Suggests thy radiance by its rays: That silvery, soft, and dreamy light, So soft, and yet so beauteous bright, Falling in glowing tints so faint,-- The hues which artists love to paint; Around whose sphere the fancies claim That angels float, and fan the flame: The lover's choice, it doth belong To lover's lute and poet's song.

That light, though native to the skies, Is all reflected in thine eyes.

To Burns.

Suggested on returning home for my holidays by an old portrait of the poet, which hangs in my room.

Old friend!--I always loved thee; In childhood's early days, Delighted I would listen With laughter to thy lays.

And better still I loved thee, To riper boyhood grown; Because thou wert the pride of The land that's part my own.

But with devotion deepened I greet thee now anew, Of love, because thou singest So simple, sweet, and true.

Could I but mention but thy Name;

Could I but strike--a sweeter note Than all from virgin choirs that float, Or harps with cords of gold; A note more soft and more sublime Than she, the sweetest of the Nine, Euterpe's strains unfold!

The note which even now I hear (For angels breathe it in my ear) But never dared to raise-- Could I but mention but thy name, To whom I owe this sacred flame And love's inspired lays!

Ah! then, methinks, when I should hear My Muse employ that word so dear; When thoughts of thee inspire; In sweeter strains my song should swell Than e'er from harp of Orpheus fell Or Phoebus' full-stringed lyre!

Lines written in an Alb.u.m.

With beauty and grace that greet the eye, How pleasing 'tis to trace, Within, the beauty of holiness,-- That higher, heavenly grace!

Scene in the Trojan War.

(Translated from Homer.)

And when th'opposing ranks in conflict closed, s.h.i.+eld rang on s.h.i.+eld and rattled lance on lance, And clashed the might of brazen mailed men.