Volume Iv Part 18 (1/2)
Born where the glorious star-lights trace In mountain snows their silver face, Where Nature, vast and rude, Looks as if by her G.o.d design'd To fill the bright eternal mind, With her fair magnitude.
Hers was a face, to which was given Less portion of the earth than heaven, As if each trait had stole Its hue from Nature's shapes of light; As if stars, flowers, and all things bright Had join'd to form her soul.
Her heart was young--she loved to breathe The air which spins the mountain's wreath, To wander o'er the wild, To list the music of the deep, To see the round stars on it sleep, For she was Nature's child!
Nursed where the soul imbibes the print Of freedom--where nought comes to taint, Or its warm feelings quell: She felt love o'er her spirit driven, Such as the angels felt in heaven, Before they sinn'd and fell.
Her mind was tutor'd from its birth, From all that's beautiful on earth-- Lights which cannot expire-- From all their glory, she had caught A l.u.s.tre, till each sense seem'd fraught With heaven's celestial fire.
The desert streams familiar grown, The stars had language of their own, The hills contain'd a voice With which she could converse, and bring A charm from each insensate thing, Which bade her soul rejoice.
She had the feeling and the fire, That fortune's stormiest blast could tire, Though delicate and young; Her bosom was not formed to bend-- Adversity, that firmest friend, Had all its fibres strung.
Such was my love--she scorn'd to hide A pa.s.sion which she deem'd a pride!
Oft have we sat and view'd The beauteous stars walk through the night, And Cynthia lift her sceptre bright, To curb old Ocean's mood.
She'd clasp me as if ne'er to part, That I might feel her beating heart-- Might read her living eye; Then pause! I've felt the pure tide roll Through every vein, which to my soul, Said--Nature could not lie.
LUCY'S GRAVE.
My spirit could its vigil hold For ever at this silent spot; But, ah! the heart within is cold, The sleeper heeds me not: The fairy scenes of love and youth, The smiles of hope, the tales of truth, By her are all forgot: Her spirit with my bliss is fled-- I only weep above the dead!
I need not view the gra.s.sy swell, Nor stone escutcheon'd fair; I need no monument to tell That thou art lying there: I feel within, a world like this, A fearful blank in all my bliss-- An agonized despair, Which paints the earth in cheerful bloom, But tells me, thou art in the tomb!
I knew Death's fatal power, alas Could doom man's hopes to pine, But thought that many a year would pa.s.s Before he scatter'd mine!
Too soon he quench'd our morning rays, Brief were our loves of early days-- Brief as those bolts that s.h.i.+ne With beautiful yet transient form, Round the dark fringes of the storm!
I little thought, when first we met, A few short months would see Thy sun, before its noontide, set In dark eternity!
While love was beaming from thy face, A lover's eye but ill could trace Aught that obscured its ray; So calm its pain thy bosom bore, I thought not death was at its core!
The silver moon is s.h.i.+ning now Upon thy lonely bed, Pale as thine own unblemish'd brow, Cold as thy virgin head; She seems to breathe of many a day Now shrouded with thee in the clay, Of visions that have fled, When we beneath her holy flame, Dream'd over hopes that never came!
Hark! 'tis the solemn midnight bell, It mars the hallow'd scene; And must we bid again--farewell!
Must life still intervene?
Its charms are vain! my heart is laid E'en with thine own, celestial maid!
A few short days have been An age of pain--a few may be A welcome pa.s.sport, love! to thee.
THE FORGOTTEN BRAVE.
'Tis finish'd, they 've died for their forefathers' land, As the patriot sons of the mountain should die, With the mail on each bosom, the sword in each hand, On the heath of the desert they lie.