SONG FOR VALENTINE'S DAY.
I think not of Laura, the witty,
For, oh! she is married at York!-
I sigh not for Rose of the city,
For, ah! she is buried at Cork!-
Adele has a braver and better,
To say what I never could say;
Louise cannot construe a letter
Of English on Valentine's day.
So perish the leaves in the arbour,
The tree is all bare in the blast!
Like a wreck that is drifting to harbour,
I come to the lady at last :
Where art thou so lovely and lonely,
Though idle the lute and the lay,
The lute and the lay are thine only,
My fairest on Valentine's day.
For thee I have opened my Blackstone,
For thee I have shut up myself,
Exchanged my long curls for a Caxton,
And laid my short whist on the shelf;
For thee I have sold my old Sherry,
For thee I have burned my new play,
And I grow philosophical-very!—
Except upon Valentine's day.
HER mighty sails the breezes swell,
And fast she leaves the lessening land,
And from the shore the last farewell
Is waved by many a snowy hand;
And weeping eyes are on the main,
Until its verge she wanders o'er;
But, from that hour of parting pain,
Oh! she was never heard of more;
In her was many a mother's joy,
And love of many a weeping fair;
For her was wafted, in its sigh,
The lonely heart's unceasing prayer!
And, oh! the thousand hopes untold
Of ardent youth, that vessel bore;
Say, were they quenched in ocean cold,
For she was never heard of more?
When on her wide and trackless path
Of desolation, doomed to flee,
Say, sank she 'mid the blending wrath
Of racking cloud and rolling sea?
Or, where the land but mocks the eye,
Went drifting on a fatal shore?
Vain guesses all!-Her destiny
Is dark-she ne'er was heard of more.
The moon hath twelve times changed her form,
From glowing orb to crescent wan;
'Mid skies of calm, and scowl of storm,
Since from her port that ship hath gone;
But ocean keeps its secret well;
And though we know that all is o'er,
No eye hath seen-no tongue can tell
Her fate-she ne'er was heard of more
HOWE'ER the sceptic scoffs, the poet sighs,
Hope oft reveals her dimly shadowed dreams,
And seraph joy descends from pale blue skies,
And, like sweet sunset on wood-skirted streams,
Peace breathes around her stilling harmonies,
Her whispered music-whilst her soft eye beams-
And the deep bliss, that crowns the household hearth,
From all its woes redeems the bleeding earth.
Like woods that shadow the blue mountain sky,
The troubled heart will seek its home in heaven,
In those affections which can never die,
In hallowed love, and human wrongs forgiven!
From the fair gardens of the blest on high
The fruit of life is yet to lost man given,
And, 'mid the quiet of his still abode,
Spirits attend him from the throne of God.
The mild deep gentleness, the smile that throws
Light from the bosom o'er the high pale brow,
And cheek that flushes like the May-morn rose ;
The all-reposing sympathies, that glow
Like violets in the heart, and o'er our woes
The silent breathing of their beauty throw-
Oh! every deed of daily life doth prove
The depth, the strength, the truth, of woman's love.
When harvest days are past, and autumn skies
The giant forests tinge with glorious hues,
How o'er the twilight of our thought sweet eyes
The fairy beauty of the soul diffuse !
The inspiring air, like spirit voices, sighs 'Mid the close pines and solitary yews,
Though the broad leaves on forest boughs look sere, And naked woodlands wail the dying year.
Yet the late season brings no hours of gloom,
Though thoughtful sadness sighs her evening hymn,
For hearth-fires now light up the curtained room,
And Love's wings float amid the twilight dim;
Lost loved ones gather round us from the tomb,
And blest revealments o'er our spirits swim,
And hopes, that drooped in trials, soar on high,
And linked affections bear into the sky.
Then, side by side, hearts wedded in their youth,
In their meek blessedness expand and glow,
And, though the world be faithless, still their truth
No pause, no change, no soil of time may know!
They hold communion with the world, in sooth,
Beyond the stain of sin, the waste of woe,
And the deep sanctities of well-spent hours,
Crown their fair fame with Eden's deathless flowers.
Frail as the moth's fair wing is common fame,
Brief as the sunlight of an April morn;
But love perpetuates the sacred name
Devoted to his shrine; in glory born,
The boy-god gladly to the lone earth came,
To vanquish victors, and to smile at scorn,
And he will rise when all is finished here,
The holiest seraph of the highest sphere.
As fell the prophet's mantle, in old time,
On the meek heir of Israel's sainted sage,
Woman! so falls thy unseen power sublime,
On the lone desert of man's pilgrimage;
Thy sweet thoughts breathe, from love's delicious clime,
Beauty in youth, and faith in fading age;
Through all earth's years of travail, strife, and toil,
His parched affections linger round thy smile.
In the young beauty of thy womanhood
Thou livest in the being yet to be,
Yearning for blessedness ill understood,
And known, young mother! only unto thee.
Love is her life; and to the wise and good
Her heart is Heaven-'tis even unto me,
Though oft misguided, and betrayed, and grieved,
The only bliss of which I'm not bereaved.
Draw near, ye whom my bosom hath enshrined!
O Thou! whose life breathes in my heart! and Thou
Whose gentle spirit dwelleth in my mind,
Whose love, like sunlight, rests upon thy brow!
Draw near the hearth! the cold and moaning wind
Scatters the ruins of the forest now,
But blessings crown us in our own still home-
Hail, holy image of the life to come!
Hail, ye fair charities! the mellow showers
Of the earth's spring-time! from your rosy breath,
The way-worn pilgrim, through the tempest lours,
Breathes a new being in the realm of death,
And bears the burden of life's darker hours
With cheerlier aspect o'er the lonely heath,
That spreads between us and the unfading clime
Where true love triumphs o'er the death of Time.
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