I KNEW thee not! then wherefore gaze
Upon thy silent shadow there,
Which so imperfectly pourtrays
The form thy features used to wear?
Yet have I often looked at thee,
As if those lips could speak to me.
I knew thee not! and thou couldst know,
At best, but little more of one
Whose pilgrimage on earth below
Commenced, just ere thine own was done;
For few and fleeting days were thine,
To hope or fear for lot of mine.
Yet few and fleeting as they were,
Fancy and feeling picture this,
They prompted many a fervent prayer,
Witnessed, perchance, a parting kiss ;
And might not kiss, and prayer, from thee,
At such a period, profit me?
Whether they did or not, I owe
At least this tribute to thy worth; Though little all I can bestow,
Yet fond affection gives it birth; And prompts me, as thy shade I view, To bless thee, whom I never knew!
Too proud of heart to tell the grief
That chains thy harrowed soul,
Too little schooled in grief to bear
Thy own stern pride's control;
With flushing cheek, and restless eye,
Thy woman's heart hath told,
Far easier thou in love hadst died,
Than in despair grow cold.
All beautiful! in the full grace
Of thine unsullied thought;
An angel that love sought to teach,
But woman's self when taught ;
Thy bosom, where youth showers its sweets,
And coronals of light;
Thy brow and dewy lips are still
As eloquent and bright:
But troubled is the fountain, where
That light of bliss was born;
And thou hast taught thy heart to hate,
To save thyself from scorn:
Faithful thou hadst been in thy truth,
Faithful, through good and ill;
But, being left to live unloved,
Thou'dst make that doom thy will.
Still in the world thy path will be,
And still thy brow will wear
Roses as bright as ever wreathed
Their blossoms 'mid thy hair;
But for thy pride and seeming calm-
Thy vainly borne disguise-
No rest shall ever sooth thy soul,
No friendship glad thine eyes.
But lonelier than thy lonely heart
Thy very home shall be,
Nor gentle smile, nor household voice,
Shall e'er seem sweet to thee;
And on from youth to womanhood
Thy weary days shall haste,
Thy happiest feelings turned to gall-
Thy life itself a waste!
WHEN Evening o'er the western hill
Her robe of purple and gold has flung;
When every zephyr is hushed and still,
And every bird has its vesper sung,
I'll seek once more the lonely bower,
Where late I heard that melting strain;
And haply, at the same sweet hour,
The tuneful Spirit may sing again.
And if perchance, in gazing round
Among the leaves, a young face I view,
Oh! how my bosom with joy will bound
To find that Spirit has beauty too!
And sure as ever gentle heart
Had bliss in soothing a lover's pain,
Ere morning bids us kiss and part,
I'll make her promise to sing again.
THOU graceful tree,
With thy green branches drooping,
As to yon blue heaven stooping,
In meek humility.
Like one who patient grieves,
When winds are o'er thee sweeping,
Thou answerest but by weeping;
While tear-like fall thy leaves.
When summer flowers have birth,
And the sun is o'er thee shining;
Yet with thy slight bows declining,
Still thou seekest the earth.
Thy leaves are ever green:
When other trees are changing,
With the seasons o'er them ranging;
Thou art still as thou hast been.
It is not just to thee,
For painter or bard to borrow
Thy emblem as that of Sorrow:
Thou art more like Piety.
Thou wert made to wave,
Patient when Winter winds rave o'er thee,
Lowly when Summer suns restore thee,
Upon thy martyr's grave.
Like that martyr thou hast given
A lesson of faith and meekness,
Of patient strength in thy weakness,
And trust in Heaven!
O THINK it not strange that my soul is shaken
By every note of thy simple song;
These tones like a summoning spell awaken
The shades of feeling that slumbered long:
There's a hawthorn tree near a low-roofed dwelling,
A meadow green and a river clear,
A bird that its summer-eve tale is telling,
And a form unforgotten,-they all are here.
They are here, with dark recollections laden,
From a sylvan scene o'er the weary sea;
They speak of the time when I left that maiden
By the spreading boughs of the hawthorn tree.
We parted in wrath ;-to her low-roofed dwelling
She turned with a step which betrayed her pain;
She knew not the love that was fast dispelling
The gloom of his pride who was hers in vain.
We met no more ;—and her faith was plighted
To one who could not her value know;
The curse which still clings to affections blighted
Tinctured her life-cup with deepest woe.
And these are the thoughts that thy tones awaken-
The shades of feelings which slumbered long;
Then think it not strange that my soul is shaken
By every note of thy simple song.
|