I NEVER more shall see thee,
Except as now I see,
In musings of the midnight hour,
While fancy revels free.
I shall never hear thy welcoming,
Nor clasp thy thrilling hand,
Nor view thy home, if e'er again
I seek our common land.
I have thee full before me,
Thy mild, but mournful eye,
And brow as fair as the cold moon
That hears thy secret sigh.
There are roses in thy window,
As when I last was there;
But where has fled the matchless one
Thy young cheek used to wear?
Though parted, maid, long parted,
And not to meet again,
One star hath ruled the fate of both,
And seared our hearts with pain.
And, though before the altar
I may not call thee bride, Accept a token of the bond By which we are allied.
I've found for thee an emblem
Of what hath fallen on me-
A leafless branch, that lately crowned
A lightning stricken tree.
A LAST REMEMBRANCE.
Torn from the pleasant stem it loved,
The severing scar alone
Remains, to show that e'er it grew
Where it for years had grown.
For pledges of affection
I'll give thee faded flowers;
And thou shalt send me withered leaves
From autumn's naked bowers.
The tears of untold bitterness
I'll drink instead of wine,
Carousing to thy broken peace-
Do thou as much for mine.
Whene'er a passing funeral
Presents its dark array,
For thee, my maiden desolate,
I will not fail to pray.
Beneath the quiet coffin-lid
'Twere better far to sleep,
Than live to nurse the scorpion Care
Within thy bosom deep.
The midnight wind is grieving;
Its melancholy swell
Doth make it meet to bear to thee
Thy lover's last farewell.
Farewell, pale child of hopelessness!
'Tis something still to know
That he who cannot claim thy heart,
Partakes of all its woe.
MAY, queen of blossoms,
And fulfilling flowers,
With what pretty music
Shall we charm the hours
Wilt thou have pipe and reed,
Blown in the open mead?
Or to the lute give heed
In the green bowers?
Thou hast no need of us,
Or pipe, or wire,
That hast the golden bee
Ripened with fire;
And many thousand more
Songsters, that thee adore,
Filling earth's grassy floor
With new desire.
Thou hast thy mighty herds,
Tame, and free livers;
Doubt not, thy music too
In the deep rivers;
And the whole plumy flight,
Warbling the day and night-
Up at the gates of light,
See, the lark quivers!
When with the jacinth
Coy fountains are tressed ; And for the mournful bird Green woods are dressed, That did for Tereus pine; Then shall our songs be thine, To whom our hearts incline: MAY, be thou blest!
-"It is not dead, but sleepeth!"
YES! this is Death! but in its fairest form,
And stript of all its terrors;-that closed eye
Tells nothing of the cold and hungry worm
That holds his revel-feast with frail mortality!
Yes! this is Death!-but like a cherub's sleep,
So beautiful-so placid ;-who, of earth,
(And tasting earthly cares) would wish to weep
O'er one that has escaped the woes of mortal birth?
Here might the sculptor gaze, until his hand
Had learned to fashion forth yon lovely thing,
Pale as the chiselled marble;-here command
Those beauties that defy all Art's imagining?
The still, calm brow-the smile on either cheek,
The little folded hands,-the lips apart,
As though they would the bonds of silence break,
Are they not models fair, meet for the sculptor's art?
Proud Science, come! learn of this beauteous clay,
That seems to mock the dread Destroyer's reign,
As though in slumber's downy links it lay,
Awaiting but the morn, to wake to life again!
Yes! this is Death! but in its fairest form,
And stript of all its terrors ;-that sealed eye
Tells nothing of the cold and hungry worm
That holds its revel-feast with frail mortality!
HE trod his native land,
The bright land of the free;
His forehead wore a seared brand-
Impress of infamy!
His brow-where youth and beauty met―
Yes, there the seal of guilt was set.
He gazed upon the vale,
Where spring-tide flowerets slept,
Rocked by the whispers of the gale;
He saw it-and he wept :
Like drops which page a storm they came,
Tears born in agony and shame.
Morn sat upon the hills,
But she looked cold and dim;
Clouds, like a pall which death conceals,
Hung frowning there on him:
All, e'en his loved, his mother land,
Scowled on his forehead, and the brand.
My sire! my sire! he groaned;
My home; my lovely one!—
What sire? he hath his child disowned ;-
What home? I-I have none:
I hear all curse-I see all shun ;-
Yet curse not you! not you-your son!
I saw her struck, whose cheek
Did myriad sweets disclose;
Whose eyes, whose form-but wherefore speak-
I saw !-my heart-blood rose:
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