But the soul of a woman needs something more, Or it suffers at times like mine. Not that Arthur is ever unkind In word or deed, for he loves me well; But I fear he thinks me weak as the rest (And I may be: who can tell?) I should die if he changed or loved me less, Oh, love me, Arthur, my lord, my life! At least for your child. But I hear his step He must not find me in tears. FARE THEE WELL! FARE thee well! and if for ever, Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain, Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Though the world for this commend thee,- Though my many faults defaced me, Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not: Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away: Still thine own its life retaineth, Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth. Is-that we no more may meet. These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widowed bed. And when thou wouldst solace gather, When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!" Though his care she must forego? When her little hands shall press thee, When her lip to thine is pressed, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had blessed! Should her lineaments resemble Those thou nevermore mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me. All my faults perchance thou knowest, Even my soul forsakes me now : LORD BYRON. ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. OH that those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected, here! Who bidst me honor with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss- I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial-day, A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The biscuit, or confectionery plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd; All this, and, more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and That humor interposed too often makes; The parting words shall pass my lips no Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, Where once we dwelt our name is heard Children not thine have trod my nursery And where the gardener Robin, day by day, In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, own. Short-lived possession! But the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When playing with thy vesture's tissued The violet, the pink, and jessamine, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, Could those few pleasant days again ap pear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart; the dear de- Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weather'd and the ocean Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that Her beauteous form reflected clear below, gay; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, the shore, "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;" And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distress'd, Me howling blasts drive devious, tempesttoss'd, Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do;— Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. Oh to call back the days that are not! Do you know the truth now up in heaven, I never was worthy of you, Douglas; And day by day some current's thwarting Now all men beside seem to me like force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet oh, the thought that thou art safe, That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. earth, But higher far my proud pretensions The son of parents pass'd into the skies. run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, shadows I love you, Douglas, tender and true. Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew; Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. DINAH MULOCK CRAIK. THE FAMILY MEETING. All who hold each other dear. Each chair is fill'd; we're all at home! I seem to have lived my childhood o'er It is not often thus around again; To have renew'd the joys that once were Without the sin of violating thine; And I can view this mimic show of thee, WILLIAM COWPER. TOO LATE. "Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu." COULD ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, Our old familiar hearth we're found. We're not all here! We're not all here. We are all here! Even they, the dead,-though dead, so dear, Fond Memory, to her duty true, They're round us, as they were of old. We are all here, Father, mother, Sister, brother, You that I love with love so dear. CHARLES SPRAGUE. THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG, OH, my love's like the steadfast sun, Or streams that deepen as they run; Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, Nor moments between sighs and tears— Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain, Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vainNor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows To sober joys and soften woes, Can make my heart or fancy flee One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. Even while I muse I see thee sit In maiden bloom and matron wit-- Fair, gentle as when first I sued, Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee As when, beneath Arbigland tree, Though I see smiling at thy feet Oh, when more thought we gave of old At times there come, as come there ought, ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. OLD FOLKS AT HOME. 'WAY down upon de Swannee Ribber, Far, far away, Dare's wha my heart is turning ebber,- We stay'd and woo'd, and thought the Still longing for de old plantation, moon Set on the sea an hour too soon; Or linger'd 'mid the falling dew, When looks were fond and words were few. And for de old folks at home. All de world am sad and dreary Eb'rywhere I roam; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home! 40 |