The Bride of a Year
She stands in front of her mirror
With bright and joyous air,
Smoothes out with a skilful hand
Her waves of golden hair;
But the tell-tale roses on her cheek,
So changing yet so bright,
And downcast, earnest eye betray
New thoughts are hers to-night.
Then say what is the fairy spell
Around her beauty thrown,
Lending a new and softer charm
To every look and tone?
It is the hidden consciousness --
The blissful, joyous thought
That she, at length, hath wholly won
The heart she long had sought.
To-morrow is her bridal day,
That day of hopes and fears,
Of partings from beloved friends,
Of sunshine and of tears:
To-morrow will she say the words,
Those words whose import deep
Will fix her future lot in life --
Well might she pause and weep!
Yet, only once, a passing cloud
Rests on her girlish brow,
Her dark eye gleameth restlessly --
She's thinking of her vow.
But quick as light and fleecy clouds
Flit o'er a summer sky,
The shadow passeth from her brow,
The trouble from her eye.
In silvery tones she murmurs forth,
My heart is light and glad,
Youth, beauty, hope, are all mine own,
Then, why should I be sad?
To graver hearts leave graver thoughts
And all foreboding fears,
For me, life's sunshine and its flowers, --
I am too young for tears!
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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The Mourners
LOW she lies, who blest our eyes
Through many a sunny day;
She may not smile, she will not rise--
The life hath past away!
Yet there is a world of light beyond,
Where we neither die nor sleep--
She is there, of whom our souls were fond--
Then wherefore do we weep?
The heart is cold, whose thoughts were told
In each glance of her glad bright eye;
And she lies pale, who was so bright,
She scarce seemed made to die.
Yet we know that her soul is happy now,
Where the saints their calm watch keep;
That angels are crowning that fair young brow--
Then wherefore do we weep?
Her laughing voice made all rejoice,
Who caught the happy sound;
There was gladness in her very step,
As it lightly touched the ground.
The echoes of voice and step are gone;
There is silence still and deep:
Yet we know she sings by God's bright throne--
Then wherefore do we weep?
The cheek's pale tinge, the lid's dark fringe;
That lies like a shadow there,
Were beautiful in the eyes of all--
And her glossy golden hair!
But though that lid may never wake
From its dark and dreamless sleep,
She is gone where young hearts do not break--
Then wherefore do we weep?
That world of light with joy is bright,
This is a world of woe:
Shall we grieve that her soul hath taken flight,
Because we dwell below?
We will bury her under the mossy sod,
And one long bright tress we'll keep;
We have only given her back to God--
Ah! wherefore do we weep?
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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We Have Been Friends Together
WE have been friends together,
In sunshine and in shade;
Since first beneath the chestnut-trees
In infancy we played.
But coldness dwells within thy heart,
A cloud is on thy brow;
We have been friends together—
Shall a light word part us now?
We have been gay together;
We have laugh’d at little jests;
For the fount of hope was gushing
Warm and joyous in our breasts.
But laughter now hath fled thy lip,
And sullen glooms thy brow;
We have been gay together—
Shall a light word part us now?
We have been sad together,
We have wept, with bitter tears,
O’er the grass-grown graves, where slumber’d
The hopes of early years.
The voices which are silent there
Would bid thee clear thy brow;
We have been sad together—
Oh! what shall part us now?
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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A Girl’s Day Dream And Its Fulfilment
“Child of my love, why wearest thou
That pensive look and thoughtful brow?
Can’st gaze abroad on this world so fair
And yet thy glance be fraught with care?
Roses still bloom in glowing dyes,
Sunshine still fills our summer skies,
Earth is still lovely, nature glad—
Why dost thou look so lone and sad?”
“Ah! mother it once sufficed thy child
To cherish a bird or flow’ret wild;
To see the moonbeams the waters kiss,
Was enough to fill her heart with bliss;
Or o’er the bright woodland stream to bow,
But these things may not suffice her now.”
“Perhaps ’tis music thou seekest, child?
Then list the notes of the song birds wild,
The gentle voice of the mountain breeze,
Whispering among the dark pine trees,
The surge sublime of the sounding main,
Or thy own loved lute’s soft silvery strain.”
“Mother, there’s music sweeter I know
Than bird’s soft note or than ocean’s flow,
Vague to me yet as sounds of a dream,
Yet dearer, brighter than sunshine’s gleam;
Such is the music I fain would hear,
All other sounds but tire mine ear!”
“Ah! thou seekest then a loving heart,
That in all thy griefs will bear a part,
That shelter will give in doubt and fear,
Come to me, loved one, thou’lt find it here!”
“Sweet mother, I almost fear to speak,
And remorseful blushes dye my cheek,
For though thou’st watched me from childhood’s hour,
As thou would’st have done a precious flower,
Though I love thee still as I did of yore,
Yet this weak heart seeketh something more:
A bliss as yet to my life unknown,
A heart whose throbs will be all mine own,
The tender tones of a cherished voice,
Of him who shall be my heart’s first choice;
And who at my feet alone shall bow,
This, this is the dream that haunts me now.”
“Alas, poor child, has it come to this?
Then bid farewell to thy childhood’s bliss,
To thy girlhood’s bright unfettered hours,
Thy sunny revels ’mid birds and flowers;
Of the golden zone yield up each strand
To cling to a hope, unstable as sand,
And forget the joys thy youth hath wove
In the stormy doubts of human love,
The feverish hopes and wearing pain
That form the links of Love’s bright chain!”
Alas! the mother spoke in vain!
The girl’s dream was soon fulfilled,
Her hopes by no dark cloud were chilled;
A lover ardent, noble too,
With flashing eyes of jetty hue,
With voice like music, sweet and soft,
Such as her dreams had pictured oft,
Now at her feet, a suppliant bowed,
And love eternal, changeless vowed.
Listening, then, with glowing cheek,
And rapture which no words might speak,
She thought, with bright and joyous smile,
They erred who thus could love revile,
Or say it had many a dark alloy,—
Had it not proved a dream of joy?
But, alas for her! she learned too soon
That love is fleeting as rose of June,
That her eyes might shine with olden light,
And yet be found no longer bright;
That she might devoted, faithful prove,
Yet her lover grow weary of her love.
Many an hour of silent tears,
Of heart-sick doubts, of humbling fears,
Of angry regrets, were hers, before
Her heart would say, “He loves no more.”
Weary of life and its thorny ways,
She sought the friend of her early days:
“Mother, I bring thee a breaking heart,
In sorrows deep it hath borne a part;
Speak to me tenderly as of yore,
Let thy kiss rest on my brow once more;
To the joys of my girlhood back I flee,
To live alone for them and for thee!”
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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An Emblem of Life
Oh! Life is like the summer rill, where weary daylight dies;
We long for morn to rise again, and blush along the skies:
For dull and dark that stream appears, whose waters in the day,
All glad, in conscious sunniness, went dancing on their way.
But when the glorious sun hath 'woke, and look'd upon the earth,
And over hill and dale there float the sounds of human mirth;
We sigh to see day hath not brought its perfect light to all,
For with the sunshine on those waves, the silent shadows fall.
Oh! like that changeful summer rill our years go gliding by,
Now bright with joy, now dark with tears, before youth's eager eye.
And thus we vainly pant for all the rich and golden glow,
Which young Hope, like an early sun, upon its course can throw,
Soon o'er our half illumined hearts the stealing shadows come,
And every thought that 'woke in light receives its share of gloom;
And we weep while joys and sorrows both are fading from our view,
To find, wherever sunbeams fall, the shadow cometh too.
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Evening Prayer at a Girl's School
HUSH! 'tis a holy hour-the quiet room
Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds
A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom
And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads,
With all their clustering locks, untouch'd by care,
And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night, in prayer.
Gaze on-'tis lovely!-Childhood's lip and cheek,
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought-
Gaze-yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?-
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky,
What death must fashion for eternity!
O! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest,
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,
As birds, with slumber's honey-dew opprest,
'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun-
Life up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies
Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.
Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread,
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman's tenderness-how soon her woe!
Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep,
And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour,
And sumless riches, from affection's deep,
To pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower!
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship-therefore pray!
Her lot is on you-to be found untired,
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain;
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay,
And oh! to love through all things-therefore pray!
And take the thought of this calm vesper time,
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light,
On through the dark days fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight!
Earth will forsake-O! happy to have given
The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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On a picture (II)
Why bends she o'er that glittering toy
With such an earnest gaze,
As if those flashing jewels cast
Love glances in their rays?
By that high, thought-enthronéd brow --
That deep and soul-lit eye,
I know 'tis not the passing dream
Of woman's vanity.
I know that in its golden links
Some talisman is set,
And for the heart it rests upon,
'Tis Love's own amulet.
Oh, may that heart, so joyous now,
No heavier burden bear;
The beauty of that noble brow,
No deeper shadow wear.
Alas! how vain the wish, for souls
That wildest rapture know,
Must vibrate with a keener pang,
To every note of woe.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Mirth And Mourning
'O cast away your sorrow;
A while, at least, be gay!
If grief must come tomorrow,
At least, be glad today!
'How can you still be sighing
When smiles are everywhere?
The little birds are flying
So blithely through the air;
'The sunshine glows so brightly
O'er all the blooming earth;
And every heart beats lightly,
Each face is full of mirth.'
'I always feel the deepest gloom
When day most brightly shines:
When Nature shows the fairest bloom,
My spirit most repines;
'For, in the brightest noontide glow,
The dungeon's light is dim;
Though freshest winds around us blow,
No breath can visit him.
'If he must sit in twilight gloom,
Can I enjoy the sight
Of mountains clad in purple bloom,
And rocks in sunshine bright?
'My heart may well be desolate,
These tears may well arise
While prison wall and iron grate
Oppress his weary eyes.'
'But think of him tomorrow,
And join your comrades now;
That constant cloud of sorrow
Ill suits so young a brow.
'Hark, how their merry voices
Are sounding far and near!
While all the world rejoices
Can you sit moping here?'
'When others' hearts most lightly bound
Mine feels the most oppressed;
When smiling faces greet me round
My sorrow will not rest:
'I think of him whose faintest smile
Was sunshine to my heart,
Whose lightest word could care beguile
And blissful thoughts impart;
'I think how he would bless that sun,
And love this glorious scene;
I think of all that has been done,
And all that might have been.
'Those sparkling eyes, that blessed me so,
Are dim with weeping now;
And blighted hope and burning woe
Have ploughed that marble brow.
'What waste of youth, what hopes destroyed,
What days of pining care,
What weary nights of comfort void
Art thou condemned to bear!
'O! if my love must suffer so
And wholly for my sake
What marvel that my tears should flow,
Or that my heart should break!'
poem by Anne Brontë
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Whene'er I See Those Smiling Eyes
Whene'er I see those smiling eyes,
So full of hope, and joy, and light,
As if no cloud could ever rise,
To dim a heaven so purely bright --
I sigh to think how soon that brow
In grief may lose its every ray,
And that light heart, so joyous now,
Almost forget it once was gay.
For time will come with all its blights,
The ruin'd hope, the friend unkind,
And love, that leaves, where'er it lights,
A chill'd or burning heart behind:
While youth, that now like snow appears,
Ere sullied by the darkening rain,
When once 'tis touch'd by sorrow's tears,
Can never shine so bright again.
poem by Thomas Moore
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The Vassal's Lament For The Fallen Tree
Yes! I have seen the ancient oak
On the dark deep water cast,
And it was not fell'd by the woodman's stroke,
Or the rush of the sweeping blast;
For the axe might never touch that tree,
And the air was still as a summer-sea.
I saw it fall, as falls a chief
By an arrow in the fight,
And the old woods shook, to their loftiest leaf,
At the crashing of its might!
And the startled deer to their coverts flew,
And the spray of the lake as a fountain's flew!
'Tis fall'n! but think thou not I weep
For the forest's pride o'erthrown;
An old man's tears lie far too deep,
To be pour'd for this alone!
But by that sign too well I know,
That a youthful head must soon be low!
A youthful head, with its shining hair,
And its bright quick-flashing eye-
-Well may I weep! for the boy is fair,
Too fair a thing to die!
But on his brow the mark is set-
Oh! could my life redeem him yet!
He bounded by me as I gazed
Alone on the fatal sign,
And it seem'd like sunshine when he rais'd
His joyous glance to mine!
With a stag's fleet step he bounded by,
So full of life-but he must die!
He must, he must! in that deep dell,
By that dark water's side,
'Tis known that ne'er a proud tree fell,
But an heir of his fathers died.
And he-there's laughter in his eye,
Joy in his voice-yet he must die!
I 've borne him in these arms, that now
Are nerveless and unstrung;
And must I see, on that fair brow,
The dust untimely flung?
I must!-yon green oak, branch and crest,
Lies floating on the dark lake's breast!
The noble boy!-how proudly sprung
The falcon from his hand!
It seem'd like youth to see him young.
A flower in his father's land!
But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh,
For the tree hath fall'n, and the flower must die.
Say not 'tis vain!-I tell thee, some
Are warn'd by a meteor's light,
Or a pale bird flitting calls them home,
Or a voice on the winds by night;
And they must go!-and he too, he-
-Woe for the fall of the glorious Tree!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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I Feel That I am Free
To me the sky looks bluer,
And the green grass greener still,
And earth's flowers seem more lovely
As they bloom on heath and hill.
There's a beauty breathing round me
Like a newborn Eden now,
And forgotten are the furrows
Grief has graven on my brow.
There is gladness in the sunshine,
As its gold light gilds the trees,
And I hear a voice of music
Singing to me in the breeze.
There is in my heart a lightness
That seemeth not of me,
For today I've burst from bondage,
And I feel that I am free.
Free in the golden sunshine,
Free in the fresh pure air,
Where the flowers of the forest
In their wild homes flourish fair.
Free to thought to give expression,
To sing, to dance, and show
That the stern world has not crushed me
With its weary weight of woe.
Are the years of care and sorrow
But a dark dream of the past,
Or this new life but a vision
That is all too bright to last?
How exaltingly my spirit
Flashes forth its newborn glee,
As amid rejoicing nature
I can feel that I am free.
I have neither friend nor loved one
To welcome me, nor home;
And lonely through the wide world
As a stranger I must roam;
I know not where tomorrow
To procure my daily bread,
And tonight the waving branches
Must canopy my head.
But if I had a palace,
If of friends a gladsome throng,
If some darling one were near me
To cheer with love and song,
If I'd riches which were boundless,
No more joyous could I be
Than what I am, exulting
In the thought that I am free.
Free in the bright glad sunshine,
Free in the fresh pure air,
My heart with gladness throbbing,
And on my brow no care.
There's the blue sky all above me -
Not a prison roof between -
And at my feet the flowers
Nestle in the verdure green.
Hark! I hear the breezes singing -
'Lift thy heart to God on high,
Who hath brought theee back from sorrow
To this world of hope and joy.'
And the little nodding flowers
In a chorus sing to me -
'If God from sin shall free thee,
Then thou shalt indeed be free!'
poem by Owen Suffolk
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Oh, How I Love Late Summer Eve
Oh, how I love late summer eve
When rays of light rush pouring from the gore golden West
And the balmy night wind comes tranquil into rest
The silver cloud in the moon sheen has been long on its way to leave
All mal thoughts and fears take a sweet pause and calm retrieve
No more little gnawing cares, but find with easy quest
The night music, the fragrant bush, the silhouette of flowers with Nature's beauty dressed
And there comes delight my innocent craving a miracle soul to deceive
That is the time when my heart is warm in ecstatic lore
Musing about the beauty of the haze under summer night
Oh, adventurous creatures of the night rise to take your dinted shields
And I see the beauty of the glory the wild summer night yields
Song: Tis Not the Beam
'Tis not the beam of her bright blue eye,
Nor the smile of her lip of rosy dye,
Nor the dark brown wreaths of her glossy hair,
Nor her changing cheek, so rich and rare.
Oh! these are the sweets of a fairy dream,
The changing hues of an April sky.
They fade like dew in the morning beam,
Or the passing zephyr's odour'd sigh.
'Tis a dearer spell that bids me kneel,
'Tis the heart to love, and the soul to feel:
'Tis the mind of light, and the spirit free,
And the bosom that heaves alone for me.
Oh! these are the sweets that kindly stay
From youth's gay morning to age's night;
When beauty's rainbow tints decay,
Love's torch still burns with a holy light.
Soon will the bloom of the fairest fade,
And love will droop in the cheerless shade,
Or if tears should fall on his wing of joy,
It will hasten the flight of the laughing boy.
But oh! the light of the constant soul
Nor time can darken nor sorrow dim;
Though woe may weep in life's mingled bowl,
Love still shall hover around its brim.
poem by Joseph Rodman Drake
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The Revellers
Ring, joyous chords!-ring out again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!
They are here-the fair face and the careless heart,
And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part.
-But I met a dimly mournful glance,
In a sudden turn of the flying dance;
I heard the tone of a heavy sigh,
In a pause of the thrilling melody!
And it is not well that woe should breathe
On the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath!
-Ye that to thought or to grief belong,
Leave, leave the hall of song!
Ring, joyous chords!-but who art thou
With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale young brow,
And the world of dreamy gloom that lies
In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes?
-Thou hast lov'd, fair girl! thou hast lov'd too well!
Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell;
Thou hast pour'd thy heart's rich treasures forth,
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth!
Mourn on!-yet come thou not here the while,
It is but a pain to see thee smile!
There is not a tone in our songs for thee-
-Home with thy sorrows flee!
Ring, joyous chords!-ring out again!
-But what dost thou with the Revel's train?
A silvery voice through the soft air floats,
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes;
There are bright young faces that pass thee by,
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye!
Away! there's a void in thy yearning breast,
Thou weary man! wilt thou here find rest?
Away! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled,
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead!
Thou art but more lone midst the sounds of mirth-
-Back to thy silent hearth!
Ring, joyous chords!-ring forth again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!
-But thou , though a reckless mien be thine,
And thy cup be crown'd with the foaming wine,
By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud,
By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled cloud,
I know thee!-it is but the wakeful fear
Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here!
I know thee!-thou fearest the solemn night,
With her piercing stars and her deep wind's might!
There's a tone in her voice which thou fain wouldst shun,
For it asks what the secret soul hath done!
And thou-there's a dark weight on thine-away!
-Back to thy home and pray!
Ring, joyous chords!-ring out again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!
And bring fresh wreaths!-we will banish all
Save the free in heart from our festive hall.
On through the maze of the fleet dance, on!
-But where are the young and the lovely?-gone!
Where are the brows with the red rose crown'd,
And the floating forms with the bright zone bound?
And the waving locks and the flying feet,
That still should be where the mirthful meet!
-They are gone-they are fled-they are parted all-
-Alas! the forsaken hall!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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I'm Growing Old
I’M growing old — ‘t is surely so;
And yet how short it seems
Since I was but a sportive child,
Enjoying childish dreams!
I cannot see the change that comes
With such an even pace;
I mark not when the wrinkles fall
Upon my fading face.
I know I’m old; and yet my heart
Is just as young and gay
As e’er it was before my locks
Of bright brown turned to gray.
I know these eyes to other eyes
Look not so bright and glad
As once they looked; and yet ‘tis nor
Because my heart’s more sad.
I never watched with purer joy
The floating clouds and glowing skies,
While glistening tears of rapture fill
These old and fading eyes.
And when I mark the cheek, wkere once
The bright rose used to glow,
It grieves me not to see instead
The almond crown my brow.
I’ve seen the flower grow old and pale,
And withered more than I;
I’ve seen it lose its every charm,
Then droop away and die.
And then I’ve seen it rise again,
Bright as the beaming sky,
And young and pure and beautiful—
And felt that so shall I.
Then what if I am growing old?
My heart is changeless still,
And God has given me enough
This loving heart to fill.
I love to see the sun go down,
And lengthening shadows throw
Along the ground, while o’er my head
The clouds in crimson glow.
I see, beyond those gorgeous clouds,
A country bright and fair,
Which needs no sun: God and the Lamb
Its light and beauty are.
I seem to hear the wondrous song
Redeemed sinners sing;
And my heart leaps to join the throng
To praise the Heavenly King.
I seem to see three cherub boys,
As hand in hand they go,
With golden curls and snowy wings,
Whose eyes with rapture glow.
When I was young I called them mine —
Now Heaven’s sweet ones are they;
But I shall claim my own again,
When I am called away.
Perhaps, when heaven’s bright gate I’ve passed,
They’ll know from every other
The one who gave them back to God,
And haste to call me mother.
0! 1 am glad I’m growing old!
For every day I spend
Shall bring me one day nearer that
Bright day that has no end.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Farewell To The Dead
Come near!-ere yet the dust
Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow,
Look on your brother, and embrace him now,
In still and solemn trust!
Come near!-once more let kindred lips be press'd
On his cold cheek; then bear him to his rest!
Look yet on this young face!
What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone,
Leave of its image, ev'n where most it shone,
Gladdening its hearth and race?
Dim grows the semblance on man's heart impress'd-
-Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest!
Ye weep, and it is well!
For tears befit earth's partings!-Yesterday
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay,
And sunshine seem'd to dwell
Where'er he mov'd-the welcome and the bless'd!
-Now gaze! and bear the silent unto rest!
Look yet on him, whose eye
Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth!
Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth,
The beings born to die?
-But not where death has power may love be bless'd--
Come near! and bear ye the belov'd to rest!
How may the mother's heart
Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again?
The spring's rich promise hath been given in vain,
The lovely must depart!
Is he not gone, our brightest and our best?
Come near! and bear the early-call'd to rest!
Look on him! is he laid
To slumber from the harvest or the chase?
-Too still and sad the smile upon his face,
Yet that, ev'n that, must fade!
Death holds not long unchang'd his fairest guest,-
Come near! and bear the mortal to his rest!
His voice of mirth hath ceas'd
Amidst the vineyards! there is left no place
For him whose dust receives your vain embrace,
At the gay bridal feast!
Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast;
Come near! weep o'er him! bear him to his rest!
Yet mourn ye not as they
Whose spirit's light is quench'd!-for him the past
Is seal'd. He may not fall, he may not cast
His birthright's hope away!
All is not here of our belov'd and bless'd-
-Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Bride
SHE is standing by her loved one's side,
A young and a fair and a gentle bride,
But mournfulness hath crost her face
Like shadows in a sunny place,
And wistfully her eye doth strain
Across the blue and distant main.
My home! my home!-I would I were
Again in joyous gladness there!
My home! my home!-I would I heard
The singing voice, like some small bird,
Of him, our mother's youngest child,
With light soft step, and features mild.-
I would I saw that dear one now,
With the proud eye and noble brow,
Whose very errors were more loved
Than all our reason most approved.
And she, my fairy sister, she,
Who was the soul of childish glee;
Who loved me so-oh, let me hear
Once more those tones familiar, dear,
Which haunt my rest; and I will smile
Even as I used to do erewhile.
I know that some have fall'n asleep-
I know that some have learnt to weep-
But my heart never feels the same
As when those light steps round me came:
And sadness weighs my heavy eye
Beneath this cheerless stranger sky:
Tho' fewer now might round me come-
It is my home-my own old home!
She is back again in her sunny home,
And thick and fast the beatings come
Of that young heart, as round she sees
The same sweet flowers, the same old trees;
But they, the living flowers she loved,
Are they the same? are they unmoved?-
No-time which withers leaf and stem
Hath thrown his withering change o'er them.
Where there was mirth, is silence now-
Where there was joy, a darkened brow-
The bounding step hath given place
To the slow stealing mournful pace;
The proud bright eye is now less proud,
By time, and thought, and sickness bowed.
And the light singing voice no more
Its joyful carols echoes o'er,
But whispers; fearful some gay tone
May wake the thought of pleasures gone.
It is her home-but all in vain
Some lingering things unchanged remain:
The present wakes no smile-the past
Hath tears to bid its memory last.
She knew that some were gone-but oh!
She knew not-youth can never know
How furrowed o'er with silent thought
Are brows which grief and time have taught.
The murmuring of some shadowy word,
Which was a name-which now, unheard,
May wander thro' the clear cold sky,
Or wake the echo for reply:
The lingering pause in some bright spot
To dream of those who now are not:
The gaze that vainly seeks to trace
Lost feelings beaming on a face
Where time and sorrow, guilt and care,
Have past and left their withering there:-
These are her joys; and she doth roam
Around her dear but desert home;
Peopling the vacant seats, till tears arise,
And blot the dim sweet vision from her eyes.
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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The Chapel Royal St. James’s, On The 10th February, 1840
I.
ONCE more the people meet,
With glad expectant faces: once again
The fair young monarch and her lovely train,
With slow and gentle feet,
Move in a solemn ceremony on;
And jewels glitter in the morning sun!
II.
Not long, oh! Time, not long
It seems, since crown'd as Britain's welcome Queen,
The like fair sight in fair array was seen;
And the hush'd listening throng,
Watching those steps thro' Westminster's proud aisle,
Wept with full hearts, tho' joyous all the while.
III.
And they come forth anew,
In bridal white, that gentle virgin band,
The chosen flowers of Britain's happy land;
For holy love and true
Hath wrought an hour of hope without alloy--
A fairy sight of splendour and of joy.
IV.
There,--with her locks of light,
Gleaming like gold around her noble head,--
The orphan'd ELEANOR, with stately tread,
Went by, a vision bright;
Bidding sweet thoughts of love and triumph start
Into a father's nd a sister's heart.
V.
There,--in her beauty, pass'd
Young FRANCES COWPER; her transparent cheek
Blushing the greetings which she might not spea,
As on the crowd she cast
The shy soft glances of those dark-blue eyes,
In whose untom'd depth such sweetness lies!
VI.
There, with her spotless name,
The gentle HOWARD, good, and fair, and mild,
And bright-eyed BOUVERIE, noble Radnor's child,
And rose-bud VILLIERS came;
And, with her sweet frank smile, young IDA HAY,
Looking all gladness, like a morn in May.
VII.
There, brilliant LENNOX moved;
The Paget beauty shining from her brow,
And the dark, deer-like eyes that glanced below:
While, gentle and beloved,
Amid the glories of that courtly throng,
DELAWARE'S youthful daughter pass'd along.
VIII.
There, (theme for poet's praise!)
With swanlike throat, and clear majestic eye,
VERULAM's stately MARY glided by,
And, with her quiet gaze
Fixed smiling on the scene which she survey'd,
The soldier ANGLESEA'S bright ADELAIDE.
IX.
And she, whose orbs of blue,
Like mountain lakes beheld by moonlight, gleam
With all the shadowy softness of a dream
Such as Endymion knew:
Whose glossy locks with rich luxuriance twine
Around her brow: the Lady WILHELMINE.
X.
Young were they all--and fair,--
But thou, VICTORIA, held'st thy fitting place,
As amongst garden-flowers the lily's grace,
Blooms with a royal air;
And from that lovely various group, apart,
Dids't stand, and gently look the Queen thou art.
XI.
The smile thy young lip wore,
Spoke joy to Him, who, from his distant home,
Hath sped in wintry time o'er ocean's foam--
To seek our island shore,
With his frank heart, and brow so fair and true,
Claiming thy love-and England's welcome too.
XII.
Oh! may that welcome prove
The herald of deep gladness;--since in thee
Old England's brightest hopes renew'd we see,
All-hallow'd be thy love;
And still with proud content the day allied,
When Princely ALBERT claim'd his Royal Bride!
XIII.
May He, whose gifted hand,
Hath twined sweet wreaths of Poetry and Song;
Live happy among English heart so long
That, native to the land,
He shall forget that e'er his harp was strung
To any accents but our mother-tongue:
XIV.
And Thou,--Oh! may the Crown
Which in youth's freshest, earliest moment, graced
The brow, whose childhood's roses it replaced,
Ne'er weigh thy spirit down;
Nor tearful hours, nor careful thoughts, beguile
One ray of gladness from thy gracious smile:
XV.
But brightly to the last,
Fair Fortune shine, with calm and steady ray,
Upon the tenor of thy happy way;
A future like the past:
And every prayer by loyal subjects said,
Bring down a separate blessing on thy head!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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A Lament
The circle is broken, one seat is forsaken,
One bud from the tree of our friendship is shaken;
One heart from among us no longer shall thrill
With joy in our gladness, or grief in our ill.
Weep! lonely and lowly are slumbering now
The light of her glances, the pride of her brow;
Weep! sadly and long shall we listen in vain
To hear the soft tones of her welcome again.
Give our tears to the dead! For humanity's claim
From its silence and darkness is ever the same;
The hope of that world whose existence is bliss
May not stifle the tears of the mourners of this.
For, oh! if one glance the freed spirit can throw
On the scene of its troubled probation below,
Than the pride of the marble, the pomp of the dead,
To that glance will be dearer the tears which we shed.
Oh, who can forget the mild light of her smile,
Over lips moved with music and feeling the while,
The eye's deep enchantment, dark, dream-like, and clear,
In the glow of its gladness, the shade of its tear.
And the charm of her features, while over the whole
Played the hues of the heart and the sunshine of soul;
And the tones of her voice, like the music which seems
Murmured low in our ears by the Angel of dreams!
But holier and dearer our memories hold
Those treasures of feeling, more precious than gold,
The love and the kindness and pity which gave
Fresh flowers for the bridal, green wreaths for the grave!
The heart ever open to Charity's claim,
Unmoved from its purpose by censure and blame,
While vainly alike on her eye and her ear
Fell the scorn of the heartless, the jesting and jeer.
How true to our hearts was that beautiful sleeper
With smiles for the joyful, with tears for the weeper,
Yet, evermore prompt, whether mournful or gay,
With warnings in love to the passing astray.
For, though spotless herself, she could sorrow for them
Who sullied with evil the spirit's pure gem;
And a sigh or a tear could the erring reprove,
And the sting of reproof was still tempered by love.
As a cloud of the sunset, slow melting in heaven,
As a star that is lost when the daylight is given,
As a glad dream of slumber, which wakens in bliss,
She hath passed to the world of the holy from this.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Parting Song
A youth went forth to exile, from a home
Such as to early thought gives images,
The longest treasur'd, and most oft recall'd,
And brightest kept, of love;-a mountain home,
That, with the murmur of its rocking pines
And sounding waters, first in childhood's heart
Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy,
And half unconscious prayer;-a Grecian home,
With the transparence of blue skies o'erhung,
And, through the dimness of its olive shades,
Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam
Of shining pillars from the fanes of old.
And this was what he left!-Yet many leave
Far more:-the glistening eye, that first from theirs
Call'd out the soul's bright smile; the gentle hand,
Which through the sunshine led forth infant steps
To where the violets lay; the tender voice
That earliest taught them what deep melody
Lives in affection's tones.-He left not these.
-Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part
With all a mother's love!-A bitterer grief
Was his-To part unlov'd! -of her unlov'd,
That should have breath'd upon his heart, like Spring,
Fostering its young faint flowers!
Yet had he friends,
And they went forth to cheer him on his way
Unto the parting spot-and she too went,
That mother, tearless for her youngest-born.
The parting spot was reach'd:-a lone deep glen,
Holy, perchance, of yore, for cave and fount
Were there, and sweet-voiced echoes; and above,
The silence of the blue, still, upper Heaven
Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they wore
Their crowning snows.-Upon a reck he sprung,
The unbelov'd one, for his home to gaze
Through the wild laurels back; but then a light
Broke on the stern proud sadness of his eye,
A sudden quivering light, and from his lips
A burst of passionate song.
'Farewell, farewell!
'I hear thee, O thou rushing stream!-thou 'rt from my native dell,
Thou 'rt bearing thence a mournful sound-a murmur of farewell!
And fare thee well-flow on, my stream!-flow on, thou bright and free!
I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments for me;
But I have been a thing unlov'd, from childhood's loving years,
And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast known my tears;
The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret tears have known:
The woods can tell where he hath wept, that ever wept alone!
'I see thee once again, my home! thou 'rt there amidst thy vines,
And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of summer shines.
It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering through thy groves,
The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour the mother loves!
-The hour the mother loves!-for me belov'd it hath not been;
Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smil'st, a blessed scene!
Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant years will come-
-Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my home?
'Not as the dead!-no, not the dead!-We speak of them -we keep
Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep!
We hallow ev'n the lyre they touch'd, we love the lay they sung,
We pass with softer step the place they fill'd our band among!
But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught that leaves on earth
No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its birth!
I go!-the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell
When mine is a forgotten voice.-Woods, mountains, home, farewell!
'And farewell, mother!-I have borne in lonely silence long,
But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong!
And I will speak! though but the wind that wanders through the sky,
And but the dark deep-rustling pines and rolling streams reply.
Yes! I will speak!-within my breast whate'er hath seem'd to be,
There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have gush'd for thee!
Brightly it would have gush'd, but thou, my mother! thou hast thrown
Back on the forests and the wilds what should have been thine own!
'Then fare thee well! I leave thee not in loneliness to pine,
Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer brow than mine!
Forgive me that thou couldst not love!-it may be, that a tone
Yet from my burning heart may pierce, through thine, when I am gone!
And thou perchance mayst weep for him on whom thou ne'er hast smil'd,
And the grave give his birthright back to thy neglected child!
Might but my spirit then return, and 'midst its kindred dwell,
And quench its thirst with love's free tears!-'tis all a dream-farewell!'
'Farewell!'-the echo died with that deep word,
Yet died not so the late repentant pang
By the strain quicken'd in the mother's breast!
There had pass'd many changes o'er her brow,
And cheek, and eye; but into one bright flood
Of tears at last all melted; and she fell
On the glad bosom of her child, and cried
'Return, return, my son!'-the echo caught
A lovelier sound than song, and woke again,
Murmuring-'Return, my son!'--
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Widow To Her Son’s Betrothed
I.
AH, cease to plead with that sweet cheerful voice,
Nor bid me struggle with a weight of woe,
Lest from the very tone that says 'rejoice'
A double bitterness of grief should grow;
Those words from THEE convey no gladdening thought,
No sound of comfort lingers in their tone,
But by their means a haunting shade is brought
Of love and happiness for ever gone!
II.
My son!--alas, hast thou forgotten him,
That thou art full of hopeful plans again?
His heart is cold--his joyous eyes are dim,--
For him THE FUTURE is a word in vain!
He never more the welcome hours may share,
Nor bid Love's sunshine cheer our lonely home,--
How hast thou conquer'd all the long despair
Born of that sentence--He is in the tomb?
III.
How can thy hand with cheerful fondness press
The hands of friends who still on earth may stay--
Remembering his most passionate caress
When the LONG PARTING summon'd him away?
How can'st thou keep from bitter weeping, while
Strange voices tell thee thou art brightly fair--
Remembering how he loved thy playful smile,
Kiss'd thy smooth cheek, and praised thy burnish'd hair?
IV.
How can'st thou laugh? How can'st thou warble songs?
How can'st thou lightly tread the meadow-fields,
Praising the freshness which to spring belongs,
And the sweet incense which the hedge-flower yields?
Does not the many-blossom'd spring recal
Our pleasant walks through cowslip-spangled meads,--
The violet-scented lanes--the warm south-wall,
Where early flow'rets rear'd their welcome heads?
V.
Does not remembrance darken on thy brow
When the wild rose a richer fragrance flings--
When the caressing breezes lift the bough,
And the sweet thrush more passionately sings;--
Dost thou not, then, lament for him whose form
Was ever near thee, full of earnest grace?
Does not the sudden darkness of the storm
Seem luridly to fall on Nature's face?
VI.
It does to ME! The murmuring summer breeze,
Which thou dost turn thy glowing cheek to meet,
For me sweeps desolately through the trees,
And moans a dying requiem at my feet!
The glistening river which in beauty glides,
Sparkling and blue with morn's triumphant light,
All lonely flows, or in its bosom hides
A broken image lost to human sight!
VII.
But THOU!--Ah! turn thee not in grief away;
I do not wish thy soul as sadly wrung--
I know the freedom of thy spirit's play,
I know thy bounding heart is fresh and young:
I know corroding Time will slowly break
The links which bound most fondly and most fast,
And Hope will be Youth's comforter, and make
The long bright Future overweigh the Past.
VIII.
Only, when full of tears I raise mine eyes
And meet thine ever full of smiling light,
I feel as though thy vanish'd sympathies
Were buried in HIS grave, where all is night;
And when beside our lonely hearth I sit,
And thy light laugh comes echoing to my ear,
I wonder how the waste of mirth and wit
Hath still the power thy widow'd heart to cheer!
IX.
Bear with me yet! Mine is a harsh complaint!
And thy youth's innocent lightheartedness
Should rather soothe me when my spirits faint
Than seem to mock my age's lone distress.
But oh! the tide of grief is swelling high,
And if so soon forgetfulness must be--
If, for the DEAD, thou hast no further sigh,
Weep for his Mother!--Weep, young Bride, for ME!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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