In a young lady's heart once a secret was lurking;
It toss'd and it tumbled, it long'd to get out;
The lips half betray'd it by smiling and smirking,
And the tongue was impatient to blab it, no doubt.
But Honour look'd gruff on the subject, and gave it
In charge to the teeth, so enchantingly white-
Should the captive attempt an elopement, to save it
By giving the lips an admonishing bite.
'Twas said, and 'twas settled, and Honour departed;
Tongue quiver'd and trembled, but dared not rebel;
When right to its tip, Secret suddenly started,
And, half in a whisper, escaped from its cell.
Quoth the teeth, in a pet, we'll be even for this;
And they bit very smartly above and beneath;
But the lips at that instant were bribed with a kiss,
And they popp'd out the Secret, in spite of the teeth.
LEAVES quiver in the balmy air, the moon grows bright
Beauty is beaming every where-'tis just the hour for
So calm, so silent, I could deem beneath yon arch of
Breathe none beside myself, dear love, the nightingale, and you!
The mazy brook is whispering now, a soft tale to the flowers,
The night breeze freshens on my brow,-how sweet these moonlight hours!
And sweet the twilight path that guides my footsteps through the dew,
Each eve, to this green dell, my love, the nightingale and you!
Now some seek halls of revelry, where flows the ruddy wine;
And merry may their banquet be,-a deeper joy is mine!
They choose companions many a one, I am content with two,
The nightingale and you, my love! the nightingale and you!
A PILGRIM of the Harp was he,
With half a heart for chivalry;
The lone, the marvellous, the wild,
Had charm'd his spirit, man and child;
Graduate in nature's eldest school,
Of forms all grand and beautiful;
Her manuscript, divinely wrought,
God's own miraculous Polyglot,
Speaking in one all languages—
He studied-rocks, and stars, and seas;
But chief the deep his worship won,
The illimitable ocean-nursed thereon;
A SKETCH FROM LIFE.
With all its workings-maniac hoar,
Even for that madness loved the more;
Kin elements, his moody mind,
A portion of the wave and wind;
And oft the boy would try to weave
His wonder into shapes of song;
And feeling still would only grieve,
To find he did his feelings wrong.
He loved, as minstrel elf must prove,
For song
itself was born of love;
So the young glow, and melting shower
Of April, animate the flower,-
Perfume, and suppliance of an hour,-
Too exquisitely loved to last,
Such curse upon the lyre is cast.
Brief must they feel, who feel the spell
Of love too sensitively well;
As fires of sudden vividness
Exhausted by their own excess.
And such the wreath his passion braided,
For many a bosom bright but vain :
Like cistus bloom, scarce blown till faded,
Scarce faded till full-blown again!
Short-lived alike the bliss and pain,
Thus still adored, he still endured,
Wandering for ever, never cured.
His was indeed such wayward doom,
As seldom 'gainst man's sins is hurl'd;
His horoscope was dash'd with gloom,
His cloud came with him to the world,
And clipp'd him round, and weigh'd him down,
A deep, revokeless malison!
I KNEW thee not! then wherefore gaze
Upon thy silent shadow there,
Which so imperfectly portrays
The form thy features used to wear?
Yet have I often look'd 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,
Witness'd, 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 harrow'd soul,
Too little school'd 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;
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