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Yet unto thee, New England, still

Thy wandering sons shall stretch their arms,
And thy rude chart of rock and hill

Seem dearer than the land of palms;
Thy massy oak and mountain pine

More welcome than the banyan's shade;
And every free, blue stream of thine

Seem richer than the golden bed
Of oriental waves, which glow
And sparkle with the wealth below!



I Fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than

Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning

birds, And something more than melody dwells ever in her

words; The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each

flows As one may see the burdened bee forth issue from the


Affections are as thoughts to her, the measure of her

hours; Her feelings have the fragrance and the freshness of

young flowers;


And lonely passions changing oft, so fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns—the idol of past years.

Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the brain,

And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain;

But memory such as mine of her so very much endears,

When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon—
Her health! and would on earth there stood some more

of such a frame,
That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.



I Think of thee, when morning springs
From sleep with plumage bathed in dew,

And, like a young bird, lifts her wings
Of gladness on the welkin blue.

And when, at noon, the breath of love,
O'er flower and stream is wandering free,

And sent in music from the grove,
I think of thee—I think of thee.

I think of thee, when soft and wide
The evening spreads her robes of light,

And, like a young and timid bride,
Sits blushing in the arms of Night.

And when the moon's sweet crescent springs
In light o'er heaven's deep, waveless sea,

And stars are forth like blessed things,
I think of thee—I think of thee.

184 TO A LADY.

I think of thee ;—that eye of flame,
Those tresses falling bright and free,

That brow where "Beauty writes her name,''
On fancy rush;—I think of thee.

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