TO MY MOTHER. Because I feel that, in the Heavens above, You who are more than mother unto me, you, In setting my Virginia's spirit free. My mother-my own mother, who died early, Was dearer to my soul than its own soul-life. Maria, thou hast heard my hymn! With sweet hopes of thee and thine! AN ENIGMA. "Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce, "Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet. Through all the flimsy things we see at once, As easily as through a Naples bonnet— Trash of all trash!-how can a lady don it! Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff,Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it." And, veritably, Sol is right enough. The general tuckermanities are arrant But this is, now,—you may depend upon it,Stable, opaque, immortal,—all by dint Of the dear names that lie concealed within't. THE HAUNTED PALACE. In the greenest of our valleys Never seraph spread a pinion Banners yellow, glorious, golden, (This all this-was in the olden Time long ago,) And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A winged odor went away. Wanderers in that happy valley, Through two luminous windows, saw Spirits moving musically, To a lute's well-tuned law, Round about a throne where, sitting (Porphyrogene!) In state his glory well befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen. And all with pearl and ruby glowing Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling ever more, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king. But evil things, in robes of sorrow, And travelers, now, within that valley, While, like a ghastly rapid river, A hideous throng rush out forever And laugh, but smile no more. |