And she to whom it once was given, I hear thy voice, I see thy smile, And she who chains a wild bird's wing So, lady, take the leaf that falls, To all but thee unseen, unknown; In stillness read, in darkness seal, Stanzas. STRANGE! that one lightly whispered tone Than all the sounds that kiss the earth, I look upon the fair blue skies, And naught but empty air I see; But when I turn me to thine eyes, It seemeth unto me Ten thousand angels spread their wings Within those little azure rings. The lily hath the softest leaf That ever western breeze hath fanned, That little hand to me doth yield O lady! there be many things That seem right fair, below, above; Lines by a Clerk. OH! I did love her dearly, When she took my pretty things. But her heart has grown as icy As a fountain in the fall, And her love, that was so spicy, It did not last at all. I gave her once a locket, It was filled with my own And she put it in her pocket He offered it to me, I do not now complain, They were earned with toil and sorrow, But I never told her that, And now I have to borrow, And want another hat. Think, think, thou cruel Emma, When thou shalt hear my woe, And know my sad dilemma, That thou hast made it so. Look, look upon this hole, And found my idol,-thee. Had bowed a soul before it, Thine eye was on the censer, And not the hand that bore it. The Philosopher to bis Love. The very flowers that bend and meet, The rainbow, Heaven's own forehead's braid, How few that love us have we found! Each living in the other's heart, Our course unknown, our hope to be Yet mingled in the distant sea. But Ocean coils and heaves in vain, Alas! one narrow line is drawn, The Poet's Lot. Though muses round thy trundle-bed Their broidered tissue weave not. The poet's future holds No civic wreath above him; Nor slated roof, nor varnished chaise, Nor wife nor child to love him. Maid of the village inn, Who workest woe on satin, (The grass in black, the graves in green, The epitaph in Latin,) Trust not to them who say, In stanzas, they adore thee; rather sleep in churchyard clay, Child of the ploughshare, O smile; Boy of the counter, grieve not, With urn and cherub o'er thee ! To a Blank Sheet of paper. Unknowing what may stain thee yet,— Who can thy unborn meaning scan? Love may light on thy snowy cheek, Satire may lift his bearded lance, Forestalling Time's slow-moving scythe, And, scattered on thy little field, Disjointed bards may writhe. Perchance a vision of the night, Some grizzled spectre, gaunt and thin, Or sheeted corpse, may stalk along, Or skeleton may grin ! If it should be in pensive hour Some sorrow-moving theme I try, Ah, maiden, how thy tears will fall, For all I doom to die! But if in merry mood I touch Thy leaves, then shall the sight of thee Sow smiles as thick on rosy lips As ripples on the sea. The Weekly press shall gladly stoop The Daily steal thy shining ore, Thou hast no tongue, yet thou canst speak, Thou art the arena of the wise, The noiseless battle-ground of fame; Take, then, this treasure to thy trust, To the Portrait of "A Gentleman." IN THE ATHENÆUM GALLERY. Ir may be so,-perhaps thou hast I will not blame thee for thy face, That thing thou fondly deem'st a nose, In spite of all the cold world's scorn, Those eyes,-among thine elder friends, No matter, if a man can see, Thy mouth, that fissure in thy face, I know thou hast a wife at home, That wife sits fearless by thy side, Above thy mantel is a hook,- She begged thee not to let it go, She wept, and breathed a trembling prayer It was a bitter sight to see That picture torn away; It was a solemn thought to think What all her friends would say ! And often in her calmer hours, Upon its long-deserted hook The absent portrait seems. |