As if she would blend her soul with his
In a deep and long-imprinted kiss;
So fondly the panting camel flies,
Where the glassy vapour cheats his eyes;
And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest,
And the infant shrieks in its mother's breast-
And though her dying voice be mute,
Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute,
And though the glow of her cheek be fled,
And her pale lips cold as the marble dead,
Her eye still beams unwonted fires
With a woman's love and a saint's desires;
And her last fond lingering look is given,
To the love she leaves, and then to heaven;
As if she would bear that love away
To a purer world and a brighter day.
He is come from the land of the sword and shrine,
From the sainted battles of Palestine ;
The snow plumes wave o'er his victor crest-
Like a glory the red cross hangs at his breast;
The courser is black as black can be,
Save the brow-star, white as the foam of the sea.
And he wears a scarf of broidery rare,
The last love-gift of his lady fair:
It bore for device a cross and a dove,
And the words, "I am vow'd to my God and my love!"
He comes not back the same that he went,
For his sword has been tried, and his strength has
His golden hair has a deeper brown,
And his brow has caught a darker frown,
And his lip hath lost its boyish red,
And the shade of the south o'er his cheek is spread;
But stately his steps, and his bearing high,
And wild the light of his fiery eye,
And proud in the lists were the maiden bright
Who might claim the Knight of the Cross for her
knight;
But he rides for the home he has pined to see,
In the court, in the camp, in captivity.
He reach'd the castle-the gate was thrown
Open and wide, but he stood there alone:
He enter'd the door-his own step was all
That echoed within the deserted hall:
He stood on the roof of the ancient tower,
And for banner there waved one pale wall-flower;
And for sound of the trumpet and sound of the horn,
Came the scream of the owl on the night-wind borne;
And the turrets were falling, the vassals were flown,
And the bat ruled the halls he had thought his own.
His heart throbb'd high; oh, never again
Might he soothe with sweet thoughts his spirit's pain!
He never might think on his boyish years
Till his eyes grew dim with those sweet warm tears Which hope and memory shed when they meetThe grave of his kindred was at his feet.
He stood alone, the last of his race,
With the cold wide world for his dwelling-place:
The home of his fathers, gone to decay,-
All but their memory was pass'd away;
No one to welcome, no one to share
The laurel he no more was proud to wear!
He came in the pride of his war-success
But to weep over very desolateness.
They pointed him to a barren plain,
Where his fathers, his brothers, his kinsmen, were
They show'd him the lowly grave where slept
The maiden whose scarf he so truly had kept;
But they could not show him one living thing
To which his wither'd heart could cling.
Amid the warriors of Palestine
Is one, the first in the battle line;
It is not for glory he seeks the field,
For a blasted tree is upon his shield,
And the motto he bears is, "I fight for a grave:" He found it-that warrior has died with the brave!
ADDRESS TO WOMAN.
SYLPH of the blue and beaming eye!
The Muse's fondest wreaths are thine,-
The youthful heart beats warm and high,
And joys to own thy power divine!
Thou shinest on the flowery path
Of youth-and all its pleasures there;→
Thou soothest man, whene'er he hath
An eye of gloom-a brow of care!
To youth, thou art the early morn,
With "light, and melody, and song,"
To beam around; each scene adorn;
And swiftly speed his time along.
To man, thou art the gift of Heaven,
A boon for regions bright above,
His lot how dark, had ne'er been given
To him the light of woman's love!
When o'er his dark'ning brow the storm
Is gathering in its power and might,
The radiant beam of woman's form
Breaks through the cloud, and all is light:
When dire Disease prepares her wrath
To pour in terror from above,
How gleams upon his gloomy path
The glowing light of woman's love!
When all around is clear and bright,
And pleasure lends her fairest charm,
And man, enraptured with delight,
Feels, as he views, his bosom warm;
Why glows his heart with joy profuse,
And all his deeds his rapture prove?
It is, because the scene he views
Through the bright rays of woman's love!
O woman! thine is still the power,
Denied to all but only thee,
To chase away the clouds that lower
To darken life's eventful sea.
Thou light of man! his only joy
Beneath a wide and boundless sky!
Long shall thy praise his tongue employ,
Sylph of the blue and beaming eye!
THE MINSTREL'S HOUR.
WHEN day is done, and clouds are low,
And flowers are honey-dew,
And Hesper's lamp begins to glow
Along the western blue,
And homeward wing the turtle-doves,
Then comes the hour the Minstrel loves.
Far in the dimness curtain'd round,
He hears the echoes all
Of rosy vale, or grassy mound,
Or distant waterfall;
And shapes are on his dreaming sight,
That keep their beauty for the night.
And still, as shakes the sudden breeze
The forest's deep'ning shade,
He hears on Tuscan evening seas
The silver serenade !
Or, to the field of battle borne,
Swells at the sound of trump and horn.
The star that peeps the leaves between,
To him is but the light
That from some lady's bower of green
Shines on her pilgrim knight,
That feels her spell around him twine,
And hastens home from Palestine.
O, if some wand'ring peasant's song
Come sweeten'd from the vale,
He hears the stately mitred throng
Around the altar's pale;
Or sees the dark-eyed nuns of Spain,
Bewitching, blooming, young, in vain.
And thus he thinks the hour away
In sweet unworldly folly;
And loves to see the shades of
That feed his melancholy:
Finding sweet speech and thought in all,
Star, leaf, wind, song, and waterfall!
AN aged Widow, with one only child,
And even he was far away at sea:
Narrow and mean the street wherein she dwelt,
And low and small the room; but still it had
A look of comfort: on the white-wash'd walls
Were rang'd her many ocean treasures-shells,
Some like the snow, and some pink, with a blush
Caught from the sunset on the waters; plumes
From the bright pinions of the Indian birds;
Long dark sea-weeds, and black and crimson berries,
Were treasured with the treasuring of the heart.
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