But clouds shall darken that brow of snow, And sorrow blight thy bosom's glow. I know by that spirit so haughty and high, I know by that brightly-flashing eye, That, maiden, there's that within thy breast, Which hath marked thee out for a soul unblest: The strife of love, with pride shall wring Thy youthful bosom's tenderest string; And the cup of sorrow, mingled for thee, Shall be drained to the dregs in agony. Yes, maiden, yes, I read in thine eye, A dark, and a doubtful prophecy. Thou shalt love, and that love shall be thy curse; Thou wilt need no heavier, thou shalt feel no worse I see the cloud and the tempest near; The voice of the troubled tide I hear; The torrent of sorrow, the sea of grief, The rushing waves of a wretched life; Thy bosom's bark on the surge I see, And, maiden, thy loved one is there with thee. Not a star in the heavens, not a light on the wave! Maiden, I've gazed on thine early grave. When I am cold, and the hand of Death Hath crowned my brow with an icy wreath; When the dew hangs damp on this motionless lip; When this eye is closed in its long, last sleep, Then, maiden, pause, when thy heart beats high, And think on my last sad prophecy.
(Written in her sixteenth year.)
I have told a maiden of hours of grief,
Of a bleeding heart, of a joyless life;
I have read her a tale of future woe;
I have marked her a pathway of sorrow below;
I have read on the page of her blooming cheek,
A darker doom than my tongue dare speak.
Now, maiden, for thee, I will turn mine eye
To a brighter path through futurity.
The clouds shall pass from thy brow away,
And bright be the closing of life's long day;
The storms shall murmur in silence to sleep,
And angels around thee their watches shall keep;
Thou shalt live in the sunbeams of love and delight,
And thy life shall flow on till it fades into night;
And the twilight of age shall come quietly on;
Thou wilt feel, yet regret not, that daylight hath flown;
For the shadows of evening shall melt o'er thy soul,
And the soft dreams of Heaven around thee shall roll,
Till sinking in sweet, dreamless slumber to rest,
In the arms of thy loved one, still blessing and blest,
Thy soul shall glide on to its harbour in Heaven.
Every tear wiped away - every error forgiven.
(Written in her sixteenth year.)
Wilt thou rashly unveil the dark volume of fate?
It is open before thee, repentance is late;
Too late, for behold, o'er the dark page of woe,
Move the days of thy grief, yet unnumbered below.
There is one, whose sad destiny mingles with thine;
He was formed to be happy - he dared to repine;
And jealousy mixed in his bright cup of bliss,
And the page of his fate grew still darker than this:
He gazed on thee, maiden, he met thee, and passed;
But better for thee had the Siroc's fell blast
Swept by thee, and wasted and faded thee there,
So youthful, so happy, so thoughtless, so fair.
And mark ye his broad brow? 'tis noble; 't is high;
And mark ye the flash of his dark, eagle-eye?
When the wide wheels of time have encircled the
When the banners of night in the sky are unfurled;
Then, maiden, remember the tale I have told,
For farther I may not, I dare not unfold.
The rose on yon dark page is sear and decayed,
And thus, e'en in youth, shall thy fondest hopes fade;
'Tis an emblem of thee, broken, withered, and pale-
Nay, start not, and blanch not, though dark be the tale;
An hour-glass half-spent, and a tear-bedewed token,
A heart, withered, wasted, and bleeding and broken,
All these are the emblems of sorrow to be;
I will veil the page, maiden, in pity to thee.
(Written in her fifteenth year.)
His faults were great, his virtues less,
His mind a burning lamp of Heaven;
His talents were bestowed to bless,
But were as vainly lost as given.
His was a harp of heavenly sound,
The numbers wild, and bold, and clear;
But ah! some demon, hovering round,
Tuned its sweet chords to Sin and Fear.
His was a mind of giant mould,
Which grasped at all beneath the skies;
And his, a heart, so icy cold,
That virtue in its recess dies.
(Written in her sixteenth year.)
I have passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night, I have walked the wild winds in the morning's broad light;
I have paused o'er the bower where the Infant lay sleeping, And I've left the fond mother in sorrow and weeping.
My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night Which withers and moulders the flower in its light,
Fell silently o'er the warm cheek in its glow,
And I left it there blighted, and wasted, and low;
I culled the fair bud, as it danced in its mirth,
And I left it to moulder and fade on the earth.
I paused o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joy
Rose soft through the mist, and ascended on high;
The fairest were there, and I paused in my flight,
And the deep cry of wailing broke wildly that night.
I stay not to gather the lone one to earth,
I spare not the young in their gay dance of mirth,
But I sweep them all on to their home in the grave,
I stop not to pity - I stay not to save.
I paused in my pathway, for beauty was there;
It was beauty too death-like, too cold, and too fair!
The deep purple fountain seemed melting away,
And the faint pulse of life scarce remembered to play;
She had thought on the tomb, she was waiting for me,
I gazed, I passed on, and her spirit was free.
The clear stream rolled gladly, and bounded along,
With ripple, and murmur, and sparkle, and song;
The minstrel was tuning his wild harp to love,
And sweet, and half-sad were the numbers he wove.
I passed, and the harp of the bard was unstrung;
O'er the stream which rolled deeply, 't was recklessly
The minstrel was not! and I passed on alone,
O'er the newly-raised turf, and the rudely-carved
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