Onward that ship was gaily flying,
Its bosom the sailor's grave;
The breeze, 'mid the shrouds, in low notes, sighing Their requiem over the brave.
Fly on, fly on, thou lone vessel of death,
Fly on, with thy desolate crew;
For mermaids are twining a sea-weed wreath, 'Mong the red coral groves for you.
(Written in her fifteenth year.)
They told me of her history-her love
Was a neglected flame, which had consumed
The vase wherein it kindled. O how fraught
With bitterness is unrequited love!
To know that we have cast life's hope away
On a vain shadow!
Hers was a gentle passion, quiet, deep,
As a woman's love should be,
All tenderness and silence, only known
By the soft meaning of a downcast eye,
Which almost fears to look its timid thoughts;
A sigh, scarce heard; a blush, scarce visible,
Alone may give it utterance.-Love is
A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart,
When felt, as only woman love can feel!
Pure, as the snow-fall, when its latest shower
Sinks on spring-flowers; deep, as a cave-locked fountain;
And changeless as the cypress's green leaves;
And like them, sad! She nourished
Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed
A passion unconfessed, till he she loved
Was wedded to another.-Then she grew
Moody and melancholy; one alone
Had power to soothe her in her wanderings,
Her gentle sister;-But that sister died,
And the unhappy girl was left alone,
A maniac.-She would wander far, and shunned
Her own accustomed dwelling; and her haunt
Was that dead sister's grave: and that to her
Was as a home.
WHOSE SINGING RESEMBLED THAT OF AN ABSENT
(Written in her fifteenth year.)
Oh! touch the chord yet once again,
Nor chide me, though I weep the while;
Believe me, that deep seraph strain
Bore with it memory's moonlight smile.
It murmured of an absent friend;
The voice, the air, 't was all her own;
And hers those wild, sweet notes, which blend
In one mild, murmuring, touching tone.
And days and months have darkly passed,
Since last I listened to her lay;
And Sorrow's cloud its shade hath cast,
Since then, across my weary way.
Yet still the strain comes sweet and clear,
Like seraph-whispers, lightly breathing;
Hush, busy memory, Sorrow's tear
Will blight the garland thou art wreathing.
'Tis sweet, though sad-yes, I will stay,
I cannot tear myself away.
I thank thee, lady, for the strain,
The tempest of my soul is still;
Then touch the chord yet once again,
For thou canst calm the storm at will!
(Written in her sixteenth year.)
And can my simple harp be strung
To higher theme, to nobler end,
Than that of gratitude to thee,
To thee, my father and my friend?
I may not, cannot, will not say
All that a grateful heart would breathe; But I may frame a simple lay,
Nor Slander blight the blushing wreath
Yes, I will touch the string to thee,
Nor fear its wildness will offend;
For well I know that thou wilt be,
What thou hast ever been—a friend.
There are, whose cold and idle gaze
Would freeze the current where it flows;
But Gratitude shall guard the fount,
And Faith shall light it as it flows.
Then tell me, may I dare to twine,
While o'er my simple harp I bend,
This little offering for thee,
For thee, my father, and my friend?
A PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN MARY,
PAINTED SEVERAL CENTURIES SINCE.
(Written in her fifteenth year.)
Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell
Of book, of rosary, and bell;
Of cloistered nun, with brow of gloom,
Immured within her living tomb;
Of monks, of saints, and vesper-song,
Borne gently by the breeze along;
Of deep-toned organ's pealing swell;
Of Ave Marie, and funeral knell;
Of midnight taper, dim and small,
Just glimmering through the high-arched hall;
Of gloomy cell, of penance lone,
Which can for darkest deeds atone
Roll back, and lift the veil of night.
For I would view the anchorite.
Yes, there he sits, so sad, so pale,
Shuddering at Superstition's tale :
Crossing his breast with meagre hand,
While saints and priests, a motley band,
Arrayed before him, urge their claim.
To heal in the Redeemer's name;
To mount the saintly ladder, (made
By every monk, of every grade,
From portly abbot, fat and fair,
To yon lean starveling, shivering there,)
And mounting thus, to usher in
The soul, thus ransomed from its sin.
And tell me, hapless bigot, why,
For what, for whom did Jesus die,
If pyramids of saints must rise
To form a passage to the skies?
And think you man can wipe away
With fast and penance, day by day,
One single sin, too dark to fade
Before a bleeding Saviour's shade?
O ye of little faith, beware!
For neither shrift, nor saint, nor prayer,
Would aught avail ye without Him,
Beside whom saints themselves grow dim.
Roll back, thou tide of time, and raise
The faded forms of other days!
Yon time-worn picture, darkly grand,
The work of some forgotten hand,
Will teach thee half thy mazy way,
While Fancy's watch-fires dimly play.
Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell
Of secret charm, of holy spell,
Of Superstition's midnight rite,
Of wild Devotion's seraph flight,
Of Melancholy's tearful eye,
Of the sad votaress' frequent sigh,
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