Part 2

Love knoweth every form of air, And every shape of earth, And comes, unbidden, everywhere, Like thought's mysterious birth. The moonlit sea and the sunset sky Are written with Love's words, And you hear his voice unceasingly, Like song, in the time of birds.

He peeps into the warrior's heart, From the tip of a stooping plume, And the serried spears, and the many men, May not deny him room. He'll come to his tent in the weary night, And be busy in his dream, And he'll float to his eye in morning light, Like a fay on a silver beam.

He hears the sound of the hunter's gun, And rides on the echo back, And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf And flits in his woodland track. The shade of the wood and the sheen of the river, The cloud and the open sky,— He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver, Like the light of your very eye.

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He blurs the print of the scholar's book, And intrudes in the maiden's prayer, And profanes the cell of the holy man In the shape of a lady fair. In the darkest night and the bright daylight, In earth, and sea, and sky, In every home of human thought, Will Love be lurking nigh.

DESOLATE.

The day goes down red, darkling, The moaning waves dash out the light, And there is not a star of hope sparkling On the threshold of my night.

Wild winds of Autumn go wailing Up the valley and over the hill, Like yearning ghosts round the world sailing, In search of the old love still.

A fathomless sea is rolling O'er the wreck of the bravest bark; And my pain-muffled heart is tolling Its dumb peal down in the dark.

The waves of a mighty sorrow Have whelméd the pearl of my life; And there cometh to me no morrow Shall solace this desolate strife.

Gone are the last faint flashes, Set is the sun of my years; And over a few poor ashes I sit in my darkness and tears.

LINGER, O GENTLE TIME.

Linger, O gentle Time, Linger, O radiant grace of bright to-day! Let not the hours' chime Call thee away, But linger near me still with fond delay.

Linger, for thou art mine! What dearer treasures can the Future hold? What sweeter flowers than thine Can she unfold? What secret tell my heart thou hast not told?

Oh, linger in thy flight! For shadows gather round, and should we part, A dreary, stirless night May fill my heart. Then pause and linger yet ere thou depart.

Linger, I ask no more. Thou art enough forever—thou alone. What Future can restore When thou art flown, All that I hold for thee and call my own?

BONNIE BESSIE.

I love Bessie and she loves me— Bonnie Bessie, who lives by the sea, Sweet and lovely as lass can be; White and rosy, with eyes of blue, Luminous eyes, like globes of dew,— You see the morning firmament through! Light and grace in her motion free, Sweetest lady of all I see, For I love Bessie and she loves me!

Some have houses, and some have stocks, And some have treasure in veinéd rocks, And some heap gold in an iron box; Cattle and horses and sheep have some; For another his great ships go and come, And a hundred mills for his brother hum; But I, who have only an eye to see And a heart to bless her, can happier be, For I love Bessie and she loves me!

One flaunts a title before his name, And one behind his,—both for the same,— Baggage checked to the Station of Fame! Office and honors, ribbons and fees, Some for those, and others for these, Wrestle and run in the mire to their knees; But I, with only a name that she Makes musical, can happier be, For I love Bessie and she loves me!

My lady is eight years old to-day, A stave of music that danced away In a fairy's form,—a morning ray Involved in vapors of misty pearl, That flushed and throbbed in a dainty whirl, Till it stepped to earth a living girl, With the sun-steeped mist yet rippling free, For her golden hair! my bliss to be, For I love Bessie and she loves me!

I see by the glass that Time has tossed Over my locks his powdery frost; But whoot, old man, your labor is lost! For every day you lessen the way Between me and my delicate fay, My bonny, bounding Bessie Grey; Years may whiten what white may be, But the heart she lightens is young as she, For I love Bessie and she loves me!

THE CONFIDANTE.

I.

A letter, Lucy? for me to read? Ah, tell-tale blushes, what secret now? I am but teasing. There, never heed, Nor blur with furrows that little brow.

II.

Yes, as I thought. 'Tis the old, old tale: He loves you; dreams of you night and day; With hope he brightens, with dread turns pale,— Truths, dear sister, or babblings gray.

III.

Love lives forever, if heart-born, real; But fades like the roses I've now just clipped, When told by one who your peace would steal, Then flit to some blossom as honey-lipped.

IV.

To you each word here is truth's own mint: To me, once cheated, there's room for doubt; You, sister, could him give your love _sans_ stint— What, tears and trembling? a dawning pout?

V.

Yes, as I thought. 'Tis the old, old tale: He loves you; dreams of you night and day; With hope he brightens, with dread turns pale,— Truths, dear sister, or babblings gray.

VI.

Well, darling, believe then, and cynic thought Shall fade away in your love's sweet sun. He is not worldly nor fashion-taught; I would not darken new light begun.

VII.

His words are manly; an honest ring Sounds in each sentence. Ah! Lucy, live Long in the love that can never wing, Whilst I—well, yes—I have yet to give.

SOMEBODY'S WAITING FOR SOMEBODY.

Rainy and rough sets the day,— There's a heart beating for somebody; I must be up and away,— Somebody's anxious for somebody. Thrice hath she been to the gate, Thrice hath she listened for somebody. Midst the night, stormy and late, Somebody's waiting for somebody.

There'll be a comforting fire, There'll be a welcome for somebody; One, in her neatest attire, Will look at the table for somebody. Though the stars fled from the west, There is a star yet for somebody, Lighting the home he loves best, Warming the bosom of somebody.

There'll be a coat o'er the chair, There will be slippers for somebody; There'll be a wife's tender care,— Love's fond embracement for somebody; There'll be the little one's charms,— Soon 't will be wakened for somebody. When I have both in my arms, Oh! but how blest will be somebody.

ELISE.

I watched him through the lattice As he went down the street, And all my heart went with him In many a wild pulse-beat.

'Twas in the gentle spring-time, At the vanishing of snow, And my sullen, stagnant nature Began to bloom and blow—

Began to feel within it Rise a strange, unearthly power, As the perfume rises softly In the newly-opened flower.

He brought me buds and blossoms, He brought me gladness, too; And I told him—told him truly, When he came to woo.

A heaven on earth, my master! My gracious lord, my king! I knew thee when I saw thee, And thy voice made silence ring.

The silences within me, That never had been broke, Passed into mystic music; They heard thee, and awoke.

The world says I am fickle, And that my heart is stone, But I feel through all my being That my soul and his are one.

His greatness ever lifts me Where holier light is given. How weak are thanks for blessings Which shall endure in heaven!

SOMEBODY.

Somebody's courting somebody, Somewhere or other to-night; Somebody's whispering to somebody, Somebody's listening to somebody, Under this clear moonlight.

Near the bright river's flow, Running so still and slow, Talking so soft and low, She sits with somebody.

Pacing the ocean's shore, Edged by the foaming roar, Words never used before Sound sweet to somebody.

Under the maple-tree, Deep though the shadow be, Plain enough they can see, Bright eyes has somebody.

No one sits up to wait, Though she is out so late, All know she's at the gate, Talking with somebody.

Tiptoe to parlor door, Two shadows on the floor, Moonlight, reveal no more, Susy and somebody.

Two, sitting side by side, Float with the ebbing tide,— "Thus, dearest, may we glide Through life," says somebody.

Somewhere, somebody Makes love to somebody, To-night.

A TRUE WOMAN.

She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food, For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller betwixt life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light.

FLOWERS, AND FLOWERS.

Beautiful flowers, In feathery bowers, Filling the air with a silent perfume; Sweet garden of roses, Your beauty discloses A charm to subdue the soul's sadness and gloom.

From rich parterre, Or where city air, Though dank and noisome, hath left you living, Ye come together In the summer weather, To praise His name who is ever giving.

Oh, the joy and grace That enrich the place Where your manifold tints and odors are spread! Bewitching and rare, Ye make the land fair As the Garden of Eden long mourned as dead.

Beautiful girls! England's fair pearls, Whose hands are lilies, whose cheeks are roses, These upturned faces Of flower-graces Are uttering sounds as their life disposes.

They lead you through Yon sunny blue, A link 'twixt earth and the angel-powers, And seem to say, Singing day by day, "God make you blossom and bloom like the flowers."

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meets in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face,— Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear, their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent— A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent.

MY SUNSHINE.

Like a cluster of sunbeams her hair is, As blue as the sky-tints her eye, And I think of the Queen of the Fairies Whenever she passes me by; And if we had fays Flitting round nowadays, I should _fear_ she might fly far away Some day.

Sometimes I am puzzled with wonder, To know why the wings were left out; But I'm pleased that they made such a blunder, When the little one first came about; For if she had wings, And soft feathers and things, I should _know_ she would fly far away Some day.

I suspect, after all, she's but human; Yet an angel I couldn't love more. She's a sunshiny, sweet little woman, And her heart is a wide-open door. Oh, may never a sin, Through that door enter in! For I know she _will_ fly far away Some day.

A SLEEPING BEAUTY.

Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile! Though shut so close thy laughing eyes, Thy rosy lips still wear a smile, And move and breathe delicious sighs.

Ah! now soft blushes tinge her cheeks And mantle o'er her neck of snow; Ah! now she murmurs, now she speaks, What most I wish, and fear to know.

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps, Her fair hands folded on her breast; And now, how like a saint she sleeps, A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! Above control, Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee; And may the secret of thy soul Remain within its sanctuary!

THE LADY'S YES.

"Yes!" I answered you last night; "No!" this morning, sir, I say. Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day.

When the tabors played their best, Lamps above and laughs below, _Love me_ sounded like a jest, Fit for _yes_ or fit for _no_.

Call me false or call me free,— Vow, whatever light may shine, No man on thy face shall see Any grief for change on mine.

Yet the sin is on us both: Time to dance is not to woo; Wooer light makes fickle troth; Scorn of me recoils on you.

Learn to win a lady's faith Nobly, as the thing is high; Bravely, as for life and death,— With a loyal gravity.

Lead her from the festive boards, Point her to the starry skies, Guard her by your faithful words, Pure from courtship's flatteries.

By your truth she shall be true, Ever true, as wives of yore; And her Yes, once said to you, Shall be Yes forevermore.

A HEALTH.

I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone,— A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee Forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers; And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns,— The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh, my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone,— A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon: Her health! and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name.

WINIFRED'S HAIR.

Winifred, waking in the morning, Locks dishevelled, sighed, "Alas! Broken is the Venice-bodkin That you gave me—'twas of glass. All my auburn hair, henceforward, Shall be given to the wind." Ere the evening came, another's Net of pearl her hair confined.

Frail as the Venetian bauble I had thrust in Winifred's hair; Lo! the net now snapped asunder, Other hands had fastened there. Ere the moon's wide-blossomed petals On the breast of night had died, Net and bodkin both deserted, Winifred's glittering hair flowed wide!

Silver comb and silken fillet Next in turn the wild hair bound, Till at length the crown of wifehood Clasped its bands that hair around,— Golden crown of Love! displacing Girlhood's vain adornments there. Winifred never more shall alter, Now, the fashion of her hair.

IN THE ORGAN LOFT.

The dead in their ancient graves are still; There they've slept for many a year; The last faint sunbeams glance o'er the hill, Gilding the dry grass, tall and sere, And the foam of the babbling rill.

Into the church the ruddy light falls, Through rich stained windows, narrow and high; Pictures it paints on the old gray walls, Scenes from the days that have long gone by,— And hark! 'tis my Rosalie calls!

She calls my name,—I have heard it oft Just at the golden sun's decline; I answer the call, so sweet and soft; And, turning, see where her bright eyes shine, High up in the organ loft.

I pass the winding and narrow stair; The gallery door stands open wide; I know no shadow of pain or care, While darling Rosalie stands by my side, In the sunset light so fair.

What grand old hymns and chants we sang, Grand old chants that I loved so well! And the organ's tones,—how they pealed and rang, Piercing the heart, no tongue can tell With what a delicious pang!

Oh, those hours! what holy light Hovers around when their memories rise! Music, love, and the sunset bright, Tenderest glances from Rosalie's eyes, And a long, sweet kiss, for good-night!

A GARDEN IN HER FACE.

There is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies grow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do inclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which, when her lively laughter shows, They look like rose-buds filled with snow; Yet these no peer nor prince may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels' watch there still, Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand, Those sacred cherries to come nigh, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

WHEN STARS ARE IN THE QUIET SKIES.

When stars are in the quiet skies, Then most I pine for thee. Bend on me then thy tender eyes, As stars look on the sea! For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, Are stillest when they shine; Mine earthly love lies hushed in light Beneath the heaven of thine.

There is an hour when angels keep Familiar watch o'er men, When coarser souls are wrapped in sleep,— Sweet spirit, meet me then! There is an hour when holy dreams Through slumber fairest glide; And in that mystic hour, it seems Thou shouldst be by my side.

My thoughts of thee too sacred are For daylight's common beam: I can but know thee as my star, My angel, and my dream! When stars are in the quiet skies, Then most I pine for thee. Bend on me then thy tender eyes, As stars look on the sea!

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.

The time I've lost in wooing In watching and pursuing The light that lies In Woman's eyes, Has been my heart's undoing. Though Wisdom oft has sought me, I scorned the lore she brought me; My only books Were Woman's looks, And folly's all they taught me.

Her smiles when Beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted, Like him, the sprite, Whom maids by night Oft meet in glen that's haunted. Like him, too, Beauty won me But while her eyes were on me; If once their ray Was turned away, Oh, winds could not outrun me!

And are those follies going? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing? No,—vain, alas! th' endeavor From bonds so sweet to sever; Poor Wisdom's chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever.

NOT A MATCH.

Kitty, sweet and seventeen, Pulls my hair and calls me "Harry"; Hints that I am young and green, Wonders if I wish to marry. Only tell me what reply Is the best reply for Kitty? She's but seventeen, and _I_— I am forty,—more's the pity!

Twice at least my Kitty's age (Just a trifle over, maybe), I am sober, I am sage, Kitty nothing but a baby. She is merriment and mirth, I am wise and gravely witty; She's the dearest thing on earth, I am forty,—more's the pity!

She adores my pretty rhymes, Calls me "poet" when I write them; And she listens oftentimes Half an hour when I recite them. Let me scribble by the page Sonnet, ode, or lover's ditty; Seventeen is Kitty's age, I am forty,—more's the pity!

O SAW YE THE LASS?

O saw ye the lass wi' the bonny blue een? Her smile is the sweetest that ever was seen; Her cheek like the rose is, but fresher, I ween, She's the loveliest lassie that trips on the green. The home of my love is below in the valley, Where wild-flowers welcome the wandering bee; But the sweetest of flowers in that spot that is seen Is the maid that I love wi' the bonny blue een.

When night overshadows her cot in the glen, She'll steal out to meet her loved Donald again; And when the moon shines on the valley so green, I'll welcome the lass wi' the bonny blue een. As the dove that has wandered away from his nest Returns to the mate his fond heart loves the best, I'll fly from the world's false and vanishing scene, To my dear one, the lass wi' the bonny blue een.

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Transcriber's Notes

Minor punctuation and printer errors repaired.

Italic text is denoted by _underscores_