Mary Ann Browne

Impromptu

On the origin of the Red rose

The Rose that blooms in blushing crimson bright,
As Poets' legends tell us, once was white :
It turn'd its modest face towards the sky,
Pure and unstain'd by any earthly dye ;
It ceas'd that spotless look to heaven to raise,
And downwards on a streamlet fix'd its gaze ;
It saw its ivory petals mirror'd there,
And blush'd to see itself so very fair ;
The consciousness of beauty changed its hue,
And the white Rose the lovely red one grew. 

Friendship

Friendship is that pure hallow'd light
    That warms--but burns not with its rays ;
It is not passion's maddening flight --
    It is not frenzy's frantic blaze.

It is the day-beam of the soul --
    The calm content within the breast--
Each angry passion to control,
    And lull each anxious care to rest.

As flies the magnet to the pole --
    The same in darkness clouds and dearth,
So turns congenial soul to soul,
    And Friendship's sunny light hath birth.

And when our course is nearly done,
    And all our earthly trials past,
We turn to Friendship's setting sun,
    And see it smiling to the last.

To my Grandmother, on completing her Eightieth year

And thou art grown old, and thy beauty is fled,
    And the hey-day of life and enjoyment is o'er :
On thy once nut-brown locks Time his snow-show'r hath shed,
    And thine eyes are grown dim, and thou now art fourscore.

Yet think not we love thee the less, for the set
    Of the sun of thy beauty, that once shone so fair ;
That orb is below the horizon,-- and yet
    Its beams shed a lustre and brilliancy there.

The morning may shine all unclouded and bright,
    And the sun in his glory all fair may arise ;
But it has not the glow that the farewell of light
    Can shed on the breast of the evening skies.

And so, tho' the gay face of beauty is flown,
    And the joys of thy youth are all faded away ;
The remembrance of kind acts is over thee thrown,
    And angels shall hail thee to mansions of day. 

Stanzas

Hast thou not seen when winter hath bound
    In icy chains the river ;
When not a flower adorn'd the ground,
    And nature seem'd sleeping for ever ;
When the earth had thrown off her robe of green
Hast thou not gazed on such a scene ?

Hast thou not sometimes found a bud,
    When that dark season prevaded,
That over the snow that lay round it stood,
    Tho' every other was faded ? --
And did'st thou not prize it, in that dark hour,
More than if blown in a summer bow'r ?

Hast thou not known an hour of woe,
     When sorrow of peace had bereft thee ;
When thy heart to the world was as cold as the snow,
    And not one blessing seem'd left thee ? --
Hath not a hope sprung up in thy mind
That still could bloom thro' the tempest unkind ?

Yes ;--that heav'nly hope will still cling
    Round the heart, and will never forsake it,
Prized far more than in life's young spring ;
    And tho' sorrow should well nigh break it,
Still would Hope's flower unblasted be placed --
A blossoming bud in a desolate waste.

Hast thou not, on a winter's night,
    Oft on the stars been gazing ?
Have they not seem'd to shed fairer light,
    As if their orbs brighter were blazing ? --
And hast thou not forgot, in their glow,
The stormy world that lay below ?

Is it not thus with the broken heart,
    That from earthly joy is riven ?
Do not the thoughts of the world depart,
    When that heart is fix'd on heaven ? --
Yes ;-- when the soul lies in sorrow and night,
Then is the prospect of heav'n most bright.

Oh believe not, My Dearest

Oh, believe not, my dearest, I ever could leave thee,
    Or cause thee to weep when life sinks in decay ;
Oh, think not, my love, that I e'er could deceive thee :--
    The sun brightest beams at the closing of day.

As, the ivy encircles the ruin'd old cloister,
    And clings all the closer the nearer its end ;
So thee in my arms, love, I fondly will foster,
    And still prove myself thine unchangeable friend.

Oh, believe not, my love, when thine head is grown hoary,
    I'll leave thee for those in the bloom of their youth ;
The snow of the locks is a bright crown of glory,
    When found in the way of the sun-beam of truth.

But believe that I'll love and most fondly will cherish,
    And, as time steals upon us, but more will adore ;
As roses scent sweetest when nearest to perish,
    My passion more fragrant shall burn than before.

The Ivy in Winter

I love to see the ivy wind
    Its peaceful way around the tree ; --
I love to see its chaplet twined
    When all around is winterly.

When summer flowers have ceased to bloom --
    When other leaves around are strown --
When the earth seems a mighty-tomb,
    That ivy flourishes alone.

When Nature's face hath lost its charms--
    When summer sun-beams cease to bless,
It climbs that tree's rude leafless arms,
    Subduing it by gentleness.

Stanzas

Written in a copy of Paradise Lost, with illustrations, by John Martin, ESQ.

        POET of glorious dreams!
I gaze upon thy page with deep delight,
Feeling as if the rush of mighty streams
        Dazzled my sight.

        Poet! what soul save thine
Was ever filled with such imaginings?
Who ever sought so closely to entwine
        Earthly with hidden things?

        Is there a brain on earth,
In which such gorgeous fancies e'er have wrought?

        There is--turn to this page,
And look on the rich visions pictured there;
An equal genius, in an after age,
        Hath risen, thy fame to share.

    Poet! thoudidst but give
The outline of the beings of thy brain;
Painter!'t wasthineto bid them rise, and live,
        And o'er our senses reign.

        For there is a strong spell
In their deep, voiceless language to our hearts,--
We gaze upon them till our bosoms swell,
        And the slow tear-drop starts.

    Painter! thy heart is cast
In the same heavenly mould as was his own;
From him to thee his mighty spirit passed,
        That thou might'st take its tone;

        And seize the thoughts, that were
In quick creation thronging in that soul,
And subject all their wild and feverish stir
        To thy control.

        Thy name shall ever be
Mingled with his, beside his hallowed shrine;
And glory such as his, immortally,
        Painter, is thine!

Noon by the Sea Side

QUIET is the broad Ocean--wide between
My footsteps and his ebbing tides, the sand
Lies damp, and glittering with dark wreaths of weed,
And little yeasty flakes of palest foam
Amidst them--disappearing in the glare
Of the hot sun, or scattered on the sand,
As some light, wanton breath of air awakes
A moment, then is still in sleep again.
Far off, beyond the line of yellow sand,
Lie the dark group of vessels, with their sails
Spread, ready to take prisoner the first wind
That, with the rising tide, shall come to bear
Them safe to harbour.  In those vessels, now
All is at rest;--the seaman on the deck,

Whose heart leaped joyfully at thought of home,
Listlessly leans against the tapering mast,
Now gazing up towards the hot blue sky,
Marking the progress of the stately sun,
Now looking to the shadowy line of shore,
And with a quickened pulse again to heaven.
Yes--when the sun shall drop in yonder west,
The evening tide, and cool, fresh wind shall bring
In triumph to their homes, the weary crew.
How the sea glitters! as if all night's stars,
Driven from the heavens by the triumphant sun,
Had laid them there to sleep with open eyes,
To win the gaze of wanderers like me,
Down from the full proud blaze of day to them.

Quiet is all the shore--the fisher goes
Lazily on with his unladen creel,
Home from the town, marking the heavy sand

With slow, deep footsteps.  Here a merry boy
Hath gathered up a heap of shining shells,
And builded him a fairy grotto, thatched
With dripping sea-weed; but o'erwearied now
He hath stretched him on the sand beside his task,
Not yet quite finished; still one little hand
Is grasping the pink shells, and one is laid
Behind his head, its pillow; sleep hath come
And wooed him to be her's, and watches him,
Like an invisible spirit; the hot sunshine
Falls on his brow, but wakes him not.  I gaze,
But I'll not wake him--the deep, even breath
Tells of the slumber of a heart unstilled
By aught save weariness of spirit--farewell
Sleep, child! l would not wake thee for a world,
For few such slumbers more on earth are thine;
So beautiful, so peaceful, and so pure!

To The Memory of Sarah Amelia

The lamented wife of the Rev. H. J. Dawes, of Rochester

PASSED from the earth like a summer flower,
        Even in its fullest bloom,
Passed like the glittering drops of a shower,
        And hidden in the tomb.
Yet the flower shall rise again from earth,
With a fairer hue and a brighter birth,
        And a lovelier perfume;
And the drop is not lost, but perchance shall be
Turned to a pearl in the boundless sea--
            The ocean of eternity.

Gone from her home, like a snowy dove
        From its calm and happy nest;
Gone from her children's gentle love,
        And her husband's sheltering breast:
Yet the dove its snowy wing is folding,
On yonder height the sun beholding;
        And she is with the blest,
In a land where no wild blast shall come,
To ruffle again her stainless plume.

        Mourn we, then, that we have lost
        A light, who led us on,
When on life's stormy billows tost?
        Aye, mourn, for she is gone!
Weep for ourselves the bitter loss,
But not for her--dark clouds might cross
        The path where once she shone,
But now, far off from human sight,
Her soft beams mingle in heaven's own light.