Anne C. Lynch

The Dying Sycamores
To _______.
To a Poet, Painter and Musician
To a Child.
Thoughts in a library
A Thought by the sea-shore
To an astronomer
Dedication From De Vigny
Lines to one who wished to read a poem I had written
On the Death of an Infant
Sonnet: Faith
Ode for the Fourth of July
TO Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The Dying Sycamores.

A beauty like young womanhood's
     Upon the green earth lies,
And June's sweet smile hath waked again
     All summer's harmonies.
 
The insects hum their dreamy song,
     The trees their honors wear,
And languid with its perfume spoils
     Sighs the voluptuous air.
 
A gorgeous wealth of leaf and bloom
     Enchants the dazzled sight;
And over earth and sky there smiles
     A Presence of delight.
 
From yon sad dying Sycamores,
     Alone a shadow falls, --
As from the ghastly form of Death,
     In Egypt's banquet-halls.
 
Against the soft blue sky they stand,
     Their naked limbs outspread,
And to the throbbing life around,
     They murmur of the dead.
 
Spring, with her soft and odorous breath,
     Hath sighed o'er them in vain,
Nor sun, nor dew, nor summer shower,
     Awakes their bloom again.
 
Oh stately monarchs of the wood,
     What blight hath o'er ye passed?
What kanker wastes your noble hearts?
     What spell is on ye cast?
 
I watch ye where a thousand forms
     With life and beauty glow,
Till half I deem that on ye lies
     Some weight of human woe.
 
Sad emblems are ye of those hearts
     In this fair world of ours,
Who live unloving and unloved,
     Oh dying Sycamores.

TO _______.

Give me but the energy,
     That guides thy dauntless will;
Give me but thy ardent hope,
     That no reverse can chill;
 
Thy buoyant soul, that on life's sea,
     No billows can o'erwhelm,
When Faith sits smiling through the clouds,
     And Reason holds the helm;
 
Give me these qualities of thine,
     In such a meet alliance,
And I, like thee, upon the fates
     Will smile a calm defiance.

To a Poet, Painter and Musician

Three Muses one day
Had a serious fray,
        Concerning a youth who had wandered astray,
        And fast up Parnassus was taking his way.
They each urged a claim
Each gave him her name,
        And each vowed to crown him with chaplets of fame.
Frown followed retort,
Till to cut it all short,
        They decided to carry the case up to court.
Appllo averred,
That from all he had heard,
        The claim of exclusiveness seemed quite absurd;
And he gave his decree
That this soul should be free
        For the "joint occupancy" of the whole three.

To a Child

I love to look on that eye of blue,
For tears have not yet worn a channel through;
And the few bright summers since thy birth,
Have left thee a stranger still on earth.

A stranger -- and all, to thine untaught eyes,
Is bright with the hues of paradise.
The rapture of being thrills thy frame,
And sorrow thou know'st not even by name.

Thy innocent thoughts, unswayed by art,
Gush from the depths of thy guileless heart;
Like a harp when the wandering breezes sigh,
Answering each touch with melody.

I would, sweet one, I might wish for thee,
That a stranger thus thou shouldst ever be;
That time might not lift the enchanted veil,
Nor breathe in thine ear his mournful tale.

But those who are bid to this feast of life,
Must drink the cup, -- must abide the strife: --
Then it were better to wish for thee,
Strength for the conflict, and victory.

Thoughts in a library

Speak low -- tread softly through these halls;
     Here genius lives enshrined, --
Here reign, in silent majesty,
     The monarchs of the mind.
 
A mighty spirit-host they come,
     From every age and clime;
Above the buried wrecks of years,
     They breast the tide of Time.
 
And in their presence-chamber here,
     They hold their regal state,
And round them throng a noble train,
     The gifted and the great.
 
Oh, child of Earth! when round thy path
     The storms of life arise,
And when thy brothers pass thee by,
     With stern, unloving eyes, --
 
Here shall the Poets chant for thee
     Their sweetest, loftiest lays;
And Prophets wait to guide thy steps
     In wisdom's pleasant ways.
 
Come, with these God-anointed kings,
     Be thou companion here;
And in thy mighty realm of mind,
     Thou shalt go forth a peer!

A Thought by the sea-shore.

"Even in our ashes live their wonted fires."
 
Bury me by the sea,
        When on my heart the hand of Death is press'd.
        If the soul lingers ere she join the bless'd,
And haunts awhile her clay,
        Then 'mid the forest shades I would not lie,
        For the green leaves, like me, would droop and die.
 
Nor 'mid the homes of men,
        The haunts of busy life, would I be laid:
        There ever was I lone, and my vexed shade
Would sleep unquiet then:
        The surging tide of life might overwhelm
        The shadowy boundaries of the silent realm.
 
No sculptured marble pile,
        To bear my name, be reared upon my breast, --
        Beneath its weight my free soul would not rest;
But let the blue sky smile,
        The changeless stars look lovingly on me,
        And let me sleep beside this sounding sea --
 
This ever-beating heart
        Of the great Universe; here would the soul
        Plume her soiled pinions for the final goal,
Ere she should thence depart, --
        Here would she fit her for the high abode, --
        Here, by the sea, she would be nearer God.
 
I feel His presence now,
        Thou mightiest of his vassals, as I stand
        And watch beside thee on the sparkling sand,
Thy crested billows bow;
        And, as thy solemn chant swells through the air,
        My spirit, awed, joins in thy ceaseless prayer.
 
Life's fitful fever o'er,
        Here then would I repose, majestic sea;
        E'en now faint glimpses of eternity
Come o'er me on thy shore:
        My thoughts from thee to highest themes are given,
        As thy deep distant blue is lost in Heaven.

TO an astronomer.

Upon the Professor we'll waste not a glance,
     Since he has no eyes for us poor terrestrials;
With his heart can we have any possible chance,
     When he gives us for rivals a host of celestials?
What cares he for eyes, whether hazel or blue,
     Or for any slight charms such as we share between us, --
When, his glass in his hand, he can sit the night through,
     And ogle at leisure Diana and Venus.

DEDICATION.
        TO MY MOTHER

THE flowers of romance that I cherished,
     Around me lie withered and dead;
The stars of my youth's shining heaven,
     Were but meteors whose brightness misled;
And the day-dreams of life's vernal morning,
     Like the mists of the morning have fled.
 
But one flower I have found still unwithered;
     Like the night-scented jasmin it gleams;
And beyond where the fallen stars vanished,
     One light pure and hallowed still beams;
One love I have found, deep and changeless,
     As that I have yearned for in dreams.
 
Too often the links have been broken,
     That bound me in friendship's bright chain
Too often has fancy deceived me
     To blind or to charm me again;
And I sigh o'er my young heart's illusions,
     With a sorrow I would were disdain.
 
But now, as the clouds return earthward,
     From the cold and void ether above;
As on pinions all drooping and weary,
     O'er the waste flew the wandering dove;
O'er the tide of the world's troubled waters,
     I return to the ark of thy love.
 
Here, at length, my tired spirit reposes;
     Here my heart's strongest tendrils entwine;
Here its warmest and deepest affections
     It lays on earth's holiest shrine
Dearest mother, receive the devotion
     Of the life thou hast given from thine.
 
Here, pressed to thy bosom, the tempests
     That sweep over life's stormy sea,
Have beat, in their impotent fury, --
     They were winged with no terror for me;
If I shrank from the fearful encounter,
     If I trembled -- it was but for thee.
 
The spirit of Song that lies buried
     In silence or sleep in the breast,
Unlike the wild music of Memnon,
     Is changed by the sunshine to rest;
In the clash of contending emotions
     Are its harmonies only expressed.
 
When, at moments, my soul has been shaken,
     In the strife with the world's rushing throng;
Or moved by some holier impulse,
     As borne by its current along;
This spirit aroused, has responded,
     And uttered these fragments of song.
 
I know they are but passing echoes,
     For which time has no place and no name;
But hereafter, in loftier numbers,
     Might I seek for the guerdon of fame --
Might I gather its evergreen laurels --
    I would twine them around thy loved name.
 
But I mark now a pallor that deepens,
     And spreads o'er thy brow and thy cheek;
And, filled with a fearful foreboding,
     My strong heart grows nerveless and weak;
And shrinks back appalled from the anguish,
     The blow beneath which it would break.
 
Oh, leave me not yet, gentle spirit,
     Though our loved and our lost, gone before,
In the Better Land watch for thy coming,
     And call thee away to that shore;
These clasped arms are strong to detain thee --
     Leave, leave me not yet, I implore!
 
Oh God! let this cup but pass from me,
     When thy bitterest draught would be thrown;
Not yet those sweet ties rend asunder
     Heart with heart, life with life that have grown!
Not yet can I bear life's great burden,
     And tread its dark wine-press alone.

FROM DE VIGNY.

Come on the sea, beloved,
    Fearless and free;
Leave friends and wealth behind;
    Come, come with me.
My bark on the water shines
    A fairy thing; --
See her pennon, mast, and keel!
She is but a little shell,
    Yet there I am king.

The earth was made for the slave,
    Oh maiden free!
But for man, the stern and brave,
    The boundless sea.
The waves breathe in their flow
    A mystery,
And tenderly they sing,
In their soft murmuring, --
    Love, Liberty.

Lines
to one who wished to read a poem I had written.

Nay, read it not, thou wouldst not know
    What lives within my heart,
For from that fount it does not flow;
    'Tis but the voice of Art.

I could not bid my proud heart speak,
    Before the idle throng;
Rather in silence would it break
    With its full tide of Song.

Yes, rather would it break, than bare,
    To cold and careless eyes,
The hallowed dreams that linger there,
    The tears and agonies.

My lyre is skillful to repress
    Each deep, impassioned tone;
Its gushing springs of tenderness
    Would flow for one alone.

The rock, that to the parching sand
    Would yield no dewy drop,
Struck by the pilgrim prophet's want,
    Gave all its treasure up.

My heart then, is my only lyre;
    The prophet hath not spoken,
Nor kindled its celestial fire;
    So, let its chords be broken.

I would not thou shouldst hear those lays,
    Though harsh they might not be;
Though thou, perchance, might'st hear and praise,
    They would not speak of me.

On the death of Mrs. N. P. Willis.

In life's freshness, and its fulness, --
    In thy womanhood's young bloom,
While thy brow was all unclouded
    With a darkening ray of gloom, --
The Angel Death hath said to thee,
    "Thy Father calls thee home."

And, as fades some lovely vision
    In the morning's gathering light,
Or as sinks some unsphered radiance
    From the starry crown of night,
Or as dies some burst of music, --
Thou hast vanished from our sight.

Far across the foaming waters,
    From the country of thy birth,
From thy childhood's friends and memories,
    From thy father's silent hearth,
A strange soil unveils its bosom,
    And must clasp thee, earth to earth.

But the soft Spring sky bends o'er thee,
    As thou goest to thy rest,
And Mount Auburn's green recesses
    Soon in beauty will be drest;
And with waving leaves and blossoms,
    Welcome in their lovely guest.

And when Summer all her glory
    O'er that hallowed scene shall shed,
Then shall come the loved and living,
    With hushed voice and noiseless tread;
And with tears bedew the flowers,
    In that city of the dead.

There, where winds sigh through the pine trees,
    Where the silver water flows;
Where the pale stars keep their vigils,
    And the genial sunlight glows,
Oh, how calm will be thy slumber!
    How I envy thy repose!

There, young mother, -- with thy nursling
    Safely pillowed on thy heart,
Safely shielded from the tempest,
    From the poison and the dart, --
Ye will fade away together,
    As the violets depart.

But not thus, oh gentle stranger,
    Shall thy loved remembrance flee;
In the hearts where thou wast cherished,
    The sweet memories of thee,
Like the evergreens above thee
    Fresh and beautiful shall be.

On the Death of an Infant.

Why should we weep for thee,
Since thou hast gone unsullied back to heaven,
No stain upon thy spirit's purity,
No sin to be forgiven?

Love watched thee from thy birth,
Fond hearts around thee tireless vigils kept;
And o'er thy tender soul the storms of earth
Had never rudely swept.

Thou art spared a fearful lore --
A knowledge all attain who linger here;
The changed, the cold, the dead, were words that bore
No import to thine ear.

Methought I saw in thee,
Thus early as I marked by many a token,
A soul that might not war with Destiny,
A heart that could be broken.

But sinless, tearless, gone,
Undimmed, unstained, who would not thus have died!
For thee then let these vain regrets be done,
These selfish tears be dried.

Go to thy little bed!
The verdant turf is springing fresh and fair,
The flowers thou lovedst shall blossom o'er thy head,
The spring birds warble there.

And while to shapeless dust
Thy cherub form is gently mouldering back,
Our thoughts shall upward soar, in hopeful trust,
On thy freed spirit's track.

Sonnet.
Faith.

Securely cabined in the ship below,
    Through darkness and through storm I cross the sea,
    A pathless wilderness of waves to me:
But yet I do not fear, because I know
    That he who guides the good ship o'er that waste
    Sees in the stars her shining pathway traced.
Blindfold I walk this life's bewildering maze;
    Up flinty steep, through frozen mountain pass,
    Through thornset barren and through deep morass:
But strong in faith I tread the uneven ways,
    And bare my head unshrinking to the blast,
    Because my Father's arm is round me cast;
And if the way seems rough, I only clasp
The hand that leads me with a firmer grasp.

Ode
for the Fourth of July.

    A glorious vision burst
On Europe's dazzled sight,
    Upon that day when first
Columbia sprang to light; --
When our NEW WORLD, till then concealed,
In virgin beauty stood revealed.

    But more sublime that day
When the young nation rose,
    And cast her chains away,
And dared her tyrant foes:
Thrones quaked, and despots trembled then,
For bonds were rent and slaves were men.

    The torch of Liberty,
Relighted on that day,
    Streamed over land and sea
With brighter, holier ray.
Hail to our Country! hail to thee,
Auspicious day that saw her free!

    Let the star-spangled flag
Upon the free air float;
    Let hill, and vale, and crag,
Prolong the cannon's note:
"Live the Republic!" let this be
The watch-word of our liberty.

TO Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

I have not met thee in this outward world,
Bounded by time and space; but in that realm,
O'er which imagination holds her reign,
There have I seen thy spirit face to face,
Majestic, and yet lovely. There have I
Sat at thy feet to listen to thy voice,
And as the symphony sublimely rose,
Reverence and awe had held me spell-bound there,
But that there fell upon my listening ear
Low breathing sighs, the sound of falling tears,
The under-tone of human love and woe,
That touched the trembling chords of sympathy,
And drew me near to thy great woman's heart.

Thou crownéd queen of Song! from this free land
That owes allegiance only unto God
And Genius, his anointed, o'er the sea
I send my vows of homage, and my heart
Sends love and blessings unto thee and thine.