Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton

(1808-1877)

They Loved One Another
My Childhood's Home
Ifs
As When From Dreams Awaking
Old Friends
The Pilgrim of Life
The Captive Pirate
The Future
We Have Been Friends Together
Recollections
Recollections of a Faded Beauty
Babel
The Mourners
The Ringlet
Would I were with Thee!
The Name
Edward
I do not love thee
The Cold Change
Bingen on the Rhine

They Loved One Another

THEY loved one another! young Edward and his wife,
And in their cottage-home they dwelt, apart from sin and strife.
Each evening Edward weary came from a day of honest toil,
And Mary made the fire blaze, and smiled a cheerful smile.
Oh! what was wealth or pomp to them, the gaudy glittering show,
Of jewels blazing on the breast, where heaves a heart of woe!
The merry laugh, the placid sleep, were theirs; they hated sloth,
And all the little that they had, belonged alike to both,
For they loved one another!

They loved one another; but one of them is gone,
And by that vainly cheerful hearth poor Edward sits alone.
He gazes round on all which used to make his heart rejoice,
And he misses Mary's gentle smile, he misses Mary's voice.
There are many in this chilly world who would not care to part,
Tho' they dwell together in one home, and ought to have one heart,
And yet they live! while never more those happy ones may meet;
And the echo from her home is gone of Mary's busy feet:
And they loved one another!

They loved one another! but she hath past away,
And taken with her all the light, the sunshine of his day;
And Edward makes no loud lament, nor idly sits and mourns,
But quietly goes forth at morn, and quietly returns.
The cottage now is still and dark, no welcome bids him home,
He passes it and wanders on, to sit by Mary's tomb.
Oh! weep my friends--for very sad and bitter it must be
To yearn for some familiar face we never more may see--
When we loved one another!

My Childhood's Home

I HAVE tasted each varied pleasure,
    And drunk of the cup of delight;
I have danced to the gayest measure
    In the halls of dazzling light.
I have dwelt in a blaze of splendour,
    And stood in the courts of kings;
I have snatched at each toy that could render
    More rapid the flight of Time's wings.
But vainly I've sought for joy or peace,
    In that life of light and shade;
And I turn with a sigh to my own dear home--
    The home where my childhood played!

When jewels are sparkling round me,
    And dazzling with their rays,
I weep for the ties that bound me
    In life's first early days.
I sigh for one of the sunny hours
    Ere day was turned to-night;
For one of my nosegays of fresh wild flowers,
    Instead of those jewels bright.
I weep when I gaze on the scentless buds
    Which never can bloom or fade;
And I turn with a sigh to those gay green fields--
    The home where my childhood played.

Ifs

OH! if the winds could whisper what they hear,
When murmuring round at sunset through the grove;
If words were written on the streamlet clear,
So often spoken fearlessly above:
If tell-tale stars, descending from on high,
Could image forth the thoughts of all that gaze,
Entranced upon that deep cerulean sky,
And count how few think only of their rays!

If the lulled heaving ocean could disclose
All that has passed upon her golden sand,
When the moon-lighted waves triumphant rose,
And dashed their spray upon the echoing strand.
If dews could tell how many tears have mixed
With the bright gem-like drops that Nature weeps,
If night could say how many eyes are fixed
On her dark shadows, while creation sleeps!

If echo, rising from her magic throne,
Repeated with her melody of voice
Each timid sigh--each whispered word and tone,
Which made the hearer's listening heart rejoice.
If Nature could, unchecked, repeat aloud
All she hath heard and seen--must hear and see--
Where would the whispering, vowing, sighing crowd
Of lovers, and their blushing partners, be?

As When From Dreams Awaking.

AS when from dreams awaking
The dim forms float away
Whose visioned smiles were making
Our darkness bright as day;
We vainly strive, while weeping,
From their shining spirit track,
(Where they fled while we were sleeping,)
To call those dear ones back!

Like the stars, some power divides them
From a world of want and pain;
They are there, but daylight hides them,
And we look for them in vain.
For a while we dwell with sadness,
On the beauty of that dream,

Then turn, and hail with gladness
The light of morning's beam.

So, when memory's power is wringing
Our lonely hearts to tears,
Dim forms around us bringing
That brightened former years:
Fond looks and low words spoken,
Which those dreamy days could boast,
Rise; till the spell be broken,
We forget that they are lost!

But when the hour of darkness rolls
Like heavy night away;
And peace is stealing o'er our souls,
Like the dawn of summer day:
The dim sweet forms that used to bless,
Seem stealing from us too;
We loved them--but joy's sunniness
Hath hid them from our view!

Oh could day beam eternally,
And Memory's power cease,
This world, a world of light would be,
Our hearts were worlds of peace:

But dreams of joy return with night,
And dwell upon the past--
And every grief that clouds our light,
Reminds us of the last!

Old Friends

HOW are they waned and faded from our hearts,
The old companions of our early days!
Of all the many loved, which name imparts
Regret when blamed, or rapture at its praise?
What are their several fates, by Heaven decreed,
They of the jocund heart, and careless brow?
Alas! we scarcely know and scarcely heed,
Where, in this world of sighs, they wander now.

See, how with cold faint smile, and courtly nod,
They pass, whom wealth and revelry divide--
Who walked together to the house of God,
Read from one book, and rested side by side;
No look of recognition lights the eye
Which laughingly hath met that fellow-face;
With careless hands they greet and wander by,
Who parted once with tears and long embrace.

Oh, childhood! blessed time of hope and love,
When all we knew was Nature's simple law,
How may we yearn again that time to prove,
When we looked round, and loved whate'er we saw.
Now dark suspicion wakes, and love departs,
And cold distrust its well-feigned smile displays;
And they are waned and faded from our hearts,
The old companions of our early days!

The Pilgrim of Life.

PILGRIM, who toilest up life's weary steep,
    To reach the summit still with pleasure crowned;
Born but to sigh and smile; to sin and weep,
    Dost mark the busy multitudes around?
Dost mourn, with those who tread with fainting feet,
    And blighted worn-out heart, the self same road?
Dost laugh with those who think their travel sweet,
    And deem existence no unwelcome load?--
Ah, no! unconscious of their joy or woe,
    Quick hurrying onward still, or gazing back,
With feeble lustre round their planet glow
    A few beloved, connected with thy track;
Dear links of life, for whom to toil is bliss;
    Circlet of stars in young hope's diadem;
Gay lightsome hearts who know no joy but this--
    To be together is enough for them.

Thou pausest on thy way--one light is set--
No power of love relumes the torch of life;
Whate'er it was, 'tis lost--and vain regret
Pursues the rosy babe, or faithful wife.
'Tis past--'tis gone--the brightness of those eyes
Can cheer no more thy melancholy home:
But grief may not endure--new joys arise;
The past is not--but thou hast years to come!
New joys arise--eager thou pressest on,
Hope's brilliant mockery deceiving still.
And now thou weepest o'er delusions gone,
Now hail'st with transport days devoid of ill.
Yet ever as thou goest on thy way,
However bright may be the present hour,
Clings to thy mind with brightest, purest ray,
The joy thou could'st not hold, the faded flower--
Still dearest seems the past; and as each light,
Extinguished, leaves thee lone, through memory's tears
More dim the future rises to thy sight,
More bright the visions of thine early years.
Pilgrim of Life! why slackenest thou thy speed?
Why is that brow of eager hope o'ercast?
A pause--a struggle--and the hour decreed
Mingles for aye the present with the past!

The Captive Pirate

THE captive pirate sate alone,
Musing over triumphs gone,
Gazing on the clear blue sky
From his dungeon window high.
Dreamingly he sate, and thought
Of battles he had seen and fought;
And fancy o'er him threw her spell.
He deemed he had not bid farewell
To the friends who loved him best:
O'er the white wave's snowy crest
Seems he now once more to sail,
Borne by the triumphant gale:
Cheerily the light bark bounds,
In his ears the music sounds
Of hoarsely mingling waves and voices,
And his inmost soul rejoices!

He gives the signal of command,
He waves--he drops--the lifted hand!
It was a sound of clashing steel--
Why starts he thus? what doth he feel?
The clanking of his iron chain
Hath made him prisoner again!
He groans, as memory round him brings
The shades of half-forgotten things.
His friends! his faithful friends!--a sigh
Bursts from that bosom swelling high.
His bark! his gallant bark!--a tear
Darkens the eye that knew not fear.
And another meaner name
Must lead his men to death or fame!
And another form must stand
(Captain of his mourning band)
On the deck he trod so well,
While his bark o'er ocean's swell
Is sailing far, far out at sea,
Where he never more may be!
Oh! to be away once more
From the dark and loathsome shore!
Oh! again the sound to hear
Of his ship's crew's hearty cheer!
Souls who by his side have stood,
Careless of their ebbing blood,

Wiped the death-dew from their brow,
And feebly smiled their truth to show!
Little does the Pirate deem
Freedom now were but a dream;
Little does the chieftain think
That his lost companions drink
Strugglingly by the salt sea wave,
Once their home, and now their grave!
And the bark from which they part,
(While his sad and heavy heart
Yearns to tread her gallant deck,)
Helpless lies, a heaving wreck!

And little will they deem, who roam
Hereafter in their floating home,
While their sunlit sail is spread,
That it gleams above the dead--
That the faithless wave rolls on
Calmly, as they were not gone,
While its depths warm hearts doth cover,
Whose beatings were untimely over!
And little will they deem, who stand
Safe upon the sea-girt land,
That to the stranger all it gave
Was--a prison and a grave!

That the ruin'd fortress towers
Number'd his despairing hours,
And beneath their careless tread,
Sleeps--the broken-hearted dead!

The Future.

I WAS a laughing child, and gaily dwelt
Where murmuring brooks, and dark blue rivers roll'd,
And shadowy trees outspread their silent arms,
To welcome all the weary to their rest.
And there an antique castle rais'd its head,
Where dwelt a fair and fairy girl: perchance
Two summers she had seen beyond my years;
And all she said or did, was said and done
With such a light and airy sportiveness,
That oft I envied her, for I was poor,
And lowly, and to me her fate did seem
Fraught with a certainty of happiness.
Years past; and she was wed against her will,
To one who sought her for the gold she brought,
And they did vex and wound her gentle spirit,
Till madness took the place of misery.

And oft I heard her low, soft, gentle song,
Breathing of early times with mournful sound,
Till I could weep to hear, and thought how sad.
The envied future of her life had prov'd.
And then I grew a fond and thoughtful girl,
Loving, and deeming I was lov'd again:
But he that won my easy heart, full soon
Turn'd to another:--she might be more fair,
But could not love him better. And I wept,
Day after day, till weary grew my spirit,
With fancying how happy she must be
Whom he had chosen--yet she was not so;
For he she wedded, loved her for a time,
And then he changed, even as he did to me,
Though something later; and he sought another
To please his fancy, far away from home.
And he was kind: oh, yes! he still was kind.
It vex'd her more; for though she knew his love
Had faded like the primrose after spring,
Yet there was nothing which she might complain,
Had cause to grieve her; he was gentle still.
She would have given all the store she had,
That he would but be angry for an hour,
That she might come and soothe his wounded spirit,
And lay her weeping head upon his bosom,
And say, how freely she forgave her wrongs:

But still, with calm, cold kindness he pursued
(Kindness, the mockery of departed love!)
His way--and then she died, the broken-hearted;
And I thanked heaven, who gave me not her lot,
Though I had wish'd it.
Again, I was a wife, a happy wife;
And he I loved was still unchangeable,
And kind, and true, and loved me from his soul;
But I was childless, and my lonely heart
Yearned for an image of my heart's beloved,
A something which should be my 'future' now
That I had so much of my life gone by;
Something to look to after I should go,
And all except my memory be past.
There was a child, a little rosy thing,
With sunny eyes, and curled and shining hair,
That used to play among the daisy flowers,
Looking as innocent and fair as they;
And sail its little boat upon the stream,
Gazing with dark blue eyes in the blue waters,
And singing in its merriment of heart
All the bright day: and when the sun was setting,
It came unbid to its glad mother's side,
To lisp with holy look its evening prayer:
And, kneeling on the green and flowery ground,
At the sweet cottage door--he fixed his eyes

For some short moments on her tranquil face,
As if she was his guiding star to God;
And then with young, meek, innocent brow upraised,
Spoke the slow words with lips that longed to smile,
But dared not. Oh! I loved that child with all
A mother's fondest love; and, as he grew
More and more beautiful from day to day,
The half-involuntary sigh I gave
Spoke but too plain the wish that he were mine--
My child--my own. And in my solitude,
Often I clasped my hands and thought of him,
And looked with mournful and reproachful gaze
To heaven, which had denied me such a one.
Years past: the child became a rebel boy;
The boy a wild, untamed, and passionate youth;
The youth a man--but such a man! so fierce,
So wild, so headlong, and so haughty too,
So cruel in avenging any wrongs,
So merciless when he had half avenged them!
At length his hour had come--a deed of blood,
Of murder, was upon his guilty soul.
He stood in that same spot, by his sweet home,
The same blue river flowing by his feet,
(Whose stream might never wash his guilt away;)
The same green hills, and mossy sloping banks,
Where the bright sun was smiling as of yore:

With pallid cheek and dark and sullen brow,
The beautiful and lost; you might have deemed
That Satan, newly banished, stood and gazed
On the bright scenery of an infant world.
For, fallen as he was, his Maker's hand
Had stamped him beauteous, and he was so still.
And his eyes turned from off his early home
With something like a shudder; and they lighted
On his poor broken-hearted mother's grave.
And there was something in them of old times,
Ere sin had darkened o'er their tranquil blue,
In that most mournful look--that made me weep;
"For I had gazed on him with fear and anguish
Till now. And, "weep for her," my favourite said,
For she was good--I murdered her--I killed
Many that harmed me not." And still he spoke
In a low, listless voice; and forms came round
Who dragged him from us. I remember not
What followed then. But on another day,
There was a crowd collected, and a cart
Slowly approached to give to shameful death
Its burden; and there was a prayer, and silence,
Silence like that of death. And then a murmur!
And all was over. And I groaned, and turned
To where his poor old father had been sitting;
And there he sate, still with his feeble limbs

And palsied head, and dim and watery eyes,
Gazing up at the place where was his son;
And with a shuddering touch I sought to rouse him,
But could not, for the poor old man was dead.
And then I flung myself upon the ground,
And mingled salt tears with the evening dew;
And thanked my God that he was not my son;
And that I was a childless, lonely wife.
To-morrow I will tell thee all that now
Remains to tell--but I am old and feeble.
And cannot speak for tears.
She rose and went,
But she returned no more. The morrow came,
But not to her;--the tale of life was finished,
Not by her lips, for she had ceased to breath.
But, by this silent warning joined to hers,
How little we may count upon the future,
Or reckon what that future may bring forth!

Recollections.

DO you remember all the sunny places,
Where in bright days, long past, we played together?
Do you remember all the old home faces
That gathered round the hearth in wintry weather?
Do you remember all the happy meetings,
In Summer evenings round the open door--
Kind looks, kind hearts, kind words and tender greetings,
And clasping hands whose pulses beat no more?
Do you remember them?

Do you remember all the merry laughter;
The voices round the swing in our old garden:
The dog that, when we ran, still followed after;
The teasing frolic sure of speedy pardon:

We were but children then, young happy creatures,
And hardly knew how much we had to lose--
But now the dreamlike memory of those features
Comes back, and bids my darkened spirit muse.
Do you remember them?

Do you remember when we first departed
From all the old companions who were round us,
How very soon again we grew light-hearted,
And talked with smiles of all the links which bound us?
And after, when our footsteps were returning,
With unfelt weariness, o'er hill and plain;
How our young hearts kept boiling up, and burning,
To think how soon we'd be at home again.
Do you remember this?

Do you remember how the dreams of glory
Kept fading from us like a fairy treasure;
How we thought less of being fam'd in story,
And more of those to whom our fame gave pleasure.
Do you remember in far countries, weeping,
When a light breeze, a flower, hath brought to mind
Old happy thoughts, which till that hour were sleeping,
And made us yearn for those we left behind?
Do you remember this?

Do you remember when no sound 'woke gladly,
But desolate echoes through our home were ringing,
How for a while we talked--then paused full sadly,
Because our voices bitter thoughts were bringing?
Ah me! those days--those days! my friend, my brother,
Sit down and let us talk of all our woe,
For we have nothing left but one another;
Yet where they went, old playmate, we shall go--
Let us remember this.

Recollections of a Faded Beauty

AH! I remember when I was a girl
How my hair naturally used to curl,
And how my aunt four yards of net would pucker,
And call the odious thing, 'Diana's tucker.'
I hated it, because although, you see,
It did for her, it didn't do for me.
(Popkins said I should wear a low corsage,
But this I know was merely badinage.)
I recollect the gaieties of old--
Ices when hot, and punch when we were cold!
Race-balls, and county-balls, and balls where you,
For seven shillings, got dance and supper too.
Oh! I remember all the routs and plays--
"But words are idle," as Lord Byron says;
And so am I, and therefore can spare time,
To put my recollections into rhyme.

I recollect the man who did declare
When I was at the fair, myself was fair:
(I had it in my album for three years,
And often looked, and shed delicious tears.)
I didn't fall in love, however, then,
Because I never saw that man again.
And I remember Popkins--ah! too well!
And all who once in love with Chloë fell.
They called me Chloë for they said my grace
Was nymph-like; as was also half my face.
My mouth was wide, but then I had a smile
Which might a demon of its tears beguile.--
As Captain Popkins said, or rather swore,
He liked me, (ah! my Popkins!) all the more.
He couldn't bear a little mouth, for when
It laughed, 'twas like a long slit in a pen;
Or button-hole stretched on too big a button;
Or little cut for gravy in boiled mutton.
(Popkins was clever)--but I must proceed
More regularly, that my friends may read.
I didn't marry, for I couldn't get
A man I liked; I havn't got one yet;
But I had handsome lovers by the score:
Alas! alas! I always sighed for more.

First came young Minton, of the ninth Hussars,
His eyes were bright and twinkling as the stars.

There was, indeed, a little little cast,
But he assured me that it would not last;
And only came, when he, one cold bivouac,
Gazed on the foe, and could not turn it back--
The chill was so intense! Poor Minton, I
Really did think he certainly would die.
He gave me of himself a little print;
The painter did not see or heed the squint.
Squint it was not--but one eye sought the other
With tenderness, as 'twere a young twin brother.
He gave it, and he sighed: oh! often after
The memory of that sigh hath chill'd my laughter.
I'm sure I might have married him, but then
I never did enough encourage men:
And somehow he made love to Anna Budge;
I never owed the ugly minx a grudge,
Though, God knows, she was cross and plain enough.
The things he us'd to say to her--such stuff!

Then came young Frederic Mortimer de Veaux:
A cruel, faithless wretch, that work'd me woe.
But such a man! so tall, so straight--he took
A lady's heart away at every look.
Such a hooked nose, such loads of curly hair--
Such a pale, wild, intense, Byronic air;
And his whole soul, (as he himself has said,)
"Wandering about among the mighty dead."

He had read books, and rather liked to show it,
And always spoke like an inspired poet.
Last time we met, my heart prophetic drew
A mournful omen from his wild adieu:
I wrote it down, when he had closed the door.
All I remembered--would it had been more!--
"Allah hu! shall I ever behold thee again,
Sweet cause of my transport--dear cause of my pain?
Al, hamdu il Illah! what place can be fair,
My Rose of the Desert, if thou art not there?
Yet I go--for stern duty compels me to do so--
From the world where my heart is, like far-banished Crusoe.
Gul's gardens invite me, but Fate says, depart,
Bismillah! farewell, young Haidee of my heart!"
Was it not beautiful? it was--ah, me!--
Who would have thought such lips could traitors be?
Who could have thought, who saw his bright eye burn,
He spoke--intending never to return?

Then Mr. Humley asked aunt's leave to wed,
And winked, and asked if love was in my head,
Or heart; and then proceeding things to settle,
(Helping my aunt the while to lift the kettle,)--
Said, "you shall have a cozy home, my dear,
And fifty pounds (to buy you clothes) a year.

And we must get your aunt, or some kind fairy
To teach you how to churn and mind the dairy."
'A cozy home!' why, did one ever hear
Of such a man? and, to call me "my dear:"
Me--I was Frederick Mortimer's heart's Haidee;
Young Minton's star of hope and gladness--me!
But I refused him; though my aunt did say
"That it was an advantage thrown away;"--
(He an advantage!)--"that she'd make me rue it--
Make me a nun--" I'd like to see her do it!
Down, down, rebellious heart! I am a nun,
At least, the same as if I had been one.
I do repent I thought myself too comely;
I do repent I am not Mrs. Humley!

Then, cold and cautious, came young Archy Campbell.
Full many a sunset walk, and pleasant ramble,
I took with him; but I grew weary soon,
Because, instead of turning from the moon
To gaze on me, he bade me look with him,
And wondered when her light would grow more dim,
And the world fade away. I should have tired
Before our honey-moon had half expired.

Oh! loved when first I met thee, and for ever,
Thou, from whom cold caprice hath made me sever--

Where art thou, Popkins?--Captain Popkins! oh!
Dear recollection and delicious woe!
Most generous, most genteel. Oh! thou, alas!
"Of the best class, and better than thy class,"
Where art thou? Ah! it matters not to me;
By Chloë's side thou never more shalt be!
How sweetly didst thou sing "Those Evening Bells"--
Still the dear echo in my bosom swells:
How gaily didst thou dance, how clearly whistle!
How neatly fold each elegant epistle!
How thin thy pumps were, and how bright thy boot,
('Twas that brought "Warren's blacking" in repute.)
How nameless was thy majesty of form,
Making each man look like a wriggling worm,
That dared beside thy shoulders' broad expanse
To venture his lank shape. By what sweet chance
Did all, that would have been defects in others,
(Whom yet you deemed your fellow-men and brothers,)
Turn to perfection when beheld in you;
Tho' short, yet graceful; fat, but active too!

He wrote, adored, proposed--but some curst power
Bade me nip off his young Hope's budding flower:
I did not even answer that sweet letter,
Because I thought, perhaps, I'd get a better.

Oh! Chloë, tear thy hair, and beat thy breast;
How couldst thou get a better than the best?
'Tis over now--the agony, despair,
With which I beat that breast, and tore that hair;
When one unmeaning note of cold adieu,
Mixed with reproach, was all my silence drew.
Gone, and for ever!--I could scarce believe it:
Surely he wrote, and I did not receive it!
Vain hope! he went--he was my heart's one love;
All other men, all other loves, above.
I would have married him without a penny,
Each lover after him was one too many!

There was a certain Irishman, indeed,
Who borrowed Cupid's darts to make me bleed.
My aunt said he was vulgar; he was poor,
And his boots creaked, and dirtied her smooth floor.
She hated him; and when he went away,
He wrote--I have the verses to this day:--

    Wirasthru! then, my beautiful jewel,
    I'm quite tired out of my life.
    I can't fight with Fortune a duel,
    I cannot have you for a wife.
    The beauties of nature adorning
    No longer afford me delight:

In the night, och! I wish it were morning,
In the morning I wish it were night!

    For your aunt, she has writ me a letter,
    (Och, den, she's a sad dirty rogue!)
    Does she think other men love you better,
    Becase I've a bit of the brogue?
    In regard to the fighting and swearing,
    Sure, jewel, it's all for the best;
    Just to drown all the grumbling and tearing,
    That gives my poor stomach no rest.

    Small work I've had late at the carvin',
    Less than none I can't have, any how;
    And ye wouldn't deny, when he's starvin',
    Your Danny a bit of a row?
    Then, good night to you, love, or good morrow;
    Sure, it's all just the same which I say,
    For the differ is small, to my sorrow,
    When one gets neither breakfast, nor tay!

Now was this vulgar, which was'said or sung?'
Or but the ling'ring of his native tongue
In ears which thought it music; being such
As he had known in childhood's early years,

What time we suffer little, and hope much;
And oft turn back to gaze upon with tears!
I liked him, and I liked his verses; but
In some vile squabble, as to where he put
His walking-stick, and whether sticks were stronger
For being cut on Irish ground, or longer,
He lost his life; and I my last real love:
For though a few still round me used to rove,
Whether they had not half his sense and merit--
I never have loved since with any spirit!

Babel

KNOW ye in ages past that tower
By human hands built strong and high?
Arch over arch, with magic power,
Rose proudly each successive hour,
To reach the happy sky.

It rose, till human pride was crushed--
Quick came the unexpected change;
A moment every tone was hushed,
And then again they freely gushed,
But sounded wild and strange.

Loud, quick, and clear, each voice was heard,
Calling for lime, and stone, and wood,
All uttered words--but not one word;
More than the carol of a bird,
Their fellows understood.

Is there no Babel but that one,
The storied tower of other days?--
Where, round the giant pile of stone,
Pausing they stood--their labour done,
To listen in amaze.

Fair springs the tower of hope and fame,
When all our life is fairy land;
Till, scarcely knowing what to blame,
Our fellows cease to feel the same--
We cease to understand.

Then, when they coldly smile to hear
The burning dreams of earlier days;
The rapid fall from hope to fear,
When eyes whose every glance was dear,
Seem changing as they gaze:

Then, when we feel 'twere vain to speak
Of fervent hopes--aspirings high--
Of thoughts for which all words are weak--
Of wild far dreams, wherein we seek
Knowledge of earth and sky:

Of communings with nature's God,
When impulse deep the soul hath moved--

Of tears which sink within the sod,
Where, mingling with the valley clod,
Lies something we have loved:

Then cometh ours;--and better theirs--
Of stranger tongues together brought,
Than that in which we all have shares,
A Babel in a world of cares--
Of feeling and of thought.

The Mourners

LOW she lies, who blest our eyes
    Through many a sunny day;
She may not smile, she will not rise--
    The life hath past away!
Yet there is a world of light beyond,
    Where we neither die nor sleep--
She is there, of whom our souls were fond--
    Then wherefore do we weep?

The heart is cold, whose thoughts were told
    In each glance of her glad bright eye;
And she lies pale, who was so bright,
    She scarce seemed made to die.
Yet we know that her soul is happy now,
    Where the saints their calm watch keep;
That angels are crowning that fair young brow--
    Then wherefore do we weep?

Her laughing voice made all rejoice,
    Who caught the happy sound;
There was gladness in her very step,
    As it lightly touched the ground.
The echoes of voice and step are gone;
    There is silence still and deep:
Yet we know she sings by God's bright throne--
    Then wherefore do we weep?

The cheek's pale tinge, the lid's dark fringe;
    That lies like a shadow there,
Were beautiful in the eyes of all--
    And her glossy golden hair!
But though that lid may never wake
    From its dark and dreamless sleep,
She is gone where young hearts do not break--
    Then wherefore do we weep?

That world of light with joy is bright,
    This is a world of woe:
Shall we grieve that her soul hath taken flight,
    Because we dwell below?
We will bury her under the mossy sod,
    And one long bright tress we'll keep;
We have only given her back to God--
    Ah! wherefore do we weep?

The Ringlet

OH! treasured thus by passion's slave,
    Dear relic of the bygone year;
Say, what remains of her who gave?
    The vain regret--the useless tear.
The clasping hands--the throbbing brow--
    The murmuring of that shadowy word,
To which had answered once--oh! now,
    Why is that light quick step unheard?

What in those syllables is found,
    That such a start of woe can claim?
A word is but an empty sound,--
    Alas! it is--it was--her name!
It was--yes, she was once! as gay,
    As full of life, as aught that lives;
The breath--the life--hath passed away,
    But not the pang her memory gives.

Bright tress! thy beauty bringeth now
    A thousand dreams of rapture gone;
Her sunny eyes, her radiant brow,
    The low, light laughter of her tone.
Gazing on thee, again she stands
    Before me, as in days of old;
With all her young head's shining bands,
    And all its wavy curls of gold.

Till as I view thee, silken tress,
    I feel within my suffering heart,--
'Tis all which now my sight can bless,
    All that of her will not depart.
Oh! thou that wert life's dearest prize,
    That now art but a thought of pain;
Why do thy tones--thy laughing eyes--
    Rise up to wring my soul again?

I roam in vain:--the sun that beams
    Is still the sun we looked upon;
My hand, my lonely hand, in dreams,
    Seeks still for thine to clasp its own.
My heart resists all time--all change,
    And finds no other form so dear.
My memory, wheresoe'er I range,
    Clings to the spot where thou wert near.

Change!--thou wert all life's scenery:
To me, the billowy, bounding wave--
The wide green earth--the far blue sky,
Form but the landscape of thy grave!

Oh! bitter is their boon of life
    Who cannot hope--who may not die--
I linger in a world of strife,
    Whilst thou art in the happy sky!
I envy thee the peace thou hast,
    And, but 'tis sin, the knee would bow,
That He who made thee all thou wast,
    Would make me all--that thou art now!

Would I were with Thee!

WOULD I were with thee! every day and hour
    Which now I spend so sadly, far from thee--
Would that my form possessed the magic power
    To follow where my heavy heart would be!
            Whate'er thy lot--by land or sea--
            Would I were with thee--eternally!

Would I were with thee! when, the world forgetting,
    Thy weary limbs upon the turf are thrown,
While bright and red the evening sun is setting,
    And all thy thoughts belong to heaven alone:
            While happy dreams thy heart employ--
            Would I were with thee--in thy joy!

Would I were with thee! when, no longer feigning
    The hurried laugh that stifles back a sigh;
Thy young lip pours unheard its sweet complaining,
    And tears have quenched the light within thine eye:
            When all seems dark and sad below,
            Would I were with thee--in thy woe!

Would I were with thee! when the day is breaking,
    And when the moon hath lit the lonely sea--
Or when in crowds some careless note awaking:
    Speaks to thy heart in memory of me.
            In joy or pain, by sea or shore--
            Would I were with thee--evermore!

The Name

"What's in a name?"--SHAKSPEARE

THY name was once the magic spell, by which my thoughts were bound,
And burning dreams of light and love were wakened by that sound;
My heart beat quick when stranger tongues, with idle praise or blame,
Awoke its deepest thrill of life, to tremble at that name.

Long years--long years have passed away, and altered is thy brow;
And we who met so gladly once, must meet as strangers now:
The friends of yore come round me still, but talk no more of thee;
'Tis idle ev'n to wish it now--for what art thou to me?

Yet still thy name, thy blessed name, my lonely bosom fills,
Like an echo that hath lost itself among the distant hills,
Which still, with melancholy note, keeps faintly lingering on,
When the jocund sound that woke it first is gone--for ever gone.

Edward

HEAVY is my trembling heart, mine own love, my dearest,
    Heavy as the hearts whose love is poured in vain;
All the bright day I watch till thou appearest,
    All the long night I dream of thee again.
When the whisp'ring summer breeze is waving o'er me lightly,
    When the moaning winter winds their wail of sadness make;
Then dearest, then, thine image riseth brightly,
    I am weary of my life, for Edward's sake.

When in the halls of light, all bright and happy faces,
Smiling turn to greet a friend, and wander on
Far through the distant crowd, my heart thy proud form traces,
My eye is sadly fixed on thee alone.

When that dear, familiar voice, some careless word hath spoken,
When thy brow a moment bends, a cold farewell to take;
Then, dearest, then, my heart is well nigh broken,
I am weary of my life, for Edward's sake.

Oh, Edward! dark my doom!--this heart will love for ever,
    Though thou wilt never share its joy or pain,
Thine eye will turn to mine, and meet its glance, but never
    Beam fondly back on hers who loves in vain.
But when weary life is o'er, and in the grave I'm lying,
    (Silently a woman's heart should hide its love and break; )
Then, dearest, then, some voice shall tell thee, sighing,
    How weary was my life to me, for Edward's sake.

I do not love thee

I do not love thee! No! I do not love thee!
And yet when thou art absent I am sad;
And envy even the bright blue sky above thee,
Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.

I do not love thee! yet, I know not why,
Whate'er thou does seems still well done, to me --
And often in my solitude I sigh --
That those I do love are not more like thee!

I do not love thee! yet when thou art gone
I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear)
Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone
Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.

I do not love thee! yet thy speaking eyes,
With their deep, bright and most expressive blue --
Between me and the midnight heaven arise,
Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.

I know I do not love thee! yet, alas!
Others will scarcely trust my candid heart;
And oft I catch them smiling as they pass,
Because they see me gazing where thou art.

The Cold Change

In the cold change which time hath wrought on love
        (The snowy winter of his summer prime),
Should a chance sigh or sudden tear-drop move
        Thy heart to memory of the olden time;
Turn not to gaze on me with pitying eyes,
        Nor mock me with a withered hope renewed;
But from the bower we both have loved, arise
        And leave me to my barren solitude!

What boots it that a momentary flame
        Shoots from the ashes of a dying fire?
We gaze upon the hearth from whence it came,
        And know the exhausted embers must expire:
Therefore no pity, or my heart will break;
Be cold, be careless -- for thy past love's sake!

Bingen on the Rhine

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,
There was a lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;
But a comrade stood beside him, while his lifeblood ebbed away,
And bent with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
The dying soldier faltered, and he took that comrade's hand,
And he said, "I nevermore shall see my own, my native land:
Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine,
For I was born at Bingen, -- at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around,
To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground,
That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done,
Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun;
And, mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars, --
The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars;
And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline, --
And one had come from Bingen, -- fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age;
For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage.
For my father was a soldier, and even as a child
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;
And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,
I let them take whate'er they would, -- but kept my father's sword;
And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine
On the cottage wall at Bingen, -- calm Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,
When the troops come marching home again with glad and gallant tread,
But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die;
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame,
And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine)
For the honor of old Bingen, -- dear Bingen on the Rhine.

"There's another, -- not a sister: in the happy days gone by
You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;
Too innocent for coquetry, -- too fond for idle scorning, --
O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!
Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere the moon be risen,
My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison), --
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, -- fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along, -- I heard, or seemed to hear,
The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,
The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;
And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk,
Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk!
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly, in mine, --
But we'll meet no more at Bingen, -- loved Bingen on the Rhine."

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, -- his grasp was childish weak,--
His eyes put on a dying look, -- he sighed, and ceased to speak;
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled, --
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead;
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strown;
Yet calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,
As it shone on distant Bingen, -- fair Bingen on the Rhine.