Poems Now First Collected
Song Composed for Washington’s Birthday,
and Respectfully Inscribed to the Officers and Members of the Washington Light Infantry of Charleston, February 22, 1859
A hundred years and more agoA little child was born—To-day, with pomp of martial show,We hail his natal morn.
Who guessed as that poor infant weptUpon a woman’s knee,A nation from the centuries steptAs weak and frail as he?
Who saw the future on his browUpon that happy morn?We are a mighty nation nowBecause that child was born.
To him, and to his spirit’s scope,Besides a glorious home,We owe that what we have and hopeAre more than Greece and Rome.
A Bouquet
Take first a Cowslip, then an Asphodel,A bridal Rose, some snowy Orange flowers;A Lily next, and by its spotless bellPlace the bright Iris, darling of the showers;Set gold Nasturtiums, Elder blooms between,And Heart’s-ease to the Orchis marry sweetly;Then with red Pinks, and slips of Evergreen,You will possess—all folded up discreetly—In one bouquet, that none but you may know,The name I love beyond all names below.
Lines: “I Stooped from Star-Bright Regions”
I stooped from star-bright regions, whereThou canst not enter even in prayer;And thought to light thy heart and hearthWith all the poesy of earth.
Oh, foolish hope! those mystic gleamsTo thee were unsubstantial dreams;The paltry world had made thee blind,And shut thy heart and dulled thy mind.
I was a vassal at thy feet,And cringed more meanly than was meet,And since I dared not to be free,Was scouted as a slave should be.
I gave thee all—my truth, my trust—I bowed my spirit in the dust,I put a crown upon thy brow,And am its proper victim now.
A Trifle
I know not why, but ev’n to meMy songs seem sweet when read to thee.
Perhaps in this the pleasure lies—I read my thoughts within thine eyes.
And so dare fancy that my artMay sink as deeply as thy heart.
Perhaps I love to make my wordsSing round thee like so many birds,
Or, maybe, they are only sweetAs they seem offerings at thy feet.
Or haply, Lily, when I speak,I think, perchance, they touch thy cheek,
Or with a yet more precious bliss,Die on thy red lips in a kiss.
Each reason here—I cannot tell—Or all perhaps may solve the spell.
But if she watch when I am by,Lily may deeper see than I.
Lines: “I Saw, or Dreamed I Saw, Her Sitting Lone”
I saw, or dreamed I saw, her sitting lone,Her neck bent like a swan’s, her brown eyes thrownOn some sweet poem—his, I think, who singsOenone, or the hapless Maud: no ringsFlashed from the dainty fingers, which held backHer beautiful blonde hair. Ah! would these blackLocks of mine own were mingling with it now,And these warm lips were pressed against her brow!And, as she turned a page, methought I heard—Hush! could it be?—a faintly murmured word,It was so softly dwelt on—such a smilePlayed on her brow and wreathed her lip the whileThat my heart leaped to hear it, and a flameBurned on my forehead—Sa’ra!—‘t was my name.
Sonnet: “If I Have Graced No Single Song of Mine”
If I have graced no single song of mineWith thy sweet name, they all are full of thee;Thou art my Muse, my “May”, my “Madeline”:But “Julia”!—ah! that gentle name to meIs something far too sacred for the throngOf worldly listeners ’round me. Yet ev’n nowI weave a chaplet for thy sinless brow;—Wilt thou not wear it? ‘T is a fashionable song,—I will not say of what,—but on it IHave wreaked heart, mind, my love, my hopes of fame,Yet after all it hath no nobler aimThan thy dear praise. Ere many moons pass by,When the lost gem is set, the crown complete,I’ll lay a poet’s tribute at thy feet.
To Rosa—: Acrostic
I took a Rosebud from a certain bower,And by its side placed an Orange flower,Then with the Speedwell, blended the perfumeAnd the sweet beauty of an Apple-bloom,And thus, ‘t is one of the loveliest feats,Is spelled a gentle lady’s name in sweets.