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Verse Memorials:
Electronic Edition.

Lamar, Mirabeau Buonaparte, 1798-1859

Funding from the University of North Carolina Library supported the electronic publication of this title.

Text transcribed by Apex Data Services, Inc.
Images scanned by Risa Mulligan
Text encoded by Apex Data Services, Inc., Amanda Page, and Sarah Ficke
First edition, 2006
ca. 192K
University Library, UNC-Chapel Hill
University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill,
2006.

        © This work is the property of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. It may be used freely by individuals for research, teaching and personal use as long as this statement of availability is included in the text.

Source Description:
(title page) Verse Memorials.
Mirabeau B. Lamar.
[3]-224 p.
New York:
Published by W.P. Fetridge & Co.
1857.

Call number PS2199. L3 V4 (Emory University Library)


        This electronic edition is a part of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill digital library, Documenting the American South.
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Illustration

[Title Page Image]

VERSE MEMORIALS.

BY

MIRABEAU B. LAMAR.


                       "Such is the nature of my lays --
                       Plain, simple strains in Beauty's praise,
                       Designed at first for those fair friends
                       Whose memory with my being blends,
                       And now sent forth, to find their way
                       To minds congenial, grave or gay." INTRODUCTION -- PAGE 38.

NEW YORK:
PUBLISHED BY W. P. FETRIDGE & CO.,
281 BROADWAY.
1857.

Page 4

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857,
BY W. P. FETRIDGE & CO.
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the
Southern District of New York. SAVAGE & McCREA, STEREOTYPERS,
13 Chambers Street, N. Y.

Page 5

DEDICATION.

        TO MRS. WILLIAM L. CAZNEAU -- so favorably known to the public by her pen, as "CORA MONTGOMERY," and now the wife of one of my best and long-cherished friends -- I beg leave to dedicate this little volume. Her name, like that of her husband, is identified with the history of TEXAS. Both have given their highest efforts and the best years of their lives to the support of her interests.

        General CAZNEAU was one of that ever-faithful band of patriots, whose talents, courage, and personal devotion, sustained me amid the multiform trials which surrounded my path in organizing and systematizing the chaotic materials of government which existed in our new-born republic of the LONE STAR when I was called to the Presidency.

Page 6

        To whom, then, among my lady-friends, can I inscribe this collection of kindly reminiscences with more propriety than to the chosen companion of a man endeared to me by years of pleasant associations, and his inflexible adherence to our common principles?

        It is my wish and hope that this humble tribute of esteem to one who is so worthy of being the partner of such a man, will be regarded by him as a feeble recognition of his past services and continued affection.

MIRABEAU B. LAMAR.

RICHMOND, FORT-BEND COUNTY, TEXAS,
February 10, 1857.

Page 7

PREFACE.

        IN presenting this volume to the public, the author is actuated mainly by the desire of manifesting to the friends, who have been so long the sunshine of his life, that he still holds them in grateful remembrance. The verses themselves are very unpretending in their character; and are but fragments of thought and feeling, rescued from the turmoil of a life that permitted little leisure for literary recreation. The style and subjects of the poems indicate very clearly that they were not written for the general public. They are but spontaneous effusions, extorted by the circumstances of the moment, or the solicitations of friendship. As mere literary productions, they are scarcely entitled to consideration; yet it is possible they may find some acceptance, not only with those for whom they were written, but also among congenial minds that are more interested in the feelings of the man than in the genius of the poet. As destitute of intrinsic merit as the author knows them to be, they are, nevertheless, his only fortune. Whatever else he may have attempted or achieved, has been for the benefit of others; and of the rich vineyard in which he has been so long a volunteer laborer, this little cluster of recollections is almost all he can claim as his own, or bequeath to his only child.

Page 8

        That these poems -- which have dropped like wild-flowers along the rugged path of public duty -- may prove hereafter a source of utility and pleasure to the sole offspring of a happy home, is an additional reason for their collection and publication. The author would wish that his little daughter might acquire from these verses a better knowledge of her father's heart -- or at least of some of its impulses -- than she may be able to derive from the public records of his political and military life; for such records generally can very little more than represent the sterner and less attractive phases of character. He is not unwilling -- nay, he desires -- to be judged, as a patriot, a soldier, and a statesman, by his documents and his official acts; but at the same time he would have the child of his heart to know that her father, however rigid in the discharge of official duty, was something more than the mere soldier and politician; and that while he was devoted to his country, he was equally so in his private relations, and always less mindful of himself than of others. This she will gather from the present volume better than from history.

        After all, should these poems -- if it be not a misnomer to dignify them with that name -- possess no other value, they are at least thus far serviceable to the author, in reviving in his heart and keeping alive the recollection of those kindly affections and beautiful associations which gave them birth, and which he would not willingly surrender except with life.

        Such are the motives of the author in sending forth his little volume of MEMORIALS; and in these motives he must find his sole recompense for whatever he may lose, in a literary point of view, by their publication.

NEW YORK, May 12, 1857.

Page 9

TRIBUTARY VERSES.

LINES

TO GENERAL MIRABEAU B. LAMAR.

BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.

I.


                       THE sands have all been golden sparks
                       Which measured out the time
                       Since thou, brave friend! hast been a guest
                       In our chilly northern clime:
                       The sweet and dreamy summer's sun,
                       That kindles half the year
                       The blossoms of thy prairie-land,
                       We can not give thee here.

II.


                       Our eaves are hung with icicles,
                       Our mountains clad in snow;
                       And the jewelry of Winter chains
                       The brooklet's silvery flow.
                       But the sunshine of thy own bright deeds
                       Its genial warmth imparts;
                       And blossoms are surrounding thee,
                       From a thousand friendly hearts.
Page 10

III.


                       High deeds, high thoughts, enkindle still
                       Our northern patriot blood;
                       No frost can reach its sparkling thrill,
                       Or check its ruby flood.
                       Our love will ever linger round
                       That bright and fragrant land,
                       Which owes its wealth and freedom
                       To thy strong and willing hand!

IV.


                       To a wilderness of blushing flowers
                       Thy sword and lute have given
                       High freedom, and the voice of song --
                       Those two best gifts of Heaven.
                       And thou hast won the pale Lone Star
                       Its brightest golden beam;
                       And from our own dear home afar,
                       We joy to watch its gleam.

NEW YORK, March, 1845.

Page 11

STANZAS
TO GENERAL MIRABEAU B. LAMAR.

BY MRS. CAROLINE M. SAWYER.

I.


                       How shall I wake the farewell strain, and weave
                       The simple lay, that may my theme befit?
                       For thou hast bid me sing, and I would leave
                       Some echo in thy soul, to linger yet
                       When thou art far away!

II.


                       High song should greet the gallant and the brave,
                       And lofty numbers swell the proud refrain;
                       Yet, o'er thy brow though verdant laurels wave,
                       And mine is but a woman's faltering strain,
                       Thou wilt accept the lay.

III.


                       By the glad gatherings round the social hearth;
                       The thoughtful mingling, mind with kindred mind;
                       The quiet converse and the gentle mirth;
                       The generous glow and sentiment refined --
                       I shall remember thee!

Page 12

IV.


                       So, in thy home where fadeless beauty dwells --
                       Where broad savannas drink the torrid ray --
                       When in thy breast some pleasant memory swells
                       Of by-gone scenes and friends far, far away --
                       May I remembered be!

V.


                       Yet think of me as thou wouldst think of one
                       For whom 't were well that earth's vain dreams were o'er;
                       Whose troubled journey may be nearly done;
                       Whose spirit yearns to seek the better shore --
                       The beautiful and far!

VI.


                       But fare thee well! -- thy country calls thee back;
                       Lone and in peril, she hath need of thee:
                       Go -- and, in all your proud and shining track,
                       May thou and she alike victorious be! --
                       Adieu to thee -- LAMAR!

NEW YORK, January, 1845.

Page 13

IMPROMPTU
TO MRS. HENRIETTA LAMAR,
ON PRESENTING HER WITH A COPY OF THE KNICKERBOCKER GALLERY.


                       FAIR daughter of a gifted sire,
                       Whose lips were touched with hallowed fire,
                       And glowed with light and thought intense,
                       The very soul of eloquence:
                       And, happier still, the cherished bride
                       Of one who is his country's pride --
                       To whom the blended wreaths belong
                       Of valor, statesmanship, and song:
                       Fair lady, unto thee so blest,
                       And worthy of such noble love --
                       So doubly honored, so caressed,
                       So prized all other forms above --
                       To thee, whose sweetly-cultured mind
                       By every virtue is refined --
                       This wreath of kindred thoughts I send,
                       A tribute from thy husband's friend.

A. B. MEEK.

MOBILE, February 21, 1855.

Page 15

CONTENTS.

Page 17

APOLOGY.


                       I NEVER hoped in life to claim
                       A passport to exalted fame;
                       'T is not for this I sometimes frame
                       The simple song --
                       Contented still, with humble name,
                       To move along.


                       I write because there's joy in rhyme;
                       It cheers an evening's idle time;
                       And though my verse the true sublime
                       May never reach,
                       Yet Heaven will never call it crime,
                       If truth it teach.


                       The labor steals the heart from wo;
                       It makes it oft with rapture glow;
                       And always teaches to forego
                       Each low desire;
                       Then why on those our blame bestow
                       Who strike the lyre?


                       If virtue in the song be blent,
                       I know no reason to repent
                       My hours of studious content,
                       And lettered joy;
                       'T were well if leisure ne'er was spent
                       In worse employ.

Page 19

VERSE MEMORIALS.

INTRODUCTION.

I.


                       O GENTLE ladies, gay and bright,
                       For you -- and you alone -- I write;
                       And if my verse shall fail to please,
                       For want of your own native ease,
                       You must your faithful bard forgive,
                       Whose songs are not designed to live;
                       Who only cons a cheerful lay --
                       Light ditty of a summer's day --
                       To share, like flowers, a transient while,
                       The light of Beauty's gracious smile,
                       And then be idly thrown aside --
                       For ever lost in Lethe's tide!
Page 20

II.


                       It grieves me, gentle friends, to know
                       That ye, from whom our comforts flow,
                       Should not in just proportion share
                       The brilliant joys you scatter here:
                       Yet so it is -- 't is yours, the while
                       All earth is lighted by your smile,
                       To see your virtues unrepaid,
                       Your wit despised, your love betrayed;
                       Nor feel one bliss your charms impart,
                       Reflected back upon the heart.

III.


                       Proud man may take the morning's wing
                       And fly wherever dwells the Spring;
                       The world of passion lies before him,
                       And Beauty's light is shining o'er him;
                       And though he may not realize
                       The highest objects of his sighs,
                       He still at least retains the right
                       To chase the phantoms of delight.
                       But such is not fair woman's doom --
                       The world she decks is but her tomb!
                       She must not after pleasure rove,
                       She must not tread the Paphian grove;
Page 21


                       She can not play the warrior bold,
                       She can not delve in mines for gold;
                       Denied to her the helm of state --
                       She dares in nothing to be great:
                       The only bliss that she can know,
                       Must from domestic comforts flow;
                       And should these blessings ne'er attend,
                       Then welcome Death, her only friend.

IV.


                       Restricted thus -- forbid to roam --
                       Chained like a captive to her home --
                       How more than cruel must it be,
                       If he, who rules her destiny,
                       Should make that home the home of tears --
                       A dungeon of despairing years!
                       Yet this has been, and still must be,
                       While woman's bound and man is free.
                       To Beauty's sacred rights unjust,
                       Sad recreant to his troth and trust,
                       The husband ceases soon to prize
                       The once bright angel of his sighs;
                       Beholds unmoved her falling tears,
                       Contemns her fondness, mocks her fears;
                       And, turning from her cheerful beauty,
                       Despising truth, and loathing duty,
Page 22


                       Seeks in the horrid dens of vice
                       The madd'ning cup -- the treach'rous dice --
                       And all those joys, debased and vain,
                       That bring destruction in their train;
                       While she, who once, with soul elate,
                       Entwined with his, her hope and fate,
                       And fondly deemed her home would prove
                       An Eden-world of light and love,
                       Now finds that home all wo and strife --
                       A dark entombment of her life --
                       Where no sweet ray of hope can come,
                       To light the deep, sepulchral gloom.
                       The wretch that blights, with serpent-art,
                       The paradise of woman's heart,
                       Should, serpent-like, be doomed to feel
                       The iron crush of every heel.

V.


                       There lies in Fancy's fairy clime,
                       Like Eden in its early prime,
                       A lovely landscape, fresh and green,
                       With fragrant flowers and waters sheen,
                       And gentle birds of plumage gay,
                       Pouring their songs from every spray.
                       Fond woman thinks, if she could dwell,
                       Embowered with love, in that fair dell,
Page 23


                       Her life like some bright stream would be,
                       Flowing in light and melody.
                       But when she seeks with hasty feet
                       The blessings of that green retreat,
                       The luring lawn is scarcely passed,
                       Ere darkness over all is cast;
                       And soon she finds her fairy ground
                       A dreary waste with ruin crowned.
                       The verdure green has disappeared,
                       The birds are flown -- no music heard --
                       The turbid waters scarcely flow,
                       And every flower has lost its glow:
                       All, all are changed -- the vision flies,
                       And hope, without fruition, dies. --
                       O woman fair, that landscape green,
                       Is married life at distance seen;
                       The dreary waste it proves to be,
                       Is married life as found by thee.

VI.


                       Now, if this realm were mine to-day,
                       And I a king of boundless sway,
                       Fair woman soon, from every wo,
                       Should leap exulting like the doe,
                       And no presumptuous man should dare
                       To build his bliss on her despair.
Page 24


                       All tyrant-laws I would explode --
                       I'd purge the statutes -- change the code --
                       And by some system, just and true,
                       Secure the rights to Beauty due.
                       But since the world is prone to slight
                       The wisdom of a rhyming wight,
                       And falsely deem the tuneful tribe
                       Unfit for aught but jest and jibe,
                       I must content me with my lays,
                       To sing in Truth and Virtue's praise,
                       And humbly lay the wreath I twine
                       An offering frail at Beauty's shrine.
                       I can not brook the soulless bard,
                       Who lacks for woman due regard --
                       Who sees no heaven within her eyes,
                       And all her world of worth denies.
                       To me she is a planet bright,
                       An ever-faithful beacon-light --
                       The star I seek to guide my way,
                       Whose lustre never leads astray;
                       And he, the minstrel mean and vile,
                       Who would her sacred name defile,
                       Should ne'er in life those raptures know
                       Which fame and beauty can bestow.
                       O may his songs remain unread,
                       No honors crown his recreant head,

Page 25


                       And woman's love, like morning light,
                       Ne'er dawn on his distracted night!

VII.


                       Ungrateful man! by Beauty blessed,
                       Too fondly cherished and caressed,
                       When will you learn the boon to prize --
                       The blessing sent you from the skies --
                       An angel with the name of Wife --
                       Bright rainbow of your stormy life?
                       Oh, soothe her by each gentle art,
                       Allay the anguish of her heart,
                       And leave her not, beneath your scorn,
                       To sink like some sweet bloom of morn;
                       But wear her as the priceless gem
                       That decks a monarch's diadem.
                       She is the jewel of your youth,
                       Your manhood's talisman of truth,
                       And still will be, in life's decline,
                       Your shelt'ring and sustaining vine.
                       Then be to her as she to you,
                       For ever kind -- for ever true;
                       And while her daily smiles you share,
                       Fond object of her constant care,
                       Oh, let it be your highest pride
                       Through life to linger by her side;
Page 26


                       And feel and know that, come what will,
                       One star is beaming o'er you still!

VIII.


                       The sweetest wife, and most beloved,
                       May be to transient anger moved,
                       As quiet lakes and tranquil seas
                       Are ruffled by the passing breeze;
                       But who for this shall love her less,
                       Or slacken in his fond caress?
                       If sometimes, mid her thousand cares,
                       She should her husband chide in tears --
                       Rebuke him for some fault forgot,
                       Some error best remembered not --
                       Perchance a something undesigned,
                       A word or look she deemed unkind,
                       Or, hurtful more to woman's pride,
                       Some boon demanded and denied --
                       Oh, let him not, with angry flash,
                       Retort in language rude and rash;
                       But, folding in a warm embrace,
                       Her lovely form of perfect grace,
                       Inflict upon the rosy pout,
                       Some fifty kisses long drawn out,
                       And thus a sweet revenge impose --
                       The only one that honor knows.
Page 27

IX.


                       And does my HENRIETTA say --
                       "I like the precepts of your lay,
                       But more it would my soul delight
                       To see you practise what you write?" --
                       Nay, say not so -- nor e'en in jest,
                       Disturb the halcyon of that breast,
                       In which thy image lies enshrined,
                       Like pearl in Ocean's caves confined.
                       I may, indeed, have often erred,
                       And deeply wronged my bonny bird;
                       But, dearest one, as down we go
                       Life's chequered scenes of joy and wo,
                       'T is wisdom's part to cull the rose,
                       And leave the nightshade where it grows.
                       If e'er, by angry word or deed,
                       I've caused thy gentle heart to bleed,
                       And left thee sorrowing by the hearth,
                       Neglectful of thy matchless worth,
                       A due repentance now is mine,
                       And sweet forgiveness must be thine.
                       E'en while my passions went astray,
                       My heart still loved the better way;
                       And oft in deep contrition longed
                       To kneel before the shrine I wronged;
Page 28


                       For how could I forget the bride
                       I wooed and won in beauty's pride --
                       And, dearer still, the faithful wife
                       Whose love has blessed my troubled life?
                       The needle, forced by some rude jar,
                       Forsakes awhile its polar star;
                       Yet feeling still its secret sway,
                       It always settles to that ray:
                       So doth my spirit, tempest-tost,
                       Too oft its helm of reason lost,
                       Still turn to thee, its polar light --
                       The star that ever guides aright.
                       Then cease, my HENRIE -- cease to chide --
                       Look only on the brighter side;
                       And when around our humble hearth
                       We meet again in joy and mirth,
                       Oh, bend on me thine eye of light,
                       In token sweet that all is right --
                       As I shall cast me on thy breast,
                       My only home of peace and rest!

X.


                       Full soon I hope in Texan shades --
                       Fair land of flowers and blooming maids --
                       To roam enraptured by thy side,
                       As blessed with thee on Brazos' tide
Page 29


                       As when I first, on Galvez' isle,
                       Walked in the rainbow of thy smile.
                       We'll rise, my love, at early dawn,
                       We'll ramble down the dewy lawn,
                       We'll drink the freshness of the breeze,
                       We'll wake the wild-birds in the trees;
                       And as we go through glen and glade,
                       Culling bright flowers thy locks to braid,
                       Thy voice, in converse soft and clear,
                       Shall be my spirit's dulcimer.
                       No bodings dark shall intervene,
                       No shadows dim the blissful scene;
                       But pleasant thoughts -- sweet, peaceful dove --
                       Thoughts born of beauty, truth, and love --
                       Shall in thy Eden-bosom rise,
                       And send their moonlight through thine eyes;
                       Or, breathing inward quietness,
                       Shall silent dwell in their recess,
                       Like hoarded stores of rich perfume,
                       Locked in the rose-bud ere it bloom.
                       The lark's first carol to the morn,
                       Will find us in the field of corn --
                       The distant field far down the dell,
                       Whose lively green thou lov'st so well;
                       And ere Aurora's beams shall mar
                       The lustre of the Morning Star,

Page 30


                       We'll seek again our peaceful cot,
                       When thine shall be the cheerful lot
                       Thy household duties to resume;
                       And mine the task -- the sterner doom --
                       To drive the ploughshare through the soil,
                       Or mingle in the world's turmoil.
                       But what is labor -- what is strife --
                       And what are all the ills of life --
                       If man but meet them undeterred,
                       By God sustained and beauty cheered?

XI.


                       When duty's claims no longer press,
                       And labor grants us sweet recess,
                       Oft will we roam, in frolic-mood,
                       Through valleys wide and tangled wood,
                       And reap the joy that Nature yields
                       To all who love her open fields.
                       For thee, my love, will Spring unfold
                       Her gorgeous robes of green and gold;
                       And, like a troop of rural maids,
                       The flowery children of her shades
                       Their welcome guest will smiling greet,
                       And look their best to look as sweet.
                       The rose will blush with deeper red,
                       The lily hold a higher head,
Page 31


                       The trees assume a livelier green,
                       The waters roll in brighter sheen;
                       And all things pleasing, all things bright,
                       Whate'er inspires a gay delight,
                       Shall lend their soft, enchanting powers,
                       To gild and bless the flying hours,
                       And to thy pure and gentle heart
                       A radiant glow of joy impart.

XII.


                       What God designs for our delight,
                       It is ingratitude to slight;
                       And, baser still, with selfish pride,
                       To seize the joys, and not divide.
                       Poor worth, indeed, the happiest lot,
                       If kindred love can share it not!
                       So, dearest one, as forth we wend,
                       The good and lovely shall attend --
                       And hand in hand, and side by side,
                       We'll frolic all till eventide.
                       With sparkling eye and spirit gay,
                       Your sister, love, shall lead the way,
                       And, with her sweet Euterpean art,
                       Awake bright joy in every heart.
                       Her daughter, too -- celestial born --
                       Bright rising star of early morn --
Page 32


                       Shall o'er the flowery path we tread,
                       The sunshine of her beauty shed.
                       Her fairy feet, where'er she goes,
                       Shall fall so lightly on the rose,
                       As not to shake the sparkling dews
                       That hang like diamonds on its hues.
                       LOLA, sweet LOLA, shall be there,
                       With coal-black eye and sunny hair;
                       An elfin-sprite -- a fairy thing --
                       Light as a swallow on the wing,
                       Rich as the rose's crimson flush,
                       And laughing like the fountain's gush,
                       As o'er the flowery mead she hies,
                       In chase of rainbow butterflies.
                       And many a lovely one beside,
                       In youthful bloom and beauty's pride,
                       Shall mingle in the gay parade --
                       Themselves a sunlight without shade.
                       Nor shall the sprightly lassies lack
                       Attendants on their shining track;
                       For round their beauty's dazzling rays,
                       Like moths around the taper's blaze,
                       The beaux shall flock -- a chosen band,
                       The best and noblest of the land --
                       Gay, gallant youths, from vices free,
                       Of lofty truth and chivalry;

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                       For such alone, and not the vile,
                       Should share the light of Beauty's smile.
                       So bright, my love, the train shall be,
                       So linked by social harmony,
                       That all who shall behold the sight
                       Will say with wonder and delight --
                       "Oh, what a garland have you wove,
                       Of living beauty, light, and love!"

XIII.


                       And where is she, our beauteous friend,
                       The boasted flower of "Old Fort Bend"?
                       Oh, she shall in our sports unite,
                       Sweet queen of beauty, love, and light.
                       I name her not -- but well opine
                       That all will know her by this sign --
                       The lady of cerulean eye,
                       Of aspect sweet and mild reply.
                       By those who know and love her well,
                       She's styled "The Lily of the Dell."
                       Her fairy form is light and free,
                       As flexile as the willow-tree,
                       And, like that tree, though ne'er at rest,
                       Is still with graceful motion blest.
                       From Rio Bravo to Sabine,
                       A fairer face may not be seen --
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                       All radiant with happy thought,
                       And yet like Grecian sculpture wrought.
                       The wedded roses on her cheek
                       A thousand modest virtues speak;
                       For, like the fragrance of the rose,
                       Sweet truth in all her language flows.
                       Her honeyed lips of vermil dye,
                       Whose breath with Eden-gales might vie,
                       Are all too pure, too free from guile,
                       To harshly speak, or falsely smile;
                       Nor can her bright and sparkling eyes,
                       In which the light of genius lies,
                       Direct against a sister's heart,
                       Malignity's envenomed dart.
                       No -- she is good as she is fair,
                       A sunny blessing everywhere;
                       An angel to the suffering poor,
                       Dispensing kindness evermore;
                       But most the friend of modest worth,
                       The unregarded good of earth,
                       Who pine neglected in the shade,
                       Where Pride would blush to tender aid.
                       At home, where woman best appears,
                       She's mindful of her household cares;
                       The ever cheerful, faithful wife,
                       Bright jewel of her husband's life;

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                       And more beloved by all, I ween,
                       For charms like these -- too rarely seen --
                       Than flaunting dames in rich brocade,
                       To folly wed, and vice betrayed.
                       How sweet to hear her flowing words,
                       Soft as the song of summer birds!
                       Her lute-like voice, with truth combined,
                       Is music married to the mind,
                       Still changing with unlabored grace
                       To suit the purpose, time, and place.
                       As subjects grave or gay provoke,
                       To sober thought or merry joke,
                       That voice flows on like honeyed streams
                       Of melody in morning dreams.
                       When leisure leaves her to be gay,
                       And all is bright as rosy May,
                       Behold her in the dance's maze,
                       A floating star of dazzling rays,
                       The glory of the festal hall,
                       The light, the life, the soul of all --
                       Dispensing, like Euphrosyné,
                       The joy of motion -- light of glee --
                       Until the gazer almost deems
                       Himself involved in golden dreams,
                       Or thinks some form of heavenly birth
                       Had come in rainbows to the earth,

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                       To show this world how purely bright
                       The creatures of supernal light.
                       She is -- but stay! -- I find, my dear,
                       I'm painting you instead of her;
                       For on my soul, and sense, and sight,
                       Is stamped so deep your image bright,
                       I can no other charms review,
                       But those that live and breathe in you: --
                       So let me change to sable dye,
                       The azure of that sparkling eye --
                       And lo! the "Lily of the Dell"
                       Is but my own sweet Nonpareil!

XIV.


                       The day is spent. At evening hour,
                       We'll sit and sing in LOLA'S bower,
                       Or frolic on the velvet green,
                       Beneath the moon's inviting sheen;
                       Nor shall one thought or passion rude
                       Upon the peaceful scene intrude;
                       But friendship, love, and gay good-will,
                       Shall triumph over every ill.
                       Thus will we many a summer day
                       Devote to pleasures light and gay --
                       Sweet pastimes of the cheerful mind,
                       And of that pure and guiltless kind,
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                       That Memory often will restore
                       With fond delight when all is o'er.

XV.


                       O ye, who may by chance peruse
                       These gathered products of my muse,
                       Remember that my songs were writ
                       To show my love, and not my wit;
                       And hard it were by rigid rule
                       To judge the bard of such a school.
                       My verse may want the torrent's force,
                       And some may scorn its quiet course;
                       Yet there is many a bosom still,
                       That echoes to the rippling rill.
                       What though no vivid lightnings shine
                       Along my loose and careless line,
                       Yet welcome still in summer night
                       May be the fire-fly's glancing light.
                       The bard whom love alone beguiles,
                       Who only sings for beauty's smiles --
                       To wake in souls of gentle tone
                       The tenderness that thrills his own --
                       May never gain, by lofty thought
                       And daring speech, the purpose sought;
                       For gentle woman, pure of heart,
                       Is won by nature, not by art;
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                       And welcome more than florid lies
                       Is truth to her in homely guise.
                       Such is the nature of my lays --
                       Plain, simple strains in Beauty's praise;
                       Designed at first for those fair friends
                       Whose memory with my being blends,
                       And now sent forth to find their way
                       To minds congenial, grave or gay.
                       Oh, could their simple tones impart
                       One throb of joy to woman's heart,
                       The bard would find, for all his toil,
                       An over-payment in her smile.

XVI.


                       It would my spirit deeply grieve
                       If any song of mine should leave
                       A stain upon the tender mind,
                       Or tempt to pleasures unrefined.
                       I sometimes write in merry style,
                       To wake the gay, good-natured smile --
                       To cast a gleam, a flitting ray
                       Of sunshine o'er a cloudy day;
                       But not for all Australia's gold
                       Would I one evil thought unfold,
                       Or over Guilt's abhorrent mien
                       Extend a veil of silver sheen.
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                       No -- rather let me gently show
                       The goodly way the world should go;
                       Inspire the young, unsullied mind
                       With love of GOD and humankind,
                       And teach the beautiful of earth
                       That blended piety and mirth
                       Can brighten all things here below,
                       And save the heart from many a wo.
                       If, after all, should sorrows rude
                       Disturb the bosom's quietude,
                       Be mine the gentle task to dry
                       The tear that darkens Beauty's eye,
                       And taste the joy which all must feel
                       Who shall the wounded spirit heal.

XVII.


                       And now ye damsels sweet and shy,
                       One friendly word, and then good-by. --
                       Youth is the season of delight,
                       And pleasure too is Beauty's right;
                       But wo betide the maid who strays
                       From Virtue's pure and sacred ways,
                       To gather on forbidden ground
                       The joys which never yet were found!
                       The wicked may not hope for rest;
                       The good and wise alone are blest;
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                       And those who think that rapture dwells
                       In Error's dark, secluded dells,
                       Will find -- when Vice has sent his dart
                       Envenomed to the bleeding heart --
                       A disappointment dark and deep,
                       A dread remorse that will not sleep,
                       A deathless pang, a foul disgrace
                       Which time and tears can ne'er efface.
                       Then fly, ye ever-smiling throng,
                       Sweet listeners to my careless song --
                       For ever fly the Upas-shade,
                       Where all that's beautiful must fade,
                       And seek those valleys pure and bright,
                       Fair, smiling vales of love and light,
                       Where sacred Truth has built her shrine,
                       And made the landscape half divine.

XVIII.


                       I would not have you over-sage,
                       Nor prisoned in a golden cage,
                       But free to roam, to sport and sing
                       With lightsome heart, like birds of spring;
                       And, dancing with the smiling hours,
                       Throw sunshine over fields and flowers.
                       Yet, lassies, let me say again,
                       Nor deem reiteration vain,
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                       That virtue is the joy of youth --
                       There is no peace apart from truth;
                       And every pleasure wrongly bought
                       Will be revenged in sober thought.
                       If, in your frolics light and gay,
                       Ye quite forget the coming day,
              &#