]> <emph rend="bold">Verse Memorials:</emph> 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.

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 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)

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 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. 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. 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.

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. 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.

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. 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. 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. 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! 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. 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. CONTENTS. TRIBUTARY VERSES . . . . . 9 APOLOGY . . . . . 17 INTRODUCTION . . . . . 19 SOLDIER OF THE CROSS . . . . . 43 THE ENVIOUS ROSE . . . . . 46 MY GEM OF DELIGHT . . . . . 47 ON THE DEATH OF MY DAUGHTER . . . . . 49 SERENADE . . . . . 56 IRENE . . . . . 57 GRIEVE NOT, SWEET FLOWER . . . . . 61 LAMENT FOR LORETTO . . . . . 63 IN LIFE'S UNCLOUDED, GAYER HOUR . . . . . 67 NORA . . . . . 69 PERPETUAL LOVE . . . . . 72 OH, IS IT NOT A PITY NOW? . . . . . 73 SALLY RILEY . . . . . 77 THOU IDOL OF MY SOUL, ADIEU . . . . . 107 MONODY . . . . . 109 NO, NO, THE HARP I DARE NOT WAKE . . . . . 113 OH, LET MY HARP, LIKE JUDAH'S LYRE . . . . . 115 AND MUST I TOUCH THE CHORDS AGAIN? . . . . . 117 OH, DO NOT ASK ME NOW FOR RHYME . . . . . 121 O LADY, WHILE A NATION POURS . . . . . 125 THE SEASONS . . . . . 128 THERE IS A MAID I DEARLY LOVE . . . . . 129 THE STAR AND CUP . . . . . 131 OH, I HAVE WEPT O'ER BEAUTY'S DOOM . . . . . 133 OCTAVIA . . . . . 136 SUNSET SKIES . . . . . 137 THEY SAY THOU ART AN ANGEL BRIGHT . . . . . 139 ISABEL . . . . . 141 NAY, TELL ME NOT THAT WOMAN LOVES . . . . . 144 CARMELITA . . . . . 145 TELL ME, BOOK-WORM, STUDIOUS SAGE . . . . . 148 MUSINGS . . . . . 149 THE COQUETTE . . . . . 152 LOVE AND MARRIAGE . . . . . 153 OH, TWINE NO LAUREL-WREATH FOR ME . . . . . 155 O LADY, IF THE STARS SO BRIGHT . . . . . 157 GRIEVE NOT FOR ME . . . . . 159 BEHOLD THE PAINTER S MIMIC POWERS . . . . . 162 TO MARY ANN . . . . . 163 THE GIFT . . . . . 167 GAY SPRING, WITH HER BEAUTIFUL FLOWERS . . . . . 169 SONNET TO SOLITUDE . . . . . 172 ARM FOR THE SOUTHERN LAND . . . . . 173 ODE TO FISHING CREEK . . . . . 176 GIVE TO THE POET HIS WELL-EARNED PRAISE . . . . . 177 TO A VILLAGE COQUETTE . . . . . 179 LOVE . . . . . 182 ANNA COWLES . . . . . 183 THE MARRIAGE DAY . . . . . 187 THE ROSE, THE MOON, AND NIGHTINGALE . . . . . 189 MY LILY, STAR, AND PEACEFUL DOVE . . . . . 191 NO GIRL CAN WIN MY STUBBORN BREAST . . . . . 193 NOURMAHAL . . . . . 195 THE MAIDEN'S REMONSTRANCE . . . . . 197 TO MARION, ON HEARING HER SING . . . . . 199 THE RULING PASSION . . . . . 201 ANACREONTIC . . . . . 203 BEHOLD UPON YON BENDING LIMB . . . . . 205 MARY BELL . . . . . 207 TO MRS. CAROLINE M. SAWYER . . . . . 209 TO MRS. MARY ROBERTS . . . . . 211 TO MISS SOPHIA ROBERTS . . . . . 214 THE BEAU S FAREWELL . . . . . 215 APPENDIX — LINES ON THE DEATH OF MRS. REBECCA LAMAR . . . . . 217 LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS. M`GEHEE, ON THE DEATH OF HER SON . . . . . 219 NOTES . . . . . 223 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. 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! 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; 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, 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, 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. 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, 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; 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. 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; 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 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, 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, 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 — 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; 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 — 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; 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, 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, 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; 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. 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; 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, 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, And have no moral wealth prepared To bless ye when ye're silver-haired, Your fate will be like thoughtless bees, That widely sport in bower and breeze, Yet gather from the rose's bloom No honeyed stores for winter's gloom. Where'er ye go, whate'er ye do, This useful lesson keep in view — That peace below, and bliss above, Are only won by truth and love. NEW YORK, April, 1857. SOLDIER OF THE CROSS. INSCRIBED TO THE PIONEER PREACHER OF TEXAS. I. NAY — tell me not of dangers dire That lie in duty's path; A Warrior of the Cross can feel No fear of human wrath. Where'er the Prince of Darkness holds His earthly reign abhorred, Sword of the Spirit! thee I draw, And battle for the Lord. II. I go, I go to break the chains That bind the erring mind, And give the freedom that I feel, To all of human kind; But oh, I wear no burnished steel, And seek no gory field; My weapon is the Word of God, His promise is my shield. III. And thus equipped, why need I fear, Though hosts around me rise? — There is a power in gospel truth No heathen can despise; And he who boldly fights with that, Will through more perils wade Than the vain warrior, trusting to His bright Damascus blade. IV. No blasts by land or sea can shake The purpose of my soul; The tempest of a thousand winds May sweep from pole to pole, Yet still serene, and fixed in faith, All fear of death I scorn — I know it is my Father's work — He's with me in the storm. V. Then let me go where duty calls, Where God himself commands — Bearing the banner of his Son To dark and distant lands; And if the high and holy cause Require my early fall, A recreant he who would not die For Him who died for all. WRITTEN AT THE SUGGESTION OF MRS. DR. HOXEY, INDEPENDENCE, WASHINGTON COUNTY, TEXAS. THE ENVIOUS ROSE. TO MISS ANNA MILES, ILLINOIS. THE Rose I saw on ANNA'S breast, I deemed the happiest of its race; In such a world of beauty blest, How could it ask a brighter place? Yet all its hues departed soon, Like fading clouds at closing day; — It could not brook superior bloom, And sank in envy's pale decay. MY GEM OF DELIGHT. TO A FAIR FRIEND, MACON, GEORGIA. I. OH, bright is the maiden who wakens my sighs, No planet can equal the light of her eyes; Her form is elastic — her spirit elate — The spring of the willow is seen in her gait; The tones of her laughter are dulcimer-sounds, And gladness is scattered wherever she bounds. Oh, thou art — my CASSA — that maiden so bright, Sweet spirit of beauty, and Gem of Delight. II. What gift shall I bring thee to merit thy love — Some pearl from the ocean, or star from above? What wreath shall I twine thee to soften thy scorn — The laurels of battle, or myrtles of song? Thy will shall be law, and the lofty shall bend; My harp it shall praise thee, my sword shall defend; Then tell me, fair CASSA — oh, tell me to-night, The best way to woo thee, my Gem of Delight. III. Too cold is this climate for beauty like thine; No heart can adore thee so warmly as mine; I laugh at all peril when woman's the prize — The stars of my banner are love-lighted eyes! As swift as a falcon the steed that I ride, And sharp is the sabre that hangs by my side; Then fly with me, CASSA — there's bliss in the flight, And glory shall circle my Gem of Delight. IV. But oh, if my fair one can never be mine, To silence for ever my harp I consign; Undrawn in its scabbard my sabre shall rust, And glory and honors I trample in dust. How cold is all glory by Beauty unblest! Like Erebus' shadows it falls on my breast; But oh, it is sunshine to soul and to sight, When kindled by CASSA, my Gem of Delight. ON THE DEATH OF MY DAUGHTER. IN REPLY TO LINES RECEIVED FROM THE REV. EDWARD FONTAINE, AUSTIN, TEXAS. I. ALL honor to thy minstrel skill, Dear friend of happier days; Thy notes are sweet, but sweeter still The love that prompts thy lays. From sorrows deep, and cherished long, Thou fain wouldst free my heart — Thou wouldst, by thine enchanting song, New hopes and joys impart. II. But vain it is thy harp to strike; My woes thou canst not drown, Unless thy notes, Cecilia's like, Can draw an angel down. Until I meet my daughter fair, Lost Pleiad of my soul, The burning tears of my despair Must ever, ever roll. III. Nor would I, if I could, revive From my distraction wild; I love the grief that keeps alive The memory of my child; And if again by hope betrayed, My soul should court repose, How poorly would the guilt be paid, By all that earth bestows! IV. The morning star that fades from sight, Still beams upon the mind; So doth her beauty leave the light Of memory behind. Thought lost to earth — too early gone — By others seen no more, She is to me still shining on, And brighter than before. V. The smile she wore when last we met, The tear she shed at parting, The kiss upon mine eyelids set To keep my own from starting, Like bright remembered dreams of bliss, Are lingering with me yet — That smile, and tear, and parting kiss, Oh, how can I forget? VI. And you, my friend, who knew her worth, And loved that worth to praise, And how amid the ills of earth She walked in beauty's ways, Will not condemn the grateful tears — The ever-flowing stream — That keeps a loveliness like hers In memory fresh and green. VII. No — let me still in silence keep My vigils o'er her tomb, And with my tears for ever steep The flowers that o'er it bloom. Though all the world should pass it by, A place remembered not, 'T is meet that I should linger nigh, And bless the hallowed spot. VIII. The sacred love, the holy woes, Awakened by the dead, Are like the fragrance of the rose When all its hues are fled; And as beside the grave we stand, The mournful thoughts that rise, Are whispers from the Spirit-Land — Sweet voices from the skies. IX. Then leave, oh leave me to my grief, Too wedded now to part; 'T will duly work its own relief, By eating out the heart; But till my daughter, pure and bright, To me shall reappear, My life must be a sleepless night, Without a star to cheer. X. You tell me that my grief is vain, My child will not return; No earthly tears can wake again The ashes of the urn; You tell me too that she is gone To regions blest and fair — And wrong it is her loss to mourn, Since she's an angel there. XI. I know it all — I know it all; Yet still with grief opprest, My spirit sighs for her recall, And will not be at rest. I can not, can not give her up — I am not reconciled; Oh, take away the bitter cup, And bring me back my child! XII. She was the last enchanting ray That cheered me here below — The only star that lit my way Through this dark world of wo; And now, bereft of that sweet light, Oh, how shall I sustain The shadows of the awful night Which must with me remain! XIII. Like him upon the rocky peak, In wrath and vengeance doomed A victim to the vulture's beak, To suffer unconsumed — So am I doomed in darkness deep, All desolate and chill, To bear a pang that will not sleep — A death that will not kill. XIV. Then be it so — all silently I'll bear the adverse weight; But HE I hope in yonder sky, Who dooms me to my fate, Will, in his own good way and time, My lovely one restore — If not on earth, in that blest clime Where parting is no more. XV. I know He will — for even now, On Faith's enraptured eye He breaketh, like his own bright bow Of promise from on high. Amid my deep despondency, He whispers in my ear — “Thy daughter may not come to thee, But thou canst go to her.” XVI. Enough, enough — I ask no more — A light has flashed within; My child from earth He only bore, To lure me on to him. Then let him keep the jewel bright, Oh, let him wear the gem; I would not snatch so pure a light From his bright diadem. XVII. The only boon, O GOD, I crave, Is soon thy face to see; I long to pass the dull, cold grave, And wing my way to thee — To thee, O GOD, and all my friends In thine eternal sphere, Where I may make some poor amends For all my errors here. RICHMOND, TEXAS. SERENADE. TO MISS ANNA TRUESDELL, BROOKLYN. I. THE moon, the cold, chaste moon, my love, Is riding in the sky; And like a bridal veil, my love, The clouds are floating by. Oh, brighter than that planet, love, Thy face appears to me; But when shall I behold its light, Through bridal drapery? II. We owe our gratitude, my love, To Sol's enlivening ray; And yet I prize the moonlight, love, Above the glare of day. O bonnie ANN, thou art to me Whate'er in both is best — Thou art the moonbeam to mine eye, The sunbeam to my breast. IRENE, THE JENNY LIND OF GEORGIA. I. I'VE seen the belles of many lands, Pure gems of living light — Their native climes illumining As stars illumine night; And yet in Beauty's gorgeous sky, No planet have I seen With Georgia's sparkling gem to vie — The beautiful IRENE. II. She is the incarnation bright Of some angelic thought; She is the poetry of heaven In human figure wrought; And never yet was writ or read So sweet a book, I ween, As that fair volume of delight — The beautiful IRENE. III. Her close alliance to the skies Is seen in all her ways; We know it by her gentleness, We feel it in her lays; And who can tell how bright and blest — How ever fresh and green — This world would be, if all were like The beautiful IRENE! IV. There is no winter where she smiles, No darkness where she dwells; She is a morning on the hills, A May among the dells. The groves and valleys know their spring, The roses know their queen, And all the wild-birds sing in tune To beautiful IRENE. V. I well remember all the songs She sung me at Lanier's; They fell upon my melting heart Like music from the spheres; And still as sweet as silver bells O'er waters heard at e'en, The siren-notes are sounding on, Of beautiful IRENE. VI. Oh, let me wander where I may, From Georgia's valleys bright, To where the Brazos rolls its waves In musical delight — Fond Memory still will turn to hail, Through every changing scene, The gem that decks her native land — The beautiful IRENE. VII. Sweet mistress of the tuneful art, Bright child of melody, My star, my poem, and my spring, All happiness to thee! — May sorrow never reach thy heart, No shadows intervene, To dim the Eden blooming there, Sweet, beautiful IRENE. VIII. And when thy bright career is o'er Of loveliness and grace, And thou art called among the stars, To take thy shining place — Oh, mayst thou to that higher home Ascend in all thy sheen, And be the morning planet there, Sweet, beautiful IRENE! MONTGOMERY, ALABAMA. GRIEVE NOT, SWEET FLOWER. TO A YOUNG LADY OF MOBILE. I. GRIEVE not, sweet flower, to leave these shades, Grieve not to say farewell; Ye soon shall find a happier home, Where heavenly beauties dwell. Transplanted on my fair one's breast, To shed your fragrance there, Each breath of life will far outweigh Whole centuries elsewhere. II. 'T was thus I whispered to the Rose, As from the dewy dell I plucked it for my favorite fair — The lass I love so well. Nor will a gentle one like her, Reject the gift I bring — Because she is herself a flower, Outblooming all the spring. III. Then take, fair maiden, take the Rose — It blooms alone for thee; And while it basks beneath thy smile, More blest than I can be, Oh, may it whisper what I feel, Yet tremble to avow — A passion deep and long indulged, But never named till now. LAMENT FOR LORETTO. DEDICATED TO HER MOTHER, MRS. HARDMAN, EUFAULA, ALABAMA. I. MILD, blue-eyed queen — enchanting Spring! O'er mountain, dell, and plain, Thou scatter'st with a liberal hand The blessings of thy reign; Ten thousand happy, happy hearts Thy glad return will hail, And who should love thee more than we, Of bright Eufaula's vale? II. And yet, sweet Spring, although thou com'st, In radiant beauty drest, Thou bring'st no solace to our woes — No sunshine to the breast. 'T is ours to mourn the early dead, A child of beauty rare, Whose presence made all seasons bright — A spring-time everywhere. III. We find her not in dale nor dell, We miss her by the hearth, We hear no more her joyous laugh, The music of her mirth. The bower she built is blooming yet, The flowers are fresh and fair, But she who was its life and light Is seen no longer there. IV. She was a joy to every heart, A light to every eye, And sadness found no resting-place When she was sporting nigh. — Unless thou canst that flower restore — Bring back its bloom again, Sweet Spring, we hail not thy return — Thou com'st to us in vain. V. O blest LORETTO, beauteous one, Mild flow'ret of thy race, No vernal joys nor vain delights Can fill thy ruined place. Around the parent-stem may cling The tendrils of the vine, Yet closer still around the heart Our grief for thee must twine. VI. How bright and brief was thy career, How like the star of eve — The fairest of the shining train, And first to take its leave! — And as that planet, pure and bright, Goes gladd'ning down the west, So didst thou sink, in all the light Of loveliness, to rest. VII. Mild evening star! we may not grieve To see thy light decline, For thou wilt come to-morrow eve, And just as brightly shine; But how can we our grief restrain, Or cease our tears to pour, For that sweet star that set so soon, And comes to us no more! VIII. And is it thus? — is loveliness A perishable light — A blessing lent us for a day, To close in endless night? No, lost one, no — thou art not dead — Thy beauty can not die; And we shall meet again, fair child, In thy blest home on high. IX. The hope of this — the pleasing hope Our parting is but brief — Is all that now remains to us, Our only balm of grief. Then let us cease our loud lament, Nor dare our GOD upbraid — The hand, in time, that dealt the blow, Will heal the wound it made. IN LIFE'S UNCLOUDED, GAYER HOUR. TO A LADY IN HOUSTON, TEXAS. I. IN life's unclouded, gayer hour, I bowed to beauty's sway; I felt the eye's despotic power, And trembled in its ray; But beauty now no more enthralls — Its magic spell hath flown; Upon my heart it coldly falls, Like moonlight on a stone. II. The chords of feeling soon were broke, Where love delighted played; Affliction dealt too rude a stroke, And all in ruin laid; Yet, lady fair, there was a time I might have worshipped thee; Thy beauty would have been the shrine Of my idolatry. III. That time is past, and I am left A sad sojourner here — Of hope, of joy, of all bereft, That makes existence dear. Despair hath o'er my bosom cast The gloom of starless night — A darkness which through life must last, Unpierced by beauty's light. NORA, RICHMOND, TEXAS. I. NORA, cease that lively lay; Vain to me its numbers flow; Sing it to the light and gay, Not to him oppressed with wo. Flowery songs that bind to earth, Songs of unreflecting mirth, Sweet to others though they be, No fond raptures bring to me. II. Give me in thy gathered breath, Gushing songs of days gone by — Solemn requiems of death, Wringing tear-drops from the eye. O'er the dead I love to weep, All my thoughts are where they sleep, And I may not brook the glee, Mindless of their memory. III. If thou canst, O lady fair, Charm the buried back again, Breathe, oh breathe the magic air — Bless me with the heavenly strain; And the forms so purely bright, While they break upon my sight, Thou, with them beloved so well, Ever in my heart shalt dwell. IV. Songs thou hast of siren flow, Gloom or gladness to impart — Soothing to the mourner's wo, Cheering to the youthful heart. Give the sad ones to the grave, To the young the merry stave — Binding thus by melody, Youth and age alike to thee. V. And in life's enchanting pride, When to Hymen's rosy bowers, Thou art led a blushing bride, Brighter than thy crowning flowers, I, thy friend, will joy to see One so excellent as thee, Blest with all that's good on earth — Blest according to thy worth. PERPETUAL LOVE. I. PERPETUAL love plays round my heart For some fair form — I do n't know who; I would not with the passion part, Although its object mocks my view. II. To meet a girl with sparkling eye — She is that phantom of my breast; But if a brighter pass me by, I'm sure to love the brighter best. III. I thought, dear LUCY, long ago, For none but thee my soul could sigh; But LAURA spread superior glow — Love waved his wings and bade good-by. IV. Oh, do not say that I'm to blame — 'T is Nature's fault that made me so; Heaven knows my love's a constant flame, But who I love — I do not know. OH, IS IT NOT A PITY, NOW? TO A YOUNG LADY IN MILLEDGEVILLE, GEORGIA. I. OH, is it not a pity, now, That I am growing old; That Time has written on my brow, So legibly and bold, What every glancing eye may see, And folly can not hide — That I am now, of fifty-three, Upon the shady side? II. The happy days, so gay and bright, I never can recall, When beauty was a great delight, And love was all in all. The spring of life is quickly fled — And when it hath declined, A wintry heart and hoary head Are all it leaves behind. III. Yet, lady fair, to whom I pour This light and laughing lay, If guilty Time could but restore The gifts he bore away, I then might breathe a softer tale, A more devoted strain; And oh, if passion might prevail, I should not sing in vain. IV. Behold imbedded in thy ring That gem of sparkling dye, Thy fairy hand illumining With lustre like thine eye; — So should my heart encircle thee, And thou, implanted there, My pure and sparkling gem shouldst be, To light me everywhere. SALLY RILEY. IN TWO CANTOS. SALLY RILEY. 1825. CANTO I. I. SCRIBBLERS there are who ne'er to truth aspire; Insensible to guilt's compunctious shame, They prostitute their venal minds for hire, And stab, assassin-like, at worth and fame. Oh, let them to their destined hell depart, As deeply damned as they're corrupt in heart! II. I'll mention one — the low, abandoned knave, Who publishes a paper called “Diurnal;” A ready rascal and a shameless slave, He labors daily in his task infernal, To vent on truth his helleboric breath — A human Upas, spreading moral death. III. O Mr. GRANTLAND, never like that elf Withhold the meed to worth and talents due; And from the right be never swerved by pelf, But still your old accustomed course pursue, To scourge the graceless scoundrels of the times — Be sure — nay, very sure — you print my rhymes. IV. I do not write for popular applause; I can not lie, the multitude to please; Nor heed I aught your plodding schoolman's laws; I take whatever course may suit my ease, At random steering by the rudder rhyme — Bound to no port, and careless of the clime. V. And ask ye, reader, wherefore I aspire, In spite of genius, to a rambling song, Regardless of the critic's vengeful ire? — Perhaps ye think it is unwise — nay, wrong — To con the verse that can not purchase fame; A skilless effort is the heir of shame. VI. I write obsequious to my fair one's will, And seek no recompense beyond her smiles; If she can tolerate my want of skill, I little heed who censures or reviles; At her command I'll rhyme till reason reels, Though every critic cur comes yelping at my heels. VII. I know that Nature never did infuse In my lethargic clay poetic fires; Nor did I ever wish to woo the muse — Sad is the lot of him whom she inspires — Especially if poor — he ne'er shall claim The smiles of beauty or the meeds of fame. VIII. I had a friend — the best I ever had — The sweetest minstrel of his day and time; He was, indeed, a very gifted lad, And oft the village echoed with his rhyme. But he in life was spurned — in death, forgotten; And why? — because he'd neither cash nor cotton. IX. No more remembered is the child of song — The warm, devoted, and aspiring youth, Whose spirit was a river rolling strong, Melodious in love, and powerful in truth; His worth, his genius, and his tuneful strains, Were all sepulchred with his cold remains. X. By menial hands the humble bier was borne, And he was placed at rest, with few to weep; But Nature seems her fav'rite bard to mourn — For in the valley, where his ashes sleep, She plants perennial flowers of every hue, And bathes them nightly with her tears of dew. XI. No marble rises by the willow-tree, No verse invokes the tribute of a tear; Unlettered dullness scorns his memory, And kindred genius ceases to revere; These lowly lines — which may not hope to live — Are all I have, and these I fondly give XII. In token of my love. — I have no art To paint his virtues, or describe my wo; But surely he must have a marble heart, Insensible to every generous glow, Who can not weep — who has no tears to shed — When memory wakes to view some friend long dead. XIII. Poor HAL has winged his way to realms above, Where none can enter but the pure in heart; That I may meet him in that land of love, Oh, let me from his maxims ne'er depart. How pleasant will it be to recognise Each other, as we tread along the skies! XIV. I've thought the sweetest flower that scents the grove, Was oft the first to lose its vernal bloom; I've thought the child of poesy and love Was oft the earliest victim to the tomb. Is there no power the sinking rose to save? Can no one snatch bright genius from the grave? XV. O Doctor PANGLOSS! what avails thy skill, If thou canst not delay the parting breath? Hast thou no compound rare — no potent pill — With which to combat and to baffle Death? Methinks, indeed, a brain like thine, prolific, Should never be at fault for a specific. XVI. Long hast thou been thy teeming genius training, To perpetrate a book with wisdom rife — Perchance of deep philosophy — explaining The grand phenomena of human life. When wilt thou print? — then none shall physic need; Thy book will physic every one who'll read. XVII. Go on, dear doctor — in thy closet work — I laugh sometimes, but still admit thy worth; Nor gall nor envy in my heart can lurk; And sure thou canst forgive a little mirth, E'en at thy own expense. In former times Didst thou not pen some quite unsparing rhymes? XVIII. Oft have I read thy high-resounding verse With profit and delight; — but since thy Muse Doth not disdain to play at cut and tierce, Thou must not murmur if my own should choose, In sportive mood, to have at thee, old friend, And for thine Oliver a Rowland send. XIX. Then on, I say — the critics may deride Thy “words of learnéd length and thundering sound;” And they may say thou hast pedantic pride, And call thy noddle an obscure profound; But never let them work thee to vexation — To murder honest fame is their vocation. XX. As for myself, I scorn the rabid throng; I do n't their wit nor hateful malice dread; Deaf to their rage, I still pursue my song, Though dull it be as Johnny's anvil-head. 'T is SALLY RILEY that demands the lay; 'T is fame to please her — pleasure to obey. XXI. Oh, SALLY RILEY is a lovely lass, In whom the light of every virtue dwells — A bright divinity that doth surpass All earthly forms in weaving magic spells; The fetters which her young, aurora face, Entwines around the heart, no other can displace. XXII. I well remember when I met her first, And all the rapture of the heavenly sight; She broke upon me like a sudden burst Of glory from the realms of love and light; And never did a Chaldee watch his star With more devotion than I worshipped her. XXIII. She had that day been through the city shopping, And called at Mr. Shaw's to buy a sash; And I — as if by accident — did pop in The moment she was counting down the cash; And from that very time that I first met her, I vowed I'd marry her — if I could get her. XXIV. Two other girls were with her — soon the three, Together linking with their 'kimbo arms, Departed from the store in merry glee, With such high lustre streaming from their charms, As gave a double brilliance to the day, And swept all shadows lying in their way. XXV. The one was of a tall, attractive shape, But seldom equalled, and surpassed by none; She wore a deep vermilion Canton crape, That glistened as its foldings caught the sun; Her ostrich-feathers nodded to the skies, And lambent lightnings arrowed from her eyes. XXVI. The other was of stature rather low, And was in cambric very neatly drest; Disdaining gewgaw and fantastic show, She deemed that simple beauty was the best — And never sought a dandy dunce to win, With shining tinsel or a practised grin. XXVII. No — she was Nature's unaffected child, Exempt from all the blandishment of art; Her modest mien, and manners ever mild, Bespoke the gentle nature of her heart; And he who weds that girl need never roam For bliss — she'll make a paradise of home. XXVIII. But SALLY was the gem for me — far, far Outshining every pure and sparkling thing; Hers was the beauty of a new-born star, The morning's glory, and the bloom of spring. No mortal might behold her eyes and live, Did not her sweetness soothe the wounds they give. XXIX. The moonbeams dancing on the waters bright, The singing of the birds at dewy dawn, The sweet-brier's odor, and the lily's white, The waving osier, and the gliding swan, Are all delightful things — in which we trace Her smiles and melody, her purity and grace. XXX. I will not try to paint the rainbow's hues, Nor sketch the splendor of supernal day. What bard may render justice to the rose, Or concentrate its fragrance in his lay? And yet these tasks were easier far, I ween, Than weave in song my fair one's heavenly sheen. XXXI. She is, indeed, the jewel of her race, And, like the diamond, shines without a peer; The fairest belle that worships her own face, Is but the dark antithesis of her; And he who would her dazzling lights portray, Must dip his pencil in celestial ray. XXXII. One girl hath a good heart — another, sense; A third, distinguished for her beauty bright; — But where is she, of such rare excellence, In whom these qualities do all unite? Such fair perfection, Envy must allow, Was dear MARIA'S once — is SALLY'S now. XXXIII. Ay — not to beauty's fascinating power Is SALLY RILEY'S loveliness confined; Beauty is rightly called a fading flower — Its glories soon are scattered in the wind. Heaven did to her two richer gems impart — A mind reflective, and a feeling heart. XXXIV. Who that has ever heard her counsels wise, Can doubt the soul of goodness whence they came? When laughs her heart, and sport lights up her eyes, What stoic breast, so spiritless and tame, As not to revel in the wit that flows? — I always wish the strain might never close. XXXV. O ye proud belles, in whom no merit glows, Whose value quadrates with your fathers' pence, Be it your task to win the brainless beaux — 'T is SALLY'S praise to please all men of sense; The world may woo you — woo you for your pelf; The world loves SALLY — loves her for herself. XXXVI. To genius, truth, and modesty unknown, Go, flutter like the moth, in rich brocade; For, nursed in folly, and in pride full-blown, Your low ambition lies in vain parade. To bankrupt gentlemen ye are a prize, But never need ye hope to win the wise. XXXVII. Go, wed some doctor with cadaverous jaw, Whose idle drugs are moulding on the shelf; Go, wed some lawyer, who can't practise law, But's doomed to have it practised on himself; Or, take the merchant, who must shortly fail — Be locked in wedlock, or be locked in jail. XXXVIII. Oh, these will tell you that you're fresh and fair, Though horrible as MILTON'S Death and Sin; And that you're witty too they'll freely swear, Though all Bœotia's darkness reigns within. 'T is gold extorts their praise — not wit nor beauty — And well they know that flattery gains the booty. XXXIX. Far nobler conquests SALLY makes than these; Her frowns repel the mercenary slave; But ah! she has the power and will to please The virtuous, generous, and the brave. Then come, ye witless belles, in her behold What ye have not — some worth that is not gold. XL. She is — but stay! — some other time I'll sing Her praise, in bolder verse, if I am able; But now I hear the bell for dinner ring, And this is MARY'S week to grace the table. Excuse me — I must go — indeed, I think That bards, as other folks, should eat and drink. SALLY RILEY. 1843. CANTO II. I. SOME eighteen years ago, when I was young, And life was one continued vernal day, I then my harp to SALLY RILEY strung, And to its music framed a merry lay — But left it incomplete. — I now rewake The slumbering chords for old affection's sake. II. My former canto closed with SALLY'S praise; To honor SALLY was my great, high aim; And I had hoped, in more exalted lays, To place her on the Teneriffe of fame: — But from some cause, to me quite unexpected, She ridiculed my verse, and love rejected. III. This made me angry, and I dropped the theme, And left her beauties unimmortalized; “A change came o'er the spirit of my dream,” And she who was so once beloved and prized, Now o'er my altered nature lost her power, And SALLY was to me as any other flower. IV. “Of chance and change, oh let not man complain; Else never, never will he cease to wail.” — Thus sung the minstrel in his truthful strain, Knowing full well how fickle and how frail Are all things here below, and prone to vex — Especially in reference to the softer sex. V. There's no stability in all creation — No permanence in matter or in mind; E'en rocks themselves are subject to mutation. In every earthly thing some change we find — Except my purse — there is no change in that — Not e'en enough to buy a Roram hat. VI. But woman is — of all this shifting sphere — The most unstable, fluctuating ray; Fair Cynthia changes thirteen times a year, But woman changes oftener every day; And yet, like Cynthia too, I must confess, No change destroys her light of loveliness. VII. For ever varying, and for ever bright, She circles in an orbit wild and wide, Yet scatters blessings in her wayward flight That make us feel she is to Heaven allied — A bright embodiment of fascinations, In spite of all her devilish vacillations. VIII. 'T was so with SALLY — once she was, indeed, As true to me as needle to the pole; — Although I sometimes deemed the Turkish creed Was half-way true — that women have no soul — A jealous thought, that rose like visions wild, But always vanished when my fair one smiled. IX. But, like her sex, she changed. — The verse divine She bade me build, she called it Namby-Pamby; And took my rival's hand instead of mine, Which made me take at Ware's a glass of brandy; Yet wit and sweetness lingered round her still, And won my praise, despite of every ill. X. Nor will I now that lovely one upbraid, Nor wound her spirit by a word unkind; She was, in sooth, a very gentle maid, In manners, taste, and feelings, all refined, And never erred but once — but let that rest — She doubtless meant it kindly for the best. XI. And how I bore my sufferings at that time, It little boots the reader now to know; Perchance I drowned them in a flood of rhyme, Or in the goblet's more oblivious flow; There's one thing certain — that I did not choose To terminate them in a running noose. XII. Oh, Love to me may be a welcome guest, But never can it mar my summer day; The warrior's steel may penetrate my breast, But woman's scorn and coldness can not slay; The spells of beauty and the tricks of art May chain awhile, but can not crush the heart. XIII. I love no longer, when I love in vain; I leave the chary for the smiling maid — And she who treats my passion with disdain, Her scorn shall be with tenfold scorn repaid; Proud Beauty can not triumph in her whims, Unless the lamp of hope she duly trims. XIV. My love for SALLY was an honest glow, And seemed inflexible as Fate's decree. “Wilt thou be mine?” — the gipsy answered, “No!” — Which set at once my captive spirit free; That word dissolved the force of Beauty's spell, And Love, insulted, bade a long farewell. XV. O SALLY RILEY — SALLY RILEY O! — Some eighteen years have passed since last we met, And I have felt the weight of many a wo; But never could, in all my griefs, forget The happy days, when o'er my spirit bright, Thy beauty poured a luminous delight. XVI. I still behold thee in thine early pride, In all the brightness of thy morning ray; And thoughts and feelings through my bosom glide That make our parting seem like yesterday. Mild planet of my youth's idolatry, Thou beamest on me still — a star of memory. XVII. Thy smile, as brilliant as the rainbow's hues; Thy voice, as pleasant as the laughing streams; Thy step, that scarcely shook the morning dews; Thy song, that flowed like music in my dreams — Are all to me as palpable as when, In youthful days, we frolicked down the glen. XVIII. The tricks you played me, and your saucy ways; The wild-goose chases into which you lured me; The ridicule you threw upon my lays; And, finally, the jilt, that fairly cured me Of love and madness, and my rhymes absurd, Are all forgotten now; — they are, upon my word! XIX. I know thee only as an ornament Of womankind — a star of light and truth — My best, bright friend, whose name is blent With all that was delightful in my youth, When pleasures thronged apace, without alloy, And thou the light and life, the soul of every joy. XX. But every earthly pleasure hath its bane, And darkness follows Fancy's vivid rays; The power that bids thy beauties bloom again, Revives the pangs of long-departed days, And makes me pour afresh affliction's tears For the beloved and lost of other years. XXI. Oh, where are now those fair, enchanting maids, Who used to circle round thy father's hearth? Or, lightly sporting in Oconee's shades, Made hills and valleys echo with their mirth? — Alas! along the margin of those waves, Sweet roses, like themselves, are blooming o'er their graves. XXII. I'll name them not — the theme is one of grief — And who will now with me their doom deplore? And yet I sometimes think 't would bring relief To many of my woes, if I could pour My love and gratitude, in one full song, To those whose memories I have cherished long. XXIII. But this may never be — for though my heart May feel the fervor of poetic fires, Yet Nature has denied the pleasing art To clothe in words the feelings she inspires; And I must still in silence bear my cares, Which have no voice, except the voice of tears. XXIV. Then fare ye well, ye once-delightful train — Sweet listeners to, and laughers at, my lays; When I contrast the glories of your reign With all the evil of these after-days, I wish that mine had been your early doom, Instead of lingering here to weep o'er Beauty's tomb. XXV. I met a Rose in life's tumultuous hour, As bright as ever bloomed on Sharon's field; But when I went to pluck the shining flower, I felt the thorn beneath its charms concealed: — Oh, SALLY RILEY was that rose and thorn — I wooed her beauties and received her scorn. XXVI. I then beheld a Lily in the vale, And loved it dearly from the day I found it; It blushed to hear my warm, impassioned tale, But sweetly smiled when to my heart I bound it. That thornless flower was one whose cherished name I hold too sacred for the songs I frame. XXVII. But how can I of her unmindful prove, Who blest me with the light of her blue eyes, And gave me all she had — life, soul, and love, And now is smiling on me from the skies? Oh, that I had the gift of deathless song, That I might sing of her, and not her memory wrong! XXVIII. She was all beauty, melody, and mirth — A spirit bright, that gladdened soul and eye; But as the fair and cherished things of earth, Whose sweetness links them to their kindred sky, Are always first to wither and to fall — So perished she, the loveliest of them all. XXIX. Brief was the space — a few enchanting years, Between her bridal and her burial day; With soul serene, and eye undimmed by tears, She smiled upon her friends and passed away, Like some bright star that blendeth with the morn —