It was the lovely moon--she lifted
Slowly her white brow among
Bronze cloud-waves that ebbed and drifted
Faintly, faintlier afar.
Calm she looked, yet pale with wonder,
Sweet in unwonted thoughtfulness,
Watching the earth that dwindled under
Faintly, faintlier afar.
It was the lovely moon that lovelike
Hovered over the wandering, tired
Earth, her bosom gray and dovelike,
Hovering beautiful as a dove....
The lovely moon:--her soft light falling
Lightly on roof and poplar and pine--
Tree to tree whispering and calling,
Wonderful in the silvery shine
Of the round, lovely, thoughtful moon.

Tune - "I do confess thou art sae fair."


I.

    I do confess thou art sae fair,
        I wad been o'er the lugs in love,
    Had I na found the slightest prayer
        That lips could speak thy heart could muve.
    I do confess thee sweet, but find
        Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets,
    Thy favours are the silly wind,
        That kisses ilka thing it meets.

II.

    See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew,
        Amang its native briers sae coy;
    How sune it tines its scent and hue
        When pou'd and worn a common toy!
    Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide,
        Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile;
    Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside
        Like ony common weed and vile.

When the might of the summer
Is most on the sea;
When the days overcome her
With joy but to be,
With rapture of royal enchantment, and sorcery that sets her not free,
But for hours upon hours
As a thrall she remains
Spell-bound as with flowers
And content in their chains,
And her loud steeds fret not, and lift not a lock of their deep white manes;
Then only, far under
In the depths of her hold,
Some gleam of its wonder
Man's eye may behold,
Its wild-weed forests of crimson and russet and olive and gold.
Still deeper and dimmer
And goodlier they glow
For the eyes of the swimmer
Who scans them below
As he crosses the zone of their flowerage that knows not of sunshine and snow.
Soft blossomless frondage
And foliage that gleams
As to ...

O the frozen valley and frozen hill make a coffin wide and deep,
And the dead river lies, all its laughter stilled within it, fast asleep.

The trees that have played with the merry thing, and freighted its breast with leaves,
Give never a murmur or sigh of woe - they are dead - no dead thing grieves.

No carol of love from a song-bird's throat; the world lies naked and still,
For all things tender, and all things sweet, have been touched by the gruesome chill.

Not a flower - a blue forget-me-not, a wild rose, or jasmine soft -
To lay its bloom on the dead river's lips, that have kissed them all so oft.

But look! a ladder is spanning the space 'twixt earth and the sky beyond,
A ladder of gold for the Maid of Grace - the strong, the subtle, the fond!

Spring, with...

The western breeze is springing up, the ships are in the bay,
And spring has brought a happy change as winter melts away.
No more in stall or fire the herd or plowman finds delight;
No longer with the biting frosts the open fields are white.

Our Lady of Cythera now prepares to lead the dance,
While from above the kindly moon gives an approving glance;
The Nymphs and comely Graces join with Venus and the choir,
And Vulcan's glowing fancy lightly turns to thoughts of fire.

Now it is time with myrtle green to crown the shining pate,
And with the early blossoms of the spring to decorate;
To sacrifice to Faunus, on whose favor we rely,
A sprightly lamb, mayhap a kid, as he may specify.

Impartially the feet of Death at huts and castles strike;
The influenza carri...

Died at Hartford, October 23d, 1861, aged 20.


                    How beautiful in death
The young and lovely sleeper lies--
Sweet calmness on the close-sealed eyes,
Flowers o'er the snowy neck and brow
Where lustrous curls profusely flow;
If 'twere not for the icy chill
That from her marble hand doth thrill,
And for her lip that gives no sound,
And for the weeping all around,
                    How beautiful were death.

                    How beautiful in life!
Her pure affections heavenward moving,
Her guileless heart so full of loving,
Her joyous smile, her form of grace,
Her clear mind lighting up the face,
And making home a blessed place,
Still breathing thro' the parents' heart
A gladness words could ne'er impart,
A fai...

Twilight, a blossom grey in shadowy valleys dwells:
Under the radiant dark the deep blue-tinted bells
In quietness reïmage heaven within their blooms,
Sapphire and gold and mystery. What strange perfumes,
Out of what deeps arising, all the flower-bells fling,
Unknowing the enchanted odorous song they sing!
Oh, never was an eve so living yet: the wood
Stirs not but breathes enraptured quietide.
Here in these shades the Ancient knows itself, the Soul,
And out of slumber waking starts unto the goal.
What bright companions nod and go along with it!
Out of the teeming dark what dusky creatures flit,
That through the long leagues of the island night above
Come by me, wandering, whispering, beseeching love;
As in the twilight children gather close and press
Nigh and more ...

What recks the sun, how weep the heavy flowers
    All the sad night, when he is far away?
What recks he, how they mourn, through those dark hours,
    Till back again he leads the smiling day?

As lifts each watery bloom its tearful eye,
    And blesses from its lowly seat, the god,
In his great glory he goes through the sky,
    And recks not of the blessing from the sod.

And what is it to thee, oh, thou, my fate!
    That all my hope, and joy, remains with thee?
That thy departing, leaves me desolate,
    That thy returning, brings back life to me?

I blame not thee, for all the strife, and woe,
    That for thy sake daily disturbs my life;
I blame not thee, that Heaven has made me so,
    That all the love I can, is woe, and strife.

I...

My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt!
Long years have o'er her flown;
Yet still she strains the aching clasp
That binds her virgin zone;
I know it hurts her, - though she looks
As cheerful as she can;
Her waist is ampler than her life,
For life is but a span.

My aunt! my poor deluded aunt!
Her hair is almost gray;
Why will she train that winter curl
In such a spring-like way?
How can she lay her glasses down,
And say she reads as well,
When through a double convex lens
She just makes out to spell?

Her father - grandpapa I forgive
This erring lip its smiles -
Vowed she should make the finest girl
Within a hundred miles;
He sent her to a stylish school;
'T was in her thirteenth June;
And with her, as the rules required,
...

A thousand perfect men and women appear,
Around each gathers a cluster of friends, and gay children and youths, with offerings.

O Heart, be at peace, because
Nor knave nor dolt can break
What’s not for their applause,
Being for a woman’s sake.
Enough if the work has seemed,
So did she your strength renew,
A dream that a lion had dreamed
Till the wilderness cried aloud,
A secret between you two,
Between the proud and the proud.

What, still you would have their praise!
But here’s a haughtier text,
The labyrinth of her days
That her own strangeness perplexed;
And how what her dreaming gave
Earned slander, ingratitude,
From self-same dolt and knave;
Aye, and worse wrong than these.
Yet she, singing upon her road,
Half lion, half child, is at peace.

Home furthest off grows dearer from the way;
And when the army in the Indias lay
Friends' letters coming from his native place
Were like old neighbours with their country face.
And every opportunity that came
Opened the sheet to gaze upon the name
Of that loved village where he left his sheep
For more contented peaceful folk to keep;
And friendly faces absent many a year
Would from such letters in his mind appear.
And when his pockets, chafing through the case,
Wore it quite out ere others took the place,
Right loath to be of company bereft
He kept the fragments while a bit was left.

'Jessie, Jessie Cameron,
    Hear me but this once,' quoth he.
'Good luck go with you, neighbor's son,
    But I'm no mate for you,' quoth she.
Day was verging toward the night
    There beside the moaning sea,
Dimness overtook the light
    There where the breakers be.
'O Jessie, Jessie Cameron,
    I have loved you long and true.' -
'Good luck go with you, neighbor's son,
    But I'm no mate for you.'

She was a careless, fearless girl,
    And made her answer plain,
Outspoken she to earl or churl,
    Kindhearted in the main,
But somewhat heedless with her tongue,
    And apt at causing pain;
A mirthful maiden she and young,
    Most fair for bliss or bane.
'Oh, long ago I told you so,
    I tell you so to-day:
Go you your...

Gloomily the clouds are sailing
O'er the dimly moonlit sky;
Dolefully the wind is wailing;
Not another sound is nigh;

Only I can hear it sweeping
Heathclad hill and woodland dale,
And at times the nights's sad weeping
Sounds above its dying wail.

Now the struggling moonbeams glimmer;
Now the shadows deeper fall,
Till the dim light, waxing dimmer,
Scarce reveals yon stately hall.

All beneath its roof are sleeping;
Such a silence reigns around
I can hear the cold rain steeping
Dripping roof and plashy ground.

No: not all are wrapped in slumber;
At yon chamber window stands
One whose years can scarce outnumber
The tears that dew his clasped hands.

From the open casement bending
He surveys the murky skies,

You're not alone when you are still alone;
O God! from you that I could private be!
Since you one were, I never since was one;
Since you in me, myself since out of me.
    Transported from myself into your being,
Though either distant, present yet to either;
Senseless with too much joy, each other seeing;
And only absent when we are together.
    Give me my self, and take your self again!
Devise some means but how I may forsake you!
So much is mine that doth with you remain,
That taking what is mine, with me I take you.
    You do bewitch me! O that I could fly
    From my self you, or from your own self I!

0 Nymph! with cheeks of roseate hue,
Whose eyes are violets bath'd in dew,
So liquid, languishing, and blue,
How they bewitch me!
Thy bosom hath a magic spell,
For when its full orbs heave and swell,
I feel but, oh! I must not tell,
Lord! how they twitch me!

Late autumns, winters, spring-times steeped in mud,
anaesthetizing seasons! You I praise, and love
for so enveloping my heart and brain
in vaporous shrouds, in sepulchres of rain.


In this vast landscape where chill south winds play,
where long nights hoarsen the shrill weather-vane,
it opens wide its raven’s wings, my soul,
freer than in times of mild renewal.


Nothing’s sweeter to my heart, full of sorrows,
on which the hoar-frost fell in some past time,
O pallid seasons, queens of our clime,


than the changeless look of your pale shadows,
except, two by two, to lay our grief to rest
in some moonless night, on a perilous bed.

pauca nunciate meae puellae.


Comrades and friends! with whom, where'er
    The fates have willed thro' life I've roved,
Now speed ye home, and with you bear
    These bitter words to her I've loved.

Tell her from fool to fool to run,
    Where'er her vain caprice may call;
Of all her dupes not loving one,
    But ruining and maddening all.

Bid her forget--what now is past--
    Our once dear love, whose rain lies
Like a fair flower, the meadow's last.
    Which feels the ploughshare's edge and dies!