To a Star.

Dreary and dismal and dark
    Is the night of life to me,
With nothing but clouds in the heaven above,
Cruelly hiding the star that I love,
    Whose radiance was rapture to see.

While the blasts from the cold frozen North
    Are biting right in to my soul—
While the pitiless blasts from the bleak, barren shore
Of the crystalline ocean incessantly roar,
    And the tempests that sweep from the pole.

Oh! the gloom of the dark, dreary night,
    Concealing the star that I love!
Oh! how bitter the anguish, bereft of its beam!
While the beings around me are such that I seem
    In a dungeon of demons to move.

Oh! when will the clouds clear away?
    And brighten the heaven above?
Oh! when to the starry-lit realm of the sky
In a golden car of thy beams shall I fly
    To live with the star that I love?

Veni, Vidi, Victus sum.

to ———.

Hither led by fancy's hand,
Once again I seem to stand
In that hall in which this eye,
Blind before to beauty's ray,
Lighted up in ecstasy
Instantly it gazed on thee;
Here too was it where this heart,
Previous proof to Cupid's dart,
In thy presence trembled, fell;
Fearful, fluttered 'neath thy spell;
All so sudden, so complete,
Chronicled in words 'twere meet
Such as Cæsar's famous three,
Which will well apply to me,
If the classic clause become,—
Veni, vidi, victus sum.

To my Couch.

        When the toils of the day are done,
        When its trials and cares are o'er;
When the forces of mind and body are run,
                And the heart is sore;

        How welcome to me is thy rest—
        The breath of approaching peace,
Which soothes the soul with a prospect blest
                Of sweet release!

        May my life be such that so
        At its even this comfort I'll have!
For sleep is the symbol of death, and thou
                Art the sign of the grave.

Separation.

Parted cruelly from thee,
What, Oh! what is life to me?

'Tis the morn without the lark;
It is wine without its spark.

Christmas time without its glee;
Music without harmony.

New Year's eve devoid of mirth;
Winter night without the hearth.

'Tis a day without the light;
'Tis a moonless, starless night.

Thorn-bush, barren of its leaf;
Weeping, without its relief.

'Tis a fire, but unconsuming;
Poisonous plant, but never blooming.

Ship becalmed, without its peace;
Death, without its sweet release.

Treasured Memories.

The playful way thy wanton hair
    Was tossing in the wind;
Thy girlish, vain vexation
    Is treasured in my mind.

Held in my heart each sacred spot,
    O'er which we roamed at will:
The rose that bloomed upon thy breast
    Blooms in my memory still.

Still do I see thy sunny smile,
    In sportive dimples traced,
Like truant beams of morning light
    By flitting fairies chased.

Thy merry, maiden laughter still
    Is ringing in my ear,
As silver streams in sylvan shades
    Make music sweet to hear.

To ———

Fair one! embodiment of Loveliness!
Angelic beauty beams upon thy countenance,
And from its image of Lucretian purity
Thine inborn virtue shines divinely forth.

Thy sparkling eyes of bright cerulean blue,
Rich sapphire gems, flash with Arcadian artlessness,
Impelling Cupid's arrows, passion-fraught,
Discharged from bow of myrtle 'gainst my heart,
Which throbs and flutters, quivering from the thrust.

To an Umbrella.

Thou art the belonging blest
Of the maid I love the best:
Gardened in some tropic grove,
Nurtured by the powers above,
Was thy wood so rich and rare
For her hand so small and fair;
Deftly carved by cunning craft
For her hold thy finished haft;
And thy silken folds so soft,
Where the gentle breezes waft
Fragrance from the clustered vines,
Where the sun so warmly shines,
Where the skies of purest hue
Bend above in deepest blue,
There so soft and fine were wove,
Woven only for my love.
But it is not that thy haft
Carved is by cunning craft
Of a wood so rich and rare,
That thy folds are soft and fair,
Vying only with her hair;
Not for this that I addrest
Thee in song, and called thee blest
But what thou for her hast done:
Shaded from the scorching sun
On the burning summer day
'Neath thy silken canopy;
Sheltered from the falling rain,
Lest her hallowed cheek it stain;
Shielded from the stormy blast,
As it hurried wildly past.
Surely thou art blest for such.—
Oh! that I might do as much!

E'en the fair Orb.

to ———.

E'en the fair orb on which I gaze
Suggests thy radiance by its rays:
That silvery, soft, and dreamy light,
So soft, and yet so beauteous bright,
Falling in glowing tints so faint,—
The hues which artists love to paint;
Around whose sphere the fancies claim
That angels float, and fan the flame:
The lover's choice, it doth belong
To lover's lute and poet's song.
That light, though native to the skies,
Is all reflected in thine eyes.

To Burns.

Suggested on returning home for my holidays by an old portrait of the poet, which hangs in my room.

Old friend!—I always loved thee;
    In childhood's early days,
Delighted I would listen
    With laughter to thy lays.

And better still I loved thee,
    To riper boyhood grown;
Because thou wert the pride of
    The land that's part my own.

But with devotion deepened
    I greet thee now anew,
Of love, because thou singest
    So simple, sweet, and true.

Could I but mention but thy Name;

Could I but strike—a sweeter note
Than all from virgin choirs that float,
    Or harps with cords of gold;
A note more soft and more sublime
Than she, the sweetest of the Nine,
    Euterpe's strains unfold!

The note which even now I hear
(For angels breathe it in my ear)
    But never dared to raise—
Could I but mention but thy name,
To whom I owe this sacred flame
    And love's inspired lays!

Ah! then, methinks, when I should hear
My Muse employ that word so dear;
    When thoughts of thee inspire;
In sweeter strains my song should swell
Than e'er from harp of Orpheus fell
    Or