WRITTEN IN A LADY’S ALBUM.
Grant me, I cried, some spell of art,
To turn with all a lover’s care,
That spotless page, my Eva’s heart,
And write my burning wishes there.
But Love, by faithless Laia taught
How frail is woman’s holiest vow,
Look’d down, while grace attempered thought
Sate serious on his baby brow.
“Go! blot her album,” cried the sage,
“There none but bards a place may claim;
But woman’s heart’s a worthless page,
Where every fool may write his name.”
Until by time or fate decayed,
That line and leaf shall never part;
Ah! who can tell how soon shall fade
The lines of love from woman’s heart.
LINES
to a lady, on hearing her sing “cushlamachree.”
Yes! heaven protect thee, thou gem of the ocean;
Dear land of my sires, though distant thy shores;
Ere my heart cease to love thee, its latest emotion,
The last dying throbs of its pulse must be o’er.
And dark were the bosom, and cold and unfeeling,
That tamely could listen unmoved at the call,
When woman, the warm soul of melody stealing,
Laments for her country and sighs o’er its fall.
Sing on, gentle warbler, the tear-drop appearing
Shall fall for the woes of the queen of the sea;
And the spirit that breathes in the harp of green Erin,
Descending, shall hail thee her “Cushlamachree.”
LINES
written on leaving new rochelle.
Whene’er thy wandering footstep bends
Its pathway to the Hermit tree,
Among its cordial band of friends,
Sweet Mary! wilt thou number me?
Though all too few the hours have roll’d
That saw the stranger linger here,
In memory’s volume let them hold
One little spot to friendship dear.
I oft have thought how sweet ’twould be
To steal the bird of Eden’s art;
And leave behind a trace of me
On every kind and friendly heart,
And like the breeze in fragrance rolled,
To gather as I wander by,
From every soul of kindred mould,
Some touch of cordial sympathy.
’Tis the best charm in life’s dull dream,
To feel that yet there linger here
Bright eyes that look with fond esteem,
And feeling hearts that hold me dear.