The blessed stars, Love’s radiant eyes,
When faintly on the breeze is heard,
The hymning of some brooding bird—
Ah how the twilight hour will be
Love’s dearest hour to thee and me!
It seems impossible that a young lady able to write such correct and pleasing verse could be brought down by a bad subject to the following inflated nonsense, which is a stanza from a terrific piece called “The Black Flag,” “Dedicated to the Southern Army:”
Let our flag kiss the breeze! let it float o’er the field,
Not a heart will grow faint, not a bay’net will yield;
Let the foe drive his hosts o’er our land and the sea,