Remember when the vows so fondly made
’Neath oleanders in the web of sun and shade,
That to our throbbing souls with love’s eyes clear
It seemed that Paradise to us was near.
Remember when in noontide’s languid heat,
’Mid haunts of men, or mart, or busy street,
Or in sweet sleep’s embrace when dreams are bright,
My spirit watches in the solemn hush of night.
Remember when ’neath cypress tree I rest
With calmly folded hands across my breast,
And nought but sacred dust at last remain,
It may be that I had not lived in vain.
THE QUEST.
Lo! I have sought thee, Happiness,
Beneath the sun,
Whose golden core doth Earth caress
Till day is done.
Where scintillating stars appear,
Breathing of thee,
As quivering in the vault of air
They seem to see.
And where pearl-girdled proud Selene,
With queenly grace,
Climbeth the stairs of Heaven, serene
With smiling face.
And where in grove and woodland dell,
So sweetly meek,
Shy, drooping dew-crowned violets dwell
Did I seek.
There at length I thee have found
In solitude,
Where but echoes soft resound,
Zephyr wooed.
And with books of hero lore
There thou art,
And the chaplets which they bore,
And my heart.
Happiness, I would not lose
Thee so dear;
All may find thee if they choose,
Ever near.
THE MUSE.
When great Apollon woke his lyre
With breath of the celestial fire,
To mortals he bequeathed the skill
To invoke the goddess at their will,
That when with melancholy bound
Sweet solace with the Muse was found.
Oh! soft the melting strains sublime
Which echoed once in Grecia’s clime
When pæans of the Homeric bard
In marble palaces were heard.
And love-lorn Lesbia’s Sappho sung
The while her heart with grief was wrung,
Who vainly sought with burning words
And sweet seductive trembling chords
Her Phidias’ love to win, nor more
She tuned her lyre on Egea’s shore,
Or bent with futile tears to weep,
But threw herself from Leucan steep,
And still ’tis said from ocean cave
At eve is heard beneath the wave
Her lute by unseen spirits played
Where died the glorious lyric maid,
And since, in every sacred shrine,
Music’s sweet symphonies divine,
On golden wings in darkest hour
Float with a deep and vibrant power.
The Muse but lifts her magic wand—
We view empyreal heights beyond—
Seraphic sounds caress the ear
The Poet Wind breathes on the air.
Imagination! List! ’tis thine—
A pastoral scene. The meek-eyed kine
Knee-deep in herbage gently low,
As loitering to their haunts they go;
The velvet turf, the silver stream,
The tranquil beauty of the theme;
The dark-haired Rosalind in white,
Like Neptune’s nymph, sweet Amphytrite.
Then sudden stillness; over all
The rustling leaves the raindrops fall;
Darkness, with thunder pealing loud;
The golden light behind the cloud;
The storm is o’er, birds trill their lays,
Soft-throated rhapsodies of praise—
Thus doth the Muse o’er mortals vain
Cast her sweet spell in hours of pain,
Exalting souls to high desire,
Apollon of the Golden Lyre.
