That vessel never reached the land!
No tidings of her ever came!
Those who beheld her leave the strand,
For years in anguish heard her name!
And even now in vain they try
To breathe it with a tranquil lip,
Or hide the moisture of the eye
While speaking of that missing ship.
Jeannie Marsh.
Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley,
At whose call the muses rally;
Of all the nine none so divine
As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley.
She minds me of her native scenes,
Where she was born among the cherries;
Of peaches, plums, and nectarines,
Pears, apricots, and ripe strawberries.
Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley,
In whose name the muses rally;
Of all the nine none so divine
As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley.
A sylvan nymph of queenly grace,
A goddess she in form and feature;
The sweet expression of the place,
A dimple in the smile of nature.
Lucy.
Thanks for your stanzas, Lucy,
My sister dear in song!
How many pleasant fancies
With these sweet numbers throng,
Which, like spring's tuneful brooklets,
Trip merrily along.
Sometimes, my sportive Lucy,
Your words will whirl around,
Like foam-beads on the water,
Or rose-leaves on the ground,
Or waltzers in the ball-room,
To music's airy sound.
There is, my gentle Lucy,
In all you say or do,
A bright poetic impulse,
Original and true,
Which Art can not acquire,
And Nature gave to you.
The olden fable, Lucy,
My muse to you would bring:
The bird that can but will not,
Should be compelled to sing!
The story and its moral
To modern memories cling.
Awake the harp, dear Lucy!
Like the electric wire
It will convey to millions
The heart-absorbing fire!
And those who lean to listen
Will linger to admire.