Come near me with thy lips, and, breathe o'er mine
Their breath, for I consume with love's desire,—
Thine ivory arms about me clasp and twine,
And beam upon mine eye thine eye's soft fire;
Clasp me yet closer, till my heart feels thine
Thrill, as the chords of Memnon's mystic lyre
Thrilled at the sun's uprising! thou who art
The lone, the worshipped idol of my heart!
There! balmier than the south wind, when it brings
The scent of aromatic shrub and tree,
And tropic flower on ifs glowing wings,
Thine odorous breath is wafted over me;
How to thy dewy lips mine own lip clings,
And my whole being is absorbed in thee;
And in my breast thine eyes have lit a fire
That never, never, never shall expire!
Eternal—is it not eternal—this
Our passionate love? what pow'r shall part us twain?
Not even Death! Life could bestow no bliss
Like death with thee, and I would rend its chain
If thou shouldst perish, for my heaven is
To gaze upon thee! I could bear all pain
Unsighing, so not parted from thy side,
My beautiful! my spirit's chosen bride!
They try to woo me from thy fond embrace,
To lure me from the light of those dear eyes;
They tell me that in fortune's arduous chase,
I have such fleetness as would win the prize;—
But all the pomps of circumstance and place,
A glance, a word, a smile of thine outvies!
Leave Fortune to her parasites! mine be
The blessed lot to dwell with love and thee.
To lead thee on through life, and to enlarge
Thy soul with added knowledge, day by day,
To guard thee, as an angel guards his charge,
From every ill that lurks along the way!
To smooth that rugged way, and strew its marge
With the bright flowrs that never can decay,—
This were a lot too glorious, too divine,
And yet Hope whispers that it shall be mine.
Now listen, love,—this plan shall rule my life
And thine:—In some remote and sunny dell,
Far from the crowded city's silly strife,
My hands shall rear the home where we will dwell;
Shall till the soil, with fertile fruitage rife,
And teach the golden ear to shoot and swell;
And my sole wished for recompense shall be
My ever growing, deep'ning love for thee.
Thy task shall be to train the trailing vine,
To watch, and cherish in its growth, the flow'r
Whose breath and cheek are sweet and fair as thine;
To bless and brighten the domestic bow'r
Where we will build to Love a hallowed shrine,
And bow us, in his worship, every hour;
Till, chastened by thy smile, my heart has grown
As pure, and soft, and sinless as thine own.
Oh, hasten, love! to realize the dream,—
Come from the world,—the crowd is not for thee;
Forsake it then, ere the contagious steam
Of its foul breath has soiled thy purity;—
Come, for my heart would burst could I but deem
That such as they are, thou couldst ever be!
Come, for my soul adores thee with a love
As burning as the seraphs feel above.
These lines are inscribed to the memory of John Q. Carlin, killed at Buena Vista.
Warrior of the youthful brow,
Eager heart and eagle eye!
Pants thy soul for battle now?
Burns thy glance with victory?
Dost thou dream of conflicts done,
Perils past and trophies won?
And a nation's grateful praise
Given to thine after days?
Bloodless is thy cheek, and cold
As the clay upon it prest;
And in many a slimy fold,
Winds the grave-worm round thy breast.
Thou wilt join the fight no more,—
Glory's dream with thee is o'er,—
And alike are now to thee
Greatness and obscurity.
But an ever sunny sky,
O'er thy place of rest is bending;
And above thy grave, and nigh,
Flowers ever bright are blending.
O'er thy dreamless, calm repose,
Balmily the south wind blows,—
With the green turf on thy breast,
Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest!
When the alarum first was sounded,
Marshalling in arms the brave,
Forth thy fearless spirit bounded,
To obtain thee—what? A grave!
Fame had whispered in thine ear,
Words the high-souled love to hear,—
But the ruthless hand of death
From thee snatched the hero's wreath.
Often will the grief-shade start
O'er thy sister's mood of joy,
Vainly will thy mother's heart
Yearn to greet her absent boy;
Never sister's lip shall press
On thine own its fond caress,—
Never more a mother's eye
Flash in pride when thou art by!
Where the orange, bending lowly
With its golden fruit, is swaying;
And the Indian maiden, slowly
By her native stream is straying;
O'er thy dreamless, calm repose,
Balmily the South wind blows,—
With the green turf on thy breast,
Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest!
A LEGEND OF THE HARTZ.
Many ages ago, near the high Hartz, there dwelt
A rude race of blood-loving giants, who felt
No joy but the fierce one which Carnage bestows,
When her foul lips are clogged with the blood of her foes.
And fiercer and bolder than all of the rest
Was Bohdo,(1) their chieftain;—'twas strange that a breast,
Which nothing like kindness or pity might move,
Should glow with the warmth and the rapture of love.
Yet he loved, and the pale mountain-monarch's fair child
Was the maid of his heart; but tho' burning and wild
Was the love that he bore her, it won no return,
And the flame that consumed him was answered with scorn.
Now the lady is gone with her steed to the plain,—
Save the falcon and hound there is none in her train;
She needs none to guide, or to guard her from harm
There's no fear in her heart, there is strength in her arm.
From her white wrist unhooded her falcon she threw,
Her bow like Diana, the huntress, she drew;
And fleet as the fetterless bird swept the sky,
So on her proud steed swept the fair lady by.
See how her eye sparkles, and how her cheek glows,
As onward so fearless and proudly she goes,
With her locks streaming back like a banner of gold,
Were she not, say, a bride meet for Nimrod(2) of old?
And he saw her—the chief, from his tower afar—
As she glanced o'er the earth like some wandering star;
And he swore she should come in that tower to dwell,
Or his soul be a prize to the spirits of hell.
His war-horse he mounted, and, swift as the shoot
Of the night-gathered meteor, he sped in pursuit,—
Breathing out, as he went, mad with love and with hate,
Bitter curse upon curse against heaven and fate.
Urging on his fleet courser with spur and with rein,
He swept o'er the earth as the storm sweeps the plain,—
And the fair lady knew, by the gleam of his shield,
It was Bohdo, the scourge of the red battle field!
Then spurred she her steed over valley and hill,
Over rock, marsh and moor, over river and rill,
Yet still her eye sparkled, and still her cheek glowed,
As onward so fleetly and bravely she rode.
Thus over Thuringia sped she away,
With the speed of the hawk when he darts on his prey,—
Or an arrow let loose from a warrior's bow,
When it speeds with sure aim to the heart of his foe.
Then the Hartz, the wild Hartz—the terrific—the proud!
Where the mist-spirit dwells in his palace of cloud!
Where the evil ones gather in envious wrath,
To blight and to blast,—towered up in her path.
Still her cheek kept its glow, still her eye flashed in pride,
As onward she flew up the steep mountain side;
And fierce as the tempest, and fleet as the wind,
Stern Bohdo, the ruthless, still followed behind.
To a fearful abyss, whose unhallowed name(3)
By the powers of darkness was given, she came,
And the whirlpool's wild voice, from the dark gulf below,
Came up like the wail of a soul in its we.
Beyond rose the rocky shelf, barren and bare,
Beneath lay the whirlpool, around her despair,
Behind her came one, sweeping on in the chase,
Whose grasp was more dreaded than death's cold embrace.
Then she called on the spirits who watch round the brave,
In peril to nerve, to assist and to save,
Closed calmly her eyes, as one sinking in sleep,
And urged her proud steed to the terrible leap!
A moment it paused on the high precipice,
Then sprang, boldly sprang, o'er the frightful abyss!
And struck its firm hoof in the rock till the sound
Shook the hills, and the sparks flew like lightning around!
And the foot-print it left has remained to this day,
And no rain-flood or tempest shall wear it away;
She was saved—the brave Emma was saved—but her crown,
From her fair brow unloosed, in the whirlpool sank down.
On, on came the chief, in his fierceness and wrath,
Nor saw he the wide gulf that yawned in his path,—
And soon, in the depths of its fathomless tide,
The warrior and war-steed were laid side by side.
And the mountaineer tells how in sullen despair,
His ghost, imannealed of its sins, lingers there;
Ever watching, pale, silent, untiring, unmoved,
The bright golden crown of the maiden he loved.
A diver once, lured by the wealth of the prize,
Sought out the deep cave where it lay, and still lies,
And where, chained by a spirit-breathed spell, it shall stay,
Till the whirlpool and mountain alike pass away.
Twice he rose with the crown, till its gleaming points blazed
On the eyes of the wondering thousands who gazed,
Twice it fell from his grasp, and sank quickly again
To the bed where for years undisturbed it had lain.
He followed,—this effort the treasure may earn—
But vainly they watch who await his return;
A red hue of blood tinged the deep waters o'er,
But the diver came up from their dark depths no more.
1. Bohdo. This hero, as his character is drawn in the original legend, or tradition, from which the material of these verses was taken (a tradition which gives the popular account of the formation of an immense mark or cavity in a rock, called the "Rosstrappe" or "Horse's footstep,") is worthy of being enrolled among Odin's Berserker.
2. Nimrod. "A mighty hunter before the Lord." He built Babylon and founded that royal line which terminated with the death of Sardanapalus; whose gentleness and aversion to blood spilling, together with his passion for his "Ionian Myrrha," cost him an empire, and gained him an immortality.
3. "It was named," says the tradition, "The Devil's dancing-place, from the triumph there of the spirits of hell."