Part 8

Though fate upon this faded flower His withering hand has laid, Its odour'd breath defies his power, Its sweets are undecayed.

And thus, although thy warbled strains No longer wildly thrill, The memory of the song remains, Its soul is with me still.

BRONX.

I sat me down upon a green bank-side, Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river, Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide, Like parting friends who linger while they sever; Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready, Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy.

Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes, Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow, Or the fine frost-work which young winter freezes; When first his power in infant pastime trying, Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying.

From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling, And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green, Bright ising-stars the little beach was spangling, The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screen Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded, Left on some morn, when light flashed in their eyes unheeded.

The hum-bird shook his sun-touched wings around, The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat; The antic squirrel capered on the ground Where lichens made a carpet for his feet: Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle Shot up in glimmering sparks his red fin's tiny twinkle.

There were dark cedars with loose mossy tresses, White powdered dog-trees, and stiff hollies flaunting Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses, Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden Shining beneath dropt lids the evening of her wedding.

The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn, Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em, The winding of the merry locust's horn, The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom: Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling, Oh! 'twas a ravishing spot formed for a poet's dwelling.

And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand Again in the dull world of earthly blindness? Pained with the pressure of unfriendly hands, Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness? Left I for this thy shades, were none intrude, To prison wandering thought and mar sweet solitude?

Yet I will look upon thy face again, My own romantic Bronx, and it will be A face more pleasant than the face of men. Thy waves are old companions, I shall see A well-remembered form in each old tree, And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy.

SONG.

'Tis not the beam of her bright blue eye, Nor the smile of her lip of rosy dye, Nor the dark brown wreaths of her glossy hair, Nor her changing cheek, so rich and rare. Oh! these are the sweets of a fairy dream, The changing hues of an April sky. They fade like dew in the morning beam, Or the passing zephyr's odour'd sigh.

'Tis a dearer spell that bids me kneel, 'Tis the heart to love, and the soul to feel: 'Tis the mind of light, and the spirit free, And the bosom that heaves alone for me. Oh! these are the sweets that kindly stay From youth's gay morning to age's night; When beauty's rainbow tints decay, Love's torch still burns with a holy light.

Soon will the bloom of the fairest fade, And love will droop in the cheerless shade, Or if tears should fall on his wing of joy, It will hasten the flight of the laughing boy. But oh! the light of the constant soul Nor time can darken nor sorrow dim; Though wo may weep in life's mingled bowl, Love still shall hover around its brim.

TO SARAH.

One happy year has fled, Sall, Since you were all my own, The leaves have felt the autumn blight, The wintry storm has blown. We heeded not the cold blast, Nor the winter's icy air; For we found our climate in the heart, And it was summer there.

II.

The summer's sun is bright, Sall, The skies are pure in hue; But clouds will sometimes sadden them, And dim their lovely blue; And clouds may come to us, Sall, But sure they will not stay; For there's a spell in fond hearts To chase their gloom away.

III.

In sickness and in sorrow Thine eyes were on me still, And there was comfort in each glance To charm the sense of ill. And were they absent now, Sall, I'd seek my bed of pain, And bless each pang that gave me back Those looks of love again.

IV.

Oh, pleasant is the welcome kiss, When day's dull round is o'er, And sweet the music of the step That meets me at the door. Though worldly cares may visit us, I reck not when they fall, While I have thy kind lips, my Sall, To smile away them all.

THE AMERICAN FLAG.

When Freedom from her mountain height Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there. She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure celestial white, With streakings of the morning light; Then from his mansion in the sun She called her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand, The symbol of her chosen land.

II.

Majestic monarch of the cloud, Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest trumpings loud And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle stroke, And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory!

III.